Page 36 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” I encourage.
Jack does not hesitate, walking up to Beck. “Who are you?”
Beck looks startled, but he answers nonetheless. “I’m Beck Morgan, at your service,” he introduces, voice gruff, tipping his hat at Jack.
“I’m Jack. You’re tall!”
Beck blinks, caught off guard. “Uh, y-yeah,” he stutters, like he’s never been accused of height before.
Jack giggles, and suddenly a couple more kids start circling him, resembling curious puppies. And before I know it, he’s crouched down, all six feet of gruff cowboy folding onto the floor so he’s eye-level with them. He lets Wendy, a little girl in a pink bandana, try on his hat, the brim sliding down so far it nearly swallows her whole. The room erupts with laughter, and Beck actually laughs too.
Not the sharp, cocky chuckle he usually throws my way, but something low and warm.
I watch him interact with them, a foreign feeling in my chest. I’ve never seen him like this. His voice is gentle as he asks the kids about their favorite superheroes, his big hands carefully adjusting IV lines out of the way so they don’t tangle. He even lets one boy draw a crooked mustache on his face with awashable marker, pretending to look fierce until they all collapse into giggles again.
And all I can think is, this is him. This is the part he hides. The part he doesn’t want anyone to see.
I should be amused. Instead, I’m undone.
I don’t even notice when the noise in the room shifts, when the cartoons on the TV fade into the background and all I can hear is him. His laugh, his low rumble of a voice as he listens—really listens—to Wendy talk about how her doll “fights monsters at night.”
He nods solemnly, like she’s entrusted him with state secrets, and then promises to keep her doll safe when she naps.
And something in my chest twists.
Because this isn’t the Beck I know. Not the cocky one who smirks every time he gets under my skin, or the stubborn brute who complains his way through a sunrise run. This is someone else. Someone gentler. Someone I never thought existed under all that swagger and sharpness.
He shouldn’t look so natural here. He shouldn’t know exactly how to tuck his frame small enough so he doesn’t crowd them, how to soften that gravel in his voice so it comes out velvety.
But he does. And I can’t stop staring.
I tell myself it’s admiration. That I’m just impressed, surprised even, to see this side of him. But there’s a flicker of something deeper, warmer, crawling up my throat that I refuse to name.
Because if I do, it’ll stick. And I’m not ready for that.
Time passes by in a flash, so that when the nurse pokes her head in to tell us visiting hours are nearly over, groans ripple through the room.
“Already?” Jack, who seems to have gotten attached to Beck, complains, tugging on his arm like he can anchor him there by sheer will.
Wendy, who’s been wearing his hat the whole time, climbs onto his lap without asking, clinging to his shirt. “Don’t go yet,” she pleads, her voice small but stubborn.
Beck shifts, clearly uncomfortable, and for a second I think he’ll brush it off with one of his gruff quips. But he doesn’t. He sits there, still as stone, and then, carefully, awkwardly, he pats her back.
“I’ll be back,” he says, his tone low, almost hesitant, because he isn’t used to making promises he might actually want to keep.
The kids latch onto the words instantly, chorusing their goodbyes, some asking when, others already planning what games they’ll play next time. And Beck—God help me—he tries to keep his face blank, but I see it. That flicker. That ache.
Wendy hands back his hat, he ruffles Jack’s hair, who mutters something about him being “no fun at all,” but it’s obvious from the smile on his face he’s happy. They’re glowing just from being around him.
When we finally step into the hallway, the echo of their voices follows us out.
I sneak a glance at him. His jaw is set, eyes forward, determined not to let anything show. But I saw it. The way they looked at him. The way he let them.
And it leaves me unsteady. I wasn’t ready to see this side of him, and now that I have, I don’t know how to look away.
He doesn’t say anything, just shoves his hands into his pockets and walks beside me, head down. His shoulders aren’t tense the way they usually are, though. They are loose—maybe for once he isn’t carrying the weight of the world, or maybe he just set it down for a little while in that playroom.
He glances at me once, quick and unreadable, before looking away. And it hits me: he doesn’t want me to mention it. He doesn’t want me to say I saw it, that I noticed.
