Page 12 of The Cowboy and the Stray

He met my gaze, unflinching. "So are you."

A surprised laugh caught in my throat. Touché, tiny oracle.

A surprised laugh caught in my throat. He wasn't wrong. Before I could reply, a screech of profanity shattered the morning calm from outside. It sounded like Midge, her voice a whip crack of fury. A second later, an enraged whinny split the air.

I jumped, my heart slamming against my ribs. But the boy merely glanced toward the window, unbothered.

"That's Hellcat," he said. At my blank look, he clarified. "Grandma Midge's horse. They hate each other."

Another bang, then a stream of colorful cursing. I gaped at the window. The boy seemed to find my reaction entertaining, his lips twitching.

"Grandma Midge and Buck argue about her all the time," he said, returning to his scrubbing. "He says she's too mean. Grandma says she reminds her of Buck."

I shook my head, trying to process. "You mean the horse is too mean? Or your grandma?"

The boy grinned, quick and bright. "Both." God help me, I was starting to love this kid.

I huffed a disbelieving laugh. The casual chaos of it all was so far removed from anything I knew. Anything I'd ever experienced. But something about it, the easy acceptance in the boy's voice, the warmth of the kitchen, the sounds of messy, vibrant life beyond the window...

It tugged at me, a bittersweet ache beneath my breastbone. A distant memory of something I'd never quite had. Safety, maybe. A place to belong. And here I was, catching feelings for a damn kitchen.

I swallowed hard and looked away, blinking against the sudden sting in my eyes. I couldn't let myself get lost in might-have-beens. In maybes and if-onlys. But for just a second, in that sunny kitchen with this strange, solemn boy, I let myself imagine it. Let myself pretend that this could be my life, chaotic and imperfect and real. Just for a second. Just until the dream popped like a soap bubble.

It was a nice dream. But dreams didn't keep you alive. I'd learned that lesson young. So I shoved the ache down beside the ache of my head and ribs, locked it away, and picked up my rag. Back to work. Back to survival. That was all I had room for now. Hope was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

Eventually Noah wandered off and I moved on to the pantry shelves, organizing the mismatched cans and boxes into neat rows. The pain in my shoulder spiked as I reached for the higher shelves, but I ignored it. Pain was an old friend. I could work through it.

Next was the mud room. Ignoring the pounding headache, I swept the dried dirt into careful piles, marveling at the humble touches of home scattered throughout. Cowboy boots lined up by the door, a rack of jackets in varying sizes, a child's stuffed animal forgotten on a bench. Each item told a story of the family that lived here, their lives intersecting in this shared space. I was just a comma in the sentence here. This wasn't my story. It never would be.

As I put the broom away, a notepad by the phone caught my eye. An old habit had me reaching for it before I could think twice, fingers itching for a pencil. Sketching had always been my escape, a way to process the chaos in my head. I told myself it couldn't hurt, just for a minute. Just to settle my churning thoughts. One sketch wouldn’t kill me.

I sat on the big back porch and moved the pencil across the page, soft strokes outlining the slope of a horse's back, the strong lines of a fence post. Slowly, tentatively, the images took shape. A barn cat curled in a patch of sun. The worn eaves of the porch. Little snapshots of the ranch, the things that represented safety, stability, home.

Halfway through a sketch of the rolling hills beyond the pasture, I stopped and stared at the lines, at the care in each deliberate stroke. What was I doing?

Disgust rose in my throat, hot and sharp. I tore the page from the pad, crumpling it in my fist. Stupid. I was so stupid. I couldn't afford this kind of wishful thinking. Dreaming was a luxury for people who had a future. All I had was the next minute, the next hour, the next day. If I was lucky. Stick to survival. It’s all you’ve ever been good at.

I shoved the notepad away and tossed the wadded paper in the trash. I couldn't leave any trace, couldn't let them see how desperately I wanted something I couldn't have. They'd realize I was just dead weight, a stray dog begging for scraps. They'd toss me out like the garbage I was.

The back door creaked open, and I spun, heart in my throat. Sloane stood in the doorway, her cool gaze sweeping over the room. Taking in the gleaming counters, the organized shelves, the empty bucket sitting by the clean baseboards.

I braced myself, waiting for the verdict. Praying I'd done enough, been useful enough, to earn my keep for one more day.

"Is there anything else I can do?" I asked, hating the tremor in my voice. "Anything at all?"

Sloane's expression didn't change. "No," she said flatly. "We're good here."

It wasn't a reassurance. It was a dismissal. I swallowed hard and nodded, forcing my face into a mask of calm. I wouldn't let her see me break. They'd smell weakness. "Okay. I'll find something. Outside, maybe."

I didn't wait for a response. I headed for the door, my pulse pounding a rhythm on my eardrums. I couldn't stop. Couldn't let myself think about what would happen when they decided I wasn't worth the trouble.

I'd just have to work harder. Be better. Prove that I could earn my place, however temporary. It was the only way I'd survive. The only way I'd stay one step ahead of the monster snapping at my heels. You don’t get to rest. Not yet.

I stepped out into the sunlight, blinking against the brightness. The ranch spread out before me. It looked like freedom. But for me, it was just another place I'd eventually have to run from.

I squared my shoulders and started walking. I'd find something to fix, something to clean, something to make better. And I'd keep doing it, over and over, until they told me to stop.

Or I ran out of time. Whichever came first.