Page 9 of Running to the Cowboy

He goes to replace the socks on my feet, but I curl my legs under the blanket and reach for the socks myself. I’ve enjoyed him touching my feet way, way too much. “I’ve got it.”

Reluctantly, he stands up and tucks one hand under his outer shirt, absently rubbing his stomach. “But you’re going to needthe doc to check you over and probably get you inoculated for tetanus, and god knows what else.”

I wince at the thought of doctors. Doctors mean answering lots of questions, which could get authorities involved. That means my plan to set up a safe house and work strategically will get shot straight to hell. Little ones could be sent away to foster families, or who knows? The elders could pack up and move everyone away. I need to be careful. Really careful.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says.

Another long look passes between us, and I believe him. Even if he has no idea what he’s getting himself into.

“Okay,” I breathe.

Wylie nods. “Rest up. If you get bored, I’ve got lots of books to read,” he says, nodding toward the bookcase. “Don’t have a TV in here, but I can get you set up with a laptop if you want to watch a movie or something.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know what to watch even if you did. But it’s nice to meet someone who likes to read as much as I do,” I say.

For all his sternness, Wylie turns beet red when I flip the focus back on him. God help me. I like my shy cowboy.

“I’ll be back to check on you later and let you know what the doc says. Oh, and if you need anything, here.” He fishes a phone out of his pocket and sets it on the nightstand. “This is a spare phone we keep around for new ranch hands. My number is the first one programmed in the contacts. You know how to work one of those?”

I nod. “I used one once, a long time ago. I think I got it.”

It’s too embarrassing to elaborate. On a supervised trip into town years ago, the church van broke down. The chaperone Mother’s flip phone had no signal. We had half a dozen children with us who were tired and hungry, and I took action. A kind shopper let me borrow her iPhone when I asked for help. The following Sunday, Prophet Orlyn droned on for two hours in his sermon about how there are demons living inside smartphones.

A shadow of concern crosses Wylie’s face when he sees me biting my lip. “Right. Well, text me if you need anything. You can borrow some of my clothes and help yourself to the kitchen if you get hungry.”

I watch him walk away, marveling at what properly fitted jeans can do for a person. I’ve never worn jeans. The only pants I wear are thermal underwear underneath dresses for working in the barn.

My main focus is establishing a safe house and developing a plan to help people get out of the church. But I can’t help but feel excited about the idea of wearing whatever I want.

Dumping the quilt on the bed, I go through Wylie’s dresser, feeling like a criminal even though I know I can borrow whatever I want. I pull on a pair of gray sweatpants that are tight over my ass. The inside of the pants are so soft that I don’t mind them hugging my frame so tightly. I also grab a tee shirt and a flannel, both of which are not built for my size chest. The scent of detergent and Wylie’s natural scent is all over them, and it makes me smile.

Oh my. I really like these kinds of clothes. I let out a long exhale, feeling relaxed and comfortable in my body for the first time ever, it seems.

Also, I can’t wait to read whatever I want. I go to Wylie’s bookshelf and examine the titles. Not a single Bible, Book of Mormon, or religious text of any kind sits on these shelves. A “true heathen,” as the elders would say. I smile.

I pull down a book with a splashy cover. Across the top, in tiny letters, it says, “thrilling suspense.”

Grabbing the quilt from the bed, I curl up in a chair in the corner, then open the book and read the first page. Then, I re-read it when I fail to focus on a single word.

No matter how often I re-read the first page, only one thought sticks in my brain.

Nothing can be more thrilling in this book than real life right now, and the sweet cowboy who found me.

Chapter Four

Wylie

When I return to the main house for dinner, our cook and housekeeper, Curly, is waiting for me.

“‘Evening,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously.

I move past him and wash Olivia’s dishes by hand.

“‘Evening, Curly.”

His eyes are on me as I dry and put up the dishes.

“Something going on that you want to tell me?”

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