Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
It stopped being just words the second I stepped out of my car to be greeted by eleven of the best men I’ve ever known.
I sit back, twisting the simple silver ring on my thumb. It’s a plain band, like a man’s wedding ring. I bought it for myself, wondering if I’d ever be given a similar ring for my fourth finger. The idea had felt so remote.
In front of me, the screen glows expectantly, patiently.
Nash and Cody told me they want me to stay. McCartney said the same in his poem. I think it was Dylan who left the beautiful pink cowboy boots outside my door last night, like he was inviting me to step into different shoes and become a part of their world. If I click my heels together, would it work? Would I be transformed? Would I belong?
When I was between Nash and Cody last night, all my anxieties slipped away. The memory of their strong hands, soft mouths, and the feeling of being pulled under and anchored at the same time rushes back. They didn’t touch me like I was a trophy or a conquest. They touched me like I mattered and kept me close all night, the way Jaxon did, the way I believe Levi would have if he wasn’t as messed up and broken as I am.
They treat me like I could belong with them, not to them, and it’s unlike any connection I’ve had before.
It feels easy enough to believe it could be true.
My chest tightens. I’m supposed to write about them, not weave myself into the fabric of what they’re building. I’m supposed to study the ranch, not get tangled in its roots.
The way I’ve been behaving is so far from professional, it’s a dot on the horizon.
But how do you stay detached when Junie asks you to braid her hair? When Eli’s dark, solemn eyes finally soften with trust? When these cowboys, these impossible, flawed, infuriating men, start looking at you like you’re the answer to all their hopes and dreams, with an equal mix of relief and fear at the prospect?
My heart lurches painfully. I’m so deep already it’s hard to determine where their world ends and mine begins.
I exhale and stare at the blinking cursor. I should feel relieved. I’ve done what I came here to do. The article is only a few edits from finished. So, why does it feel like the last thing I want to do is hit send?
Maybe because committing to the ending feels like writing a story I haven’t finished living?
I tab away from the draft to a blank page with a new goal in mind. The novel I thought I’d write about a city career woman feels cold now. Lifeless.
Instead, something simpler pulls at me. I type without thinking:
Once upon a time.
I grimace, laughing softly to myself. “Lame,” I mutter. “So lame.”
But I don’t delete it. Not yet.
Because I’ve achieved something that’s always been elusive. I’ve made a start, no matter how ridiculous, on a project for myself, in the hope that this could be the beginning of something new.
I can always erase it later, when I’ve worked out the story’s journey and the ending.
I can figure out that part on paper, but in real life?
If only it were that easy.
27
HARRISON
I have a half-sanded bridle in my lap and a mug of coffee cooling at my feet. The kids are still out by the creek with Brody and Levi, and most of the men have disappeared into whatever corners of the ranch called them when evening settled in and the work was finally done.
Grace steps out from the house, her boots soft against the planks, the laptop tucked under one arm like it weighs more than it should. Her eyes drift to what I’m doing, then meet mine and hold, cautious and steady.
“Got a minute?”
I nod and straighten, wiping dust from my hands onto my jeans. “Always,” I said. “You all right?”
She approaches and settles beside me on the bench, so her body is angled slightly toward the yard, as if she might change her mind and bolt for the trees. Her fingers tighten around the edge of the laptop, the tension working its way up her arms and into her shoulders. She has guarded posture that comes from waiting too long to share something difficult.
“I’ve been working on the article,” she said finally, her voice low. “This isn’t the way I usually work, but I think… I think I want your opinion.”
I tilted my head toward her, curious. “Mine specifically?”
A small laugh slips out—dry and nervous. “You’ll be honest.”
“That sounds about right.”
She opens the laptop slowly and then turns it toward me. The screen glows in the fading light, and a Word document blinks to life with Cowboy Marriage Assignment in bold at the top.