Page 57 of 11 Cowboys
Silence descends again. The final truth spoken.
When I speak, my voice cuts through clean and hard. “You know the rules. We vote as a family. No decision gets made in isolation.” Tension softens, but barely. “Tonight,” I add. “After chores.”
No one argues. Not even Brody.
For now, we go back to work. Ranch life doesn’t pause for emotions.
By the time we saddle up, the sun has started its slow climb. The familiar scrape of leather, the sharp scent of hay and horse sweat, grounds me and settles my pulse into something steadier.
Jaxon swings up first, silent as always, but there’s a harder line to his mouth today. Levi lingers, hands buried deep in his pockets, staring out at the fields like he’s trying to spot an answer out there in the grass.
I walk past them both toward my horse as the others file out. The ranch hums to life around us. Gates are opened, cattle move, and kids shout in the distance.
I mount up and glance back toward the house once, finding her window. I think a curtain shifts.
I’m not a man prone to hope. I deal with reality, but something feels different today.
No decisions have been made yet, but maybe we’re starting to wonder if the answer isn’t going to come from an ad, or a plan, or some perfect solution.
Maybe it has already arrived, with bright eyes, red lips, sharp wit, and a heart brimming with mischief, with no intention of ever being the answer we thought we wanted.
And I realize as I nudge my horse forward:
I want her to want to stay.
19
GRACE
Forks scrape plates, and chairs are pushed back. The lunch table clears, and I stand, wincing as soreness radiates from deep between my thighs and hips.
God, Jaxon, what did you do to me?
Just the memory of the power behind his thrusts and the way he took me apart, over and over, like he figured he got one shot and wanted to give it his all, makes me flush white hot.
I grab my empty plate, walking stiffly toward the sink, pretending nothing hurts except my ears. The kids are still yelling and chattering. The men move in their usual rhythm: boots on, hats grabbed, calls tossed back and forth. How easy has it been to get used to everything that’s playing out around me?
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Brody.
He’s near the door, tugging his scuffed boots on, hat low over his eyes, already half out before anyone can speak. Broad shoulders strain the seams of a sun-faded T-shirt, and his jeans are stained and torn at one knee, worn from theirshare of brutal days. There’s always dirt under his nails. Always a frown between his brows. Brody Delaney looks like the land shaped him out of rock and grit and said,stay angry. He’s like a ghost in this place. A man who exists but is so withdrawn, it’s almost like he’s not here at all.
I need to write about him in the way I can about the others, so it’s now or never.
Setting the plate down, I call out, casual as I can manage, “Brody.”
He pauses, stiffens, then looks at me over his shoulder with that penetrating stare. His eyes are the same color and shape as Corbin’s but reveal nothing of the same openness and warmth of his brother’s.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and step closer. “Mind if I tag along this afternoon?”
The reaction is instant. His jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffen, and he looks at me like I suggested we share a bubble bath.
“No.”
I blink, caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. “Wow. Tell me what you really think. Not even a ‘maybe’?”
Before he can answer, Conway passes behind him, clapping his hand against Brody’s back as he goes. A wordless cue. I swear the entire house tilts with it.
Brody huffs out a breath. He avoids Conway’s serious gaze and yanks his gloves from his back pocket. “Fine,” he mutters. “If you can keep up.”
