Page 55 of Claimed By the Cowboys

Chapter 28

Brandy

It’s been four days since I saw the blonde woman at Bo and Jensen’s place, and my heart still hurts like it’s been lacerated by a cheese grater.

I keep going over the moment in my head like a punishment I deserve. That woman stood at the washing line in those cut-off shorts, hanging pretty matching lingerie as if she belonged there. With long legs and easy confidence, she looked like she’d fit with two rugged cowboys without complication.

I compare myself to her every quiet second. My curves that come from stress eating and skipped meals. The exhaustion that never fully leaves my face, and the faint smell of hospital soap that lingers on my skin. The practical underwear I wear—because who has patience for lace wedged where the sun don’t shine, when you’re bending over to bed-bathe a patient. I chastise myself for every soft feeling I let grow. For every time I believed their quiet promises. For every time I let myself think I could be more than a temporary distraction.

I was so stupid.

At work I’ve become a robot. I smile when I’m supposed to. I chart carefully. I answer questions with the right words, but nothing’s the same since Mr. Jenkins died. His room is empty now. The bed is stripped. The photo of his wife is gone. Every time I walk past the door, my throat tightens. Soon his room will be filled with the next resident, and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

At home I’m the same kind of hollow.

I make dinner. I help with homework. I listen to the kids and try to sound upbeat, but the effort is enormous. Some nights I sit on the edge of my bed after the kids are asleep and stare at the wall, too tired to even cry properly anymore.

Mama keeps watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. Her brow creases with that worried, knowing expression she gets when something is wrong and she can’t fix it. Once or twice she’s started to ask if I’m all right, but I brush her off with a quick “just tired from work.” I don’t have the energy to pretend everything is okay, and I definitely don’t have the energy to explain why it isn’t.

Nothing is okay.

My present is a grind of responsibility and careful smiles. My future is like a big black hole: empty and endless and impossible to look into without panicking that I might fall forever.

I told myself I was being careful.

I told myself I still had walls.

But the truth is, I handed those two men pieces of me I didn’t even realize I still had left to give. Now that it’s over, I don’t know how to gather the scraps back up and keep going. So I keep moving, because the alternative is stopping for long enough to feel the full weight of what I’ve lost, and I’m worried it might break me completely.

Their messages remain on my phone, without a reply. They’re upbeat and filled with pretense. Come over. We have something to show you. We miss you. It’s all bullshit and just makes me angrier.

I’m sitting on my bed when mama calls me. I’m surprised by the volume of her voice, and the franticness of her tone at this late hour. The kids have been in bed for a while. When I’m halfway down the hall, she appears from Naomi’s room.

“She’s burning up,” she says.

“Did you check her temperature?”

“Not yet, but she’s hot to the touch. She’s sweating, and her skin looks gray.”

I brush past mama and drop to my knees at Naomi’s bedside. Her breathing is shallow, and her skin has a sheen I don’t like. “Get me the thermometer,” I say. “And a tepid cloth.”

I touch my niece’s forehead with the back of my hand, and I know the result before I use the technology. She’s way too hot.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” I say. “You’re okay.”

I pull back her cover and strip her out of her pajamas. When mama returns with the tepid cloth, I pat her skin gently, earning a groan from Naomi. “This will cool you a little, sweetie.” I aim the thermometer at her forehead, and it registers a worrying 102.

“Have you given her anything?” I ask.

“Yes, but it hasn’t lowered her temperature at all.”

“We should take her to the hospital,” I say.

“Is it that serious?”

I stare at Naomi, who’s still sweating. “I think so, Mama. If Jasmine were here, she’d take her, wouldn’t she?”

“Okay. Let’s go.”