Page 45 of Claimed By the Cowboys

“Still kicking, Nurse Carter. Just… slower than usual.”

“That’s good, Mr. Jenkins. You keep kicking.”

He nods and closes his eyes. One small sentence has made him tired.

I stay with him longer than I should, charting quietly while he rests. After a while he opens his eyes again and picks up the photo frame. He licks his lips, poised to tell a story.

“You know how I knew my wife was the one?”

I shake my head.

“She smiled at me across a church potluck table… I was a goner from that second.”

My heart clenches hard.

I remember Bo’s first almost-smile at the Dusty Boot and Jensen’s wide, devastating grin when he realized I was the woman his brother couldn’t stop talking about. Two different smiles that somehow both felt like the sun breaking through the clouds to shine on me. A sharp, unexpected ache blooms under my ribs that’s half longing and half fear.

“Love is what makes life worth living,” Mr. Jenkins continues, his voice thin. “And children. Everything else is wallpaper.”

I swallow around my burning throat. His confession has a finality to it, as though he’s choosing the wise words while he can. I can’t think about that without breaking down, so I ask him a question that’s been weighing on my mind. “What if the love you want would be hard on your parents? What if it doesn’t look how they think it should?”

He gives a small, tired shrug.

“Life is short, Brandy. Real short. Blink, and you’ll miss it.” He coughs a little, then wheezes, and I squeeze his hand in reassurance. Eventually, he continues. “If your parents can’t see a good thing right away, sometimes they need time to come around. Real love… the good kind that lasts… it shines through so bright, it’s impossible to oppose for long. Take the advice of a man without much time left. Don’t waste the years waiting for permission to be happy.”

I squeeze his hand as my throat closes so tightly, I can no longer swallow. There are weight and truth to his words, and for a moment I can’t speak.

Thankfully, a gentle knock on the door breaks the intensity. I turn to find Mr. Jenkins' son lingering in the doorway. He’s tall, quiet, and looks so much like a younger version of his father that it makes my heart ache. I can imagine the elder Mr. Jenkins in his Sunday best, his hair combed and his smile bright as he takes in a pretty smiling girl over the potluck table. That moment is the reason the junior Mr. Jenkins exists.

I smile as he sits on the other side of the bed and takes his dad’s hand.

“Hey, pop,” he says. “I finished work early. Thought I’d drop in.”

He doesn’t tell his father that I phoned him this morning to let him know his father is slowing down.

I slip out, giving them privacy.

Later, I’m in the small break room, surrounded by the scent of burnt coffee and stale microwave meals from lunch, when the son finds me. His eyes are red and his posture stooped. “My dad… he passed.”

I stand and freeze for a second, gutted, then nod, blinking as my tear rise.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “He was… he was special. I’m going to miss him.”

I don’t remember leaving the room. The next thing I know, I’m in the supply closet with my back against the shelves, crying hard into my hands. The sharp scent of bleach and latex gloves fills my nose and burns. Sandra, the care home manager, finds me there a few minutes later.

She takes one look at my face and softens. “Go home, Brandy. You’ve been here long enough today. We’ve got coverage. Take the rest of the afternoon.”

I don’t argue.

As soon as I’m in the parking lot, I tip my face to the sun and inhale. Birds fly overhead, and a car revs on the road outside. Mr. Jenkins has passed, but the world keeps turning. It doesn’t seem right.

I pick the kids up early from after-school care. Naomi and Elijah are thrilled by the unexpected surprise. I drive them straight to the park that my sister and I used to race to when we were little.

The late afternoon air is warm and smells of cut grass and distant barbecue. I push the kids higher on the swings than usual until Elijah is shrieking with laughter and Naomi’s braids are flying. Then I take the empty swing beside them and pump my legs until I’m flying too, with the wind in my face, and the chains creaking in that familiar way.

I remember days when Jasmine was beside me, laughing so hard she almost fell off, yelling that she was going to touch the clouds.

Grief and gratitude tangle in my chest until it’s hard to breathe.