Page 90 of Josephine and Clay

I know how she sounds at two in the morning over text. I know how she looks when she’s smiling when she’s not supposed to. I know how she felt under my hands that night.

But this version of her is something else entirely.

“Alright,” she says, crouching near the calf. “We’re going to move her slowly. Don’t pull too hard, just guide the cow forward.”

“Got it.”

I wrap the rope around my hand, planting my crutches under my arms, trying to find a stable stance that doesn’t make me almost fall over in front of her.

The cow shifts, suddenly very aware that we’re interfering with her calf.

“Easy,” I mutter, tightening my grip.

She steps forward. I compensate. Or try to.

My balance shifts wrong.

The ground feels uneven under my boot, and the crutch on my left slips just slightly in the dirt.

“Shit…”

The rope jerks.

The cow pulls.

My body tilts hard to the side, the cast dragging me down in a way I can’t correct fast enough.

For a split second, I’m going down.

Again.

In front of Boone.

In front of Josie.

Perfect.

“Clay.”

She has one hand on the rope near mine, the other braced against my arm, firm and way too close.

“Hold,” she says, low and controlled.

I freeze.

Because she’s right there, because her hand is on me, because I can smell that clean linen and citrus, and my brain decides now is a great time to stop functioning.

“Clay,” she repeats.

“Yeah,” I manage.

“Don’t fight her. Let her move, then correct.”

“I know how to⁠—”

“Then do it,” she says, not unkind, just focused.

That shuts me up.