Page 6 of Running to the Cowboy

I’m not quick enough.

The man who enters the room sees me, and his eyes widen in surprise. He immediately averts his eyes and raises his arm defensively against the hideous sight of me mostly naked.

“Oh shoot, you’re awake.”

In the half a second that his eyes were on me, I saw his face.

He has large, kind eyes, a square jaw, and two days’ worth of scruff on his chin. He has worry lines on his forehead, dark hair, and a prominent brow.

I think he’d be punished by the elders at my church for not shaving. The idea of a kind man who would upset the morals of my church elders sends a thrill of excitement through me, though I don’t know why.

While the man’s eyes are averted, I scramble to cover up, embarrassed that he saw me in nothing but my underwear.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry for falling asleep in your barn. I was on my way out of town and…”

In the hand not blocking me from view, the man carries a small tray with a cup and a plate on it. “I was just coming to check on the wounds and to bring you something to eat,” he says.

My mouth salivates at the mention of food, and I sit up straighter, eyeing the tray.

He sets the small tray on the nightstand, and I follow his movements. There’s toast with a generous layer of grape jelly, a red apple cut into slices, a cheese stick, and yogurt. Strangely, the sight of apple slices triggers a lump in my throat. When I was little, one of the big sisters at the church school used to cut up my apples to get me to eat when I wasn’t feeling well.

The man misreads the emotion on my face. “I…I apologize for tending to you without permission, but you were injured and I wanted to take care of those cuts before they got infected. I swear, I’m not a creep…”

Ignoring him, I snatch one slice of apple and shove it into my mouth.

The sweet juice coats my parched throat, the flavor exploding in my mouth. When was the last time I ate a nice piece of fruit? When was the last time anyone prepared a meal for me?

So stupid of me to take off the way I did without putting any fuel in my proverbial tank.

The man grunts in approval as he watches me eat. Curiously, I like him watching me eat.

I’m sure the juice dripping down my chin makes me look like a maniac, but I don’t care. I demolish the apple and then snatch up the toast, shoving both pieces into my mouth at once.

“I’m gonna check you for fever to make sure you don’t have an infection from those cuts.”

My chewing slows as his hand goes to my forehead. I shrink back.

“Now,” he says firmly. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I need you to be still.”

His words are kind, but his tone is firm. Something about the way he speaks to me makes me believe him. He says he’s not going to hurt me, therefore he won’t.

I give a slight nod and let him touch me.

As he assesses my temperature, I get a better look at his body. He’s tall and fit, and wears a waffle knit shirt that hugs his chest beneath a bulky, lined western shirt with snaps. The lined shirt hangs open and reveals a large silver buckle on the belt of his jeans.

“Are you a cowboy?” I ask, rather impolitely, as I chew my toast.

He chuckles. “I’m a rancher, but sure. You can call me a cowboy.”

Years ago, one of my biological brothers was cast out of the compound in Wyoming. He returned one day to try convincing some of us to leave with him. He wore clothes like the men we would see in town miles from the compound. My brother had said he had found a job as a ranch hand. But I was too young to understand the danger that my brother saw coming—the power grabs rising up to tighten controls on all of us and force us into hiding. And I would never leave without Granddad.

This cowboy’s hand is big, rough, and warm on my forehead.

I sigh quietly at the contact.

It lasts all of ten seconds, maybe, but it makes up for a lifetime of scarce human touch.

“You ever had a tetanus shot?”

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