Page 34 of The Cowboy Who Stayed

Thursday night at the Dawson residence looks like this: heating pad on the couch, pain killers on the coffee table, and me staring at the ceiling wondering if my spine’s got a personal vendetta against me.

The flare-up started mid-afternoon while I was helping Buck rotate fencing on the east pasture. Hours later, when I clocked out and drove home, it had escalated into a kind of hot, grinding pain that turns simple tasks like bending over to take off my boots into a production.

I managed a hot shower and a pair of sweatpants before collapsing onto the couch with the heating pad wedged behind my lower back.

I’ve been stuck like this for the last hour and a half, alternating between closing my eyes and staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looks vaguely like a middle finger.

Feels appropriate.

My rental isn’t much to speak of.

It’s a small two-bedroom house a few miles off the main road that came furnished by a landlord who apparently bought everything from the clearance section of the town’s only furniture store.

Brown was a favorite.

It’s the color of the couch and the coffee table and the armchair. It does go well with the beige walls, but that doesn’t make it any less drab at times.

I haven’t done a thing to personalize the place beyond lining my boots up by the door and keeping it clean. The latter is less of a choice and more of a reflex after seven years dealing with military inspections.

Compared to Vivica’s cottage, with her cozy throw pillows and lively plants and mood lighting and vinyl collection that rivals a record store, my place is nothing special.

Though nobody comes here but me, so what does it matter?

A knock on the front door interrupts my staring contest with the ceiling.

I close my eyes and groan.

The Patterson kids from next door have been kicking their ball into my yard several times a day. Every time they do, one of them shows up at my door with big, apologetic eyes to ask for it back.

“Kid, I swear to god, if that ball hits my truck,” I call out as I force myself off the couch. A bolt of pain shoots through my lower back. I shuffle to the door and yank it open, already mid-lecture. “We’ve talked about this. Kick it toward the⁠—”

It’s not the Patterson kids.

Vivica Murphy is standing on my doorstep in a pair of leggings and a loose sweater, her honey-blonde pixie cut tousled from the wind.

Beautiful as always.

But what’s more important is the expression on her face that I’ve never seen before. She’s blinking at me with the same big, apologetic eyes as the Patterson kids, a bashful quality about how her features are arranged.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess she’s rehearsed whatever she came here to say about a dozen times in the car and still isn’t sure she’s going to get it right.

“Hi,” she says.

I lean against the doorframe, my brain playing catch up. “Hey.”

“Hope you don’t mind I came by. Andy told me where you stay.”

“Guess that shouldn’t surprise me.”

I run a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of the fact that I’m only in sweatpants. She seems cognizant of it too judging by how her gaze struggles to remain on my face and not sneak a peek at my abs.

“Um…” she trails off uncertainly. “Is it alright if I come in?”

“Right… should’ve already invited you,” I say, stepping aside. “Come in. Sorry, wasn’t expecting you to turn up.”

She passes me up in the doorway, her eyes doing a slow scan of the room, her light scent lingering in her wake.

I brace myself for the comparison I know she’s making—her cozy, curated cottage versus my furniture-included bachelor box.