Page 5 of Claimed By the Cowboys

Then his voice lowers. “You really have to run off right now?”

I should say yes. Yes, I have to go home. Yes, I have responsibilities. Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m the kind of woman who makes good choices because too many people depend on her not to fall apart.

Instead, I hear myself say, “I probably should.”

Bo waits. I look at the well of patient hunger in his eyes. At the rough hands around his glass that I wish were wrapped around my hand, or my hip, or my breast. At the quiet space he seems to make by being near me. I don’t understand why, but he exudes an energy that settles my restlessness and angst, and the feeling is like a weighted blanket.

“But I’m still sitting here,” I add.

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. “Good.”

That one tiny word is like a hand resting heavily at the small of my back.

We talk. He tells me he works on a ranch outside town that I’m familiar with, that he likes early mornings better than late nights, and that horses are easier to understand than people. He has two nieces who like to climb all over him and ride him like a horse, and when he talks about them, his whole face lights up. I tell him about the care home, about Mrs. Bell hiding peppermints in her bra, about Elijah insisting a T. rex would make an excellent family pet, and Naomi asking questions so sharp they could cut glass.

Bo listens without interrupting, soaking up everything I share like a kid collecting shells at the beach. He doesn’t try to fix my life in three sentences, or look around the room for someone younger, freer, and easier. When I admit I’m bone-tired, he only nods like he understands the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn’t touch. Like maybe he knows the feeling, too.

At some point, his knee brushes mine beneath the bar, and I don’t move away. I soak up the way my body responds with tingles and anticipation, relishing forgotten sensations.

The music changes to something slower that’s all steel guitar and longing. It’s not my kind of music, but I can appreciate the lyrics and the sentiment. The crowd shifts around us, laughter rising and falling. My second drink sits half-finished in front of me, sweating onto a paper napkin as I contemplate what I’m doing and whether I’m going to keep doing it.

Bo leans close enough for me to catch the clean, masculine scent of him beneath the whiskey. Soap. Leather. Sun-warmed and honest. Mouthwatering.

His hand settles lightly at my waist, asking its own wordless question.

My breath catches.

“You wanna come with me, Brandy, and let me loosen all the burden for a while?”

My heart skitters as I look anywhere else but at him. Over his shoulder, a drunk cowboy trips, losing his hat to the dance floor. The server shakes his head and continues wiping the bar. My heart surges like the thunder of hooves against sunbaked earth.

There are at least ten other single women in this bar that he could have chosen to talk to tonight. Women with long blonde hair and cowboy boots. Brunettes with green eyes and freckles. Women who look like they ride cowboys for a living. But he hasn’t looked at them once. Instead, his focus has lingered on my wild, natural curls, brown eyes, and the curve of my breasts. His attention has never drifted from me.

All the reasons this is a terrible idea coalesce into a soup in my stomach. He’s a stranger. I need to go home. I don’t have time in my life for a man, let alone a white cowboy who’s probably just passing through. Mama would be disappointed. I haven’t shaved my legs. On and on. Ignoring it all, I whisper, “I don’t usually do this.”

“I figured.” His thumb moves slowly over the thin fabric of my tank top and the small stroke sends heat unraveling through me. One touch, and my body is thrumming. One touch and parts of my body that have been sleeping for too long are suddenly yawning, stretching and clenching hopefully.

I turn my face toward him. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he says. “But I see you.”

I want to laugh at his words. I want to say something smart enough and sharp enough to put some distance back between us. But the truth is, no one has looked at me like this in so long. His focus on me feels good. His attention makes me desirable, not the dependable daughter, the stand-in mother, or the reliable family member who picks up extra shifts, packs lunches, remembers appointments, pays bills late but pays them, and cries in the shower where nobody can hear. The employee changing the elder's diapers and spoon feeding them vegetable mush feels far away.

Bo looks at me like I am still a woman beneath all that weight. A woman with skin that remembers heat. A woman whose body remembers the frisson of desire. A woman who deserves to be wanted, seen, and touched.

His breath brushes my ear when he speaks again. “You’re thinking about leaving.”

“I am.”

“And you’re thinking about staying.”

My thighs press together under the bar. Heat pools low, startling in its intensity. I haven’t been kissed in so long, I’m not sure I remember how.

Bo draws back enough to meet my wide eyes. Those blue-gray-colored irises have gone darker now. They’re still patient and controlled, but hungry enough to make me shiver.

“I think you should come with me,” he says. “Let me take care of you for a while.”

I stand at the edge of every promise I’ve made to everyone else. The responsible voice in my head tells me to smile, drive home, and be grateful for one harmless conversation with a handsome stranger. It reminds me of school projects, lunch boxes, Mama’s worried face, and the church ladies who have opinions about everyone with a vagina.