Page 3 of Claimed By the Cowboys

Then she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd and the swing of the door.

I sit alone, nursing my margarita and telling myself I’ll finish it, leave a tip, and go home. That’s the sensible thing to do. The Brandy thing. The woman everybody counts on thing.

Salt clings to my lips. Music curls through the room. Around me, people laugh too loudly, lean too close, and touch each other with confidence.

I look down at my hands and realize I can’t remember the last time someone touched me because they wanted to. The last time I had sex was three years ago, and it wasn’t good enough to register as a memory in my frazzled brain.

While I’m commiserating, a presence settles onto the empty stool beside me.

I glance over, curious, and heat rises beneath my skin before I can stop it.

The man is big, tall, and broad-shouldered, with a body built by hard work. His dark blond hair is mussed like he’s dragged a hand through it too many times, and stubble shadows a jaw that looks stubborn enough to break somebody’s heart. His black thermal shirt stretches across his chest and forearms, and the backs of his hands are rough, marked with pale scars that look like rope burns.

He isn’t local. I would remember a man like him.

He orders whiskey on ice. His voice is low, roughened at the edges, the kind of voice that doesn’t need to be raised to be heard.

Then he turns his head and looks at me, and I’m swallowed whole by his pretty blue-gray eyes.

“Well,” he says, his mouth curving a little, “you’re a sight after a hard day.”

I touch a hand to my curls, suddenly aware of the wildness of them around my face, the tired shadows under my eyes, and the scrub pants I haven’t had time or opportunity to change out of.

“Thanks,” I say. “I think.”

His almost-smile deepens, and it resonates lower than I have any business feeling it.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The bar noise rolls around us, but his attention makes a pocket of stillness where all I can hear is the clink of ice in his glass and the unsteady beat of my own heart.

“Bo,” he says, offering his hand.

His palm is broad, warm, and callused. I slide mine into it, and the contact sends a small, traitorous shiver straight through me. His hand practically swallows mine, his weathered skin several shades lighter against my brown fingers.

For one ridiculous second, I imagine Mama seeing me here, holding hands with some white cowboy I don't know from Adam. She'd have me halfway to church before I could finish my drink.

The thought should make me pull away, but it doesn’t.

“Brandy.”

Bo doesn’t hold on too long or squeeze too hard, just holds firmly enough to make me wonder what his hands would feel like if he stopped being polite.

Lord, I need to go home.

Instead, I pick up my margarita.

Bo takes a sip of whiskey and glances toward the dance floor. “You here by yourself, Brandy?”

“My friend abandoned me for a family crisis.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Her cousin Trey is drunk and stupid. So, it has the possibility to go that way if he’s left to his own devices. He'd better sober up before Annie gets near or he’s gonna regret the day he was born.”

That earns me a real cowboy smile that’s quick and devastating. “Every town’s got a Trey. Hell, most families got one too.”

“Unfortunately, Annie’s Trey refuses to change, despite her unleashing hell's wrath on the regular.”

He chuckles, and the sound moves through me slowly, warm as bourbon.