Page 30 of Running to the Cowboy

Don’t leave the house. If you do, take protection.”

Here, he includes the combination to the gun safe in the hallway.

I’m pleased that he trusts me with that information.

I’m even more pleased at what he writes next.

“You were amazing last night. You might be having second thoughts about what we did. But I do not regret one second, except that I wish we would have met sooner.

Wylie

P.S. If I wore you out too much, you can sleep through lunch too.”

The little brag at the end makes me laugh out loud.

I pull on a bathrobe and my discarded leggings, then text Wylie back.

“Thanks for the cold coffee. And for the hot sausage.”

My cowboy texts back laugh and heart emojis, which is not a very cowboy thing to do, in my opinion. But I love it.

Tightening the robe around me, I hustle into the kitchen and scarf down the plate of biscuits and gravy that I warm up in the microwave.

Then, I rifle through the fridge and freezer, deciding what to make for lunch for the boys.

I settle on loaded chicken quesadillas in case they want to grab them and go.

I begin by breaking down the chicken I find in the fridge and setting that aside in a dish with seasoning to marinate. Finished with that, I head to the mud room to try on a pair of boots. I’m bored silly in this uber-clean house and need something else to do. Besides, I’m itching to be around animals again. I follow Wylie’s suggestion to arm myself before I head out to the barn. I pick out a 12-gauge pump action shotgun, just like the one Granddad taught me to shoot. I don’t expect to use it, but I also don’t like the idea of being so isolated from the rest of the workers as they tend to the cattle.

In the stables, I spend a couple of hours brushing down the horses and tidying up the tack room.

The older mare, Nigella, could use a bit of TLC on her mane. She’s a gentle old thing, and she nudges me when I offer her sugar.

While in the barn, I get an eerie feeling that I’m being watched, but when I glance around, no one is there. Just the horses and me.

I finish brushing and braiding Nigella’s mane, and I pat her strong flank. “I wonder if the boss will be mad about your pretty new hairstyle,” I say.

The Prophet sure will have something to say about you acting like the whore of Babylon.

If I wasn’t terrified out of my wits at the random thought popping into my head, I’d laugh.

I run my hand down Nigella’s long face, comforting myself, reminding me that I don’t belong to them anymore.

And I’m not a bad person for leaving.

The whore of Babylon wears Carhartts and shitkickers?

Fine. I’d rather be a whore than a servant to men who make me feel small.

That eerie feeling stays with me, and I find myself darting out of the stable and hustling back to the house to finish making lunch.

Chapter Fourteen

Wylie

I get a text from Olivia at about 7 a.m.

“Thank you for the cold coffee. And for the hot sausage.”

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