Page 60 of Claimed By the Cowboys

“Yes. He was very kind.”

I take a sip of coffee, bracing against the wave of pain that follows the simple words. “It’s what most men would have done, Mama.”

“Still.” She butters her own toast. “They were there with a kid, too.”

I blink, surprised. “A kid?”

“Yes. Their sister’s boy had a bump on the head. They were there to make sure it wasn’t a concussion.”

Sister.

I slump back in my seat and close my eyes, trying to remember the woman’s face at the washing line. Outside of the coloring, she didn’t look much like Bo or Jensen, but maybe… sisters don’t always favor their brothers.

Heat crawls up my neck as the pieces shift.

I cringe hard at the way I pushed Bo last night. He had been trying to be kind, carrying Naomi, and staying close, telling me it would be okay, and I shoved him away like he was the problem. I was brittle and sharp with the notion of being replaced.

And Jensen’s message. Hope Naomi is better. Come by when you can. We miss you.

All their messages went unanswered while I stewed over what I thought I knew. While I compared myself to a woman hanging laundry and decided I had been a fool for believing two rugged cowboys could ever want me.

Could I have made a mistake?

The possibility is equal parts hope and shame. I open my eyes and stare at the toast cooling on my plate. Mama is watching me carefully now with the same quiet concerned expression she’s worn all week.

“You all right, baby?”

“Yeah,” I say, though my voice comes out thin. “Just tired.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go for now.

I drink my coffee and try to picture the blonde woman again, this time as their sister. The image doesn’t hurt in the same way.

I think about the unread message sitting on my phone upstairs.

I think about how Bo’s face had fallen when I reacted badly to his affection.

I think about how quick I was to believe the worst, and how little credit I gave the two men who have done nothing but show up for me. What does that say about me? Insecure. Judgmental. Reactive.

None of those attributes are ones I’m happy to cultivate. This relationship has brought out the worst in me, as I’ve sought comfort without considering hard enough the impact on the men who stepped up so readily to be what I need.

They’ve been so good to me, and what have I been to them?

A woman willing to take but not give. A woman keeping them at arm’s length, never considering the impact on them.

Maybe I got it wrong.

Maybe I got it very wrong.

And if I did… I don’t know how to begin fixing it.

But for the first time in a week, the black hole in front of me doesn’t loom quite so endlessly.

There’s a small, fragile thread of light in it now.

I don’t deserve forgiveness for believing the worst of them, but I want it.

I want them. I want to step up and be what they need.