Page 38 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
Outside, Beck is vibrating with fury, every muscle strung tight. His fists flex and curl at his sides, his jaw hard enough to crack. He looks ready to go to war, and for a moment I’m terrified he actually might.
But I can’t stop watching him. The same man who just knelt on a sticky hospital floor to let a sick little boy play with his tattoos, who laughed when a girl painted his face with clumsy butterfly swirls—that man is standing here now, burning under the weight of strangers’ judgment.
The storm rises in me so fast it steals my breath.
I’m furious because they don’t see him. They don’t know him. They just see the name, the reputation, the stories, and decide he’s not worth the air he breathes. And I’m bitter, because I did see him, and it’s not fair that nobody else bothers to look deeper.
And something else, sharper, scarier. The way it hurts to see him wounded, even if he’ll never admit it. I want to reach for him, to soothe the raw edges. To tell him I know the truth of who he is, even if no one else does. But his shoulders are bristling, his whole body a barricade, and I don’t know how to touch him without being scorched.
So I swallow it all down, pressing my nails into my palms until the sting steadies me.
And in the quiet that follows, the thought slips out of me like a confession I never meant to make: I don’t know which Beck is real. The gruff, hated cowboy everyone despises, or the man the kids adored, the man who made me laugh this morning.
All I know is that both of them matter to me more than I ever wanted to admit.
14
BECKETT
The leather seat creaks under my grip, the material groaning in protest. I am seething—it’s a wonder steam isn’t coming out of my ears. How dare they?! All I wanted was to grab lunch with Quinn; instead, we received hate and scorn.
I can’t stop replaying their faces in my head—the hostess’s judgment, the waitress’s sneer, patrons whispering as if I couldn’t hear. That incident has jolted me back to reality from the bubble I’ve been in the past couple of days. The one where I thought things were finally starting to change.
Ten-plus years, and all anyone sees is that screwed-up kid everyone warns their children about.
Why the hell am I even trying? Why waste time smiling at kids, running with old ladies, hauling myself into situations that are scraping me raw, just so people can remind me that I’ll never measure up? A man makes one mistake, and they tattoo it on his forehead for life.
The trees blur together as Quinn drives us home. My chest is tight, bitter and hot. I want to punch something—maybe if I drive my fist into the dashboard, it will take some of the pressure off. But who am I kidding? I’ll just hurt myself.
I’m spiraling, and I know it, but that doesn’t mean I can stop.
“Beck,” Quinn says softly, almost as if she’s addressing a skittish cat.
I don’t answer. I keep my eyes locked on the road, jaw clamped so tight it aches.
She tries again. “You know today doesn’t erase everything else, right? The kids at the hospital—you were incredible with them. That’s what people are going to remember in the long run. One bad afternoon doesn’t define you.”
Her words rub me the wrong way. Easy for her to say. She didn’t grow up being the town’s favorite cautionary tale. She doesn’t know what it’s like to walk into a room and feel the whole damn air shift because of her presence.
I laugh under my breath, but there’s no humor in it. “You don’t get it, Quinn. They’ll never forget. It doesn’t matter what I do.”
“You’re wrong,” she insists, firmer now. “This is just the beginning. We knew it wouldn’t be easy—people don’t change their minds overnight. But if you keep showing up, keep putting in the work—“
“Enough.” My hand smacks the dashboard, sharp and sudden.
She flinches, and instantly I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop. The anger is boiling over. “You really think this is about just putting in the work? I could cure cancer tomorrow, and they’d still look at me like trash. That’s what you don’t understand.”
The silence thickens between us, and she glances at me, lips pressed tight. She wants to argue but retreats just as fast. And I can’t stop myself from pushing her away, even as guilt needles in.
I go quiet, shutting her out the only way I know how—by walling up.
The truck crunches over gravel as we drive up to the house. Quinn kills the engine, and the silence that follows is heavy, only the faint tick of cooling metal filling the space. She wants to say more but changes her mind since she knows it will only be met with animosity from me, and she’s not wrong.
I shove the door open and slam it behind me, the sound echoing sharp in the quiet environment. I don’t wait for her as my boots hit the ground hard, each step a stomp. Maybe if I walk fast enough, I can outrun this whole damn day.
“Beck.”
Jace’s voice comes from the porch, steady, questioning. He’s leaning against the post like he’s been waiting for us. The setting sun’s rays paint him in a soft glow, eyes sharp with concern.
