Page 31 of Claimed By the Cowboys

We jack up the truck and load the ruined tire into the bed. It takes a while to replace it with Bo’s spare, but we work well as a team in all ways.

“You think she’s happy with the gestures?” I ask.

My twin shrugs. “If she likes us, she will be.”

“And if not.”

“Then she’s dumping our gestures in the trash. I guess we won’t know which it is unless she tells us.”

The idea of those beautiful blooms in the trash doesn’t sit well with me, but truth be told, I can’t see Brandy doing that. She’d give them to a resident without a family to spoil them. She’d find a way to make the best of a gesture she didn’t appreciate for herself. That’s the kind of person she is and what makes me want her more.

As we drive home, I’m more certain than ever.

We’re going to keep showing up.

Keep chipping away by giving Brandy reasons to smile until she realizes she doesn’t have to choose between the life she has and the one we want to build with her.

Chapter 16

Brandy

The flowers sit on the passenger seat in all their glory, scenting my car with sweet roses and filling my heart with warmth.

I steal glances at them as I drive with one hand on the wheel, using the other to reach over to brush a soft petal occasionally. The red roses are bold and rich, exactly the shade of my new favorite lipstick and my softest sweater. The soft pink ones are more gently beautiful, the color of strawberry ice cream and cotton candy. They’re perfect.

My day was brutal. A resident fell during my shift, and paperwork piled up as a result. One of the older nurses called in sick, leaving me to cover extra rooms. I was exhausted, short-tempered, and counting down the minutes until I could collapse at home.

Then, Corrine handed me the box with a knowing look on her face. Now here I am, with a heart fluttering like a teenager even though I know better.

Jensen stood in a florist choosing flowers with a personal touch. When he dropped them off, he impressed my colleague with his charm. Together, he and Bo are spoiling me in small, careful ways that slip past every defense I have.

It should be unwelcome, even invasive. I don’t have room for this kind of attention and the risk of word getting around to someone who could out me to my mama is only growing with their time and effort.

Except… I can’t find the strength to want to resist.

I grip the steering wheel tighter.

Mama would lose her mind if I brought these flowers home. She’d ask a hundred questions I have no good answers for. So, I don’t go home. Instead, I turn left at the light and head toward the cemetery on the edge of town.

The sun is on the cusp of setting as I pull through the wrought-iron gates. The cemetery always feels oppressive to me, with too many headstones clustered together like unhappy neighbors and a depressing silence that I want to escape immediately. My sister Jasmine and my father rest side by side, taken far too close together. My grandparents from both sides are buried nearby, too. Too many good people lost to me are clustered here as stone memorials and fading memories.

It’s not like they’re actually here. I talk to them at home, where their laughter and voices still echo in the walls. Graves are too stark and final. They’re a temporary container for a body, but not the soul that was loved and brought joy.

I park near the back and walk the familiar path first to my father’s grave. I sit for a while in the grass beside him, teasing the red roses from the bunch and resting them in my lap.

“Hey, Daddy,” I whisper. “I brought you these. Red ones. Your favorite color. Like that Mustang you always wanted.”

I carefully lay the red roses, arranging them as best I can with a lump in my throat. When he was alive, my pop shouldered the family burden, never taking much for himself. I learned the shape of responsibility from him, but not the weight. That only fell on my shoulders when he was gone. For a few minutes I sit there, letting the quiet settle over me, searching for peace, but all I find is loss and ache.

Then, I stand and walk the short distance to Jasmine’s grave.

I kneel in the grass and begin arranging the soft pink roses in the small vase I keep there. The petals are silky under my fingers.

“Hey, Jas,” I murmur. “I brought you pink roses. They made me think of you.”

I take a shaky breath and keep talking, even though it’s stupid, remembering all the pink shirts, shorts and dresses she loved to wear when we were kids.

“I met someone. Actually… I met two someones. Twins. Bo and Jensen. They’re cowboys. Ranchers. They’re… God, they’re so good to me, Jas. They make me feel appreciated in a way I’ve never experienced before.”