Josephine and Cowboy Clay

1. Clay

CHAPTER ONE

Clay

The gate slams open, and in an instant, the noise of the crowd disappears. The past vanishes. The future goes. Family, expectations, every problem waiting outside the arena… gone. None of it matters now.

Eight seconds.

That’s all it ever is. Eight seconds to prove something I can’t ever seem to hold onto.

The bull explodes under me as if it’s been waiting its whole life to kill someone. It’s pure muscle and fury, twisting hard, trying to rip me loose before I’ve even settled in.

Too bad.

I lock in deeper, thighs tight, hand wrapped hard around the rope. My other arm cuts through the air, chasing balance.

No thinking.

Thinking is how you get thrown. This is all instinct. All feel. All the shit my body learned the hard way.

The first buck hits hard, a punch to the spine. My teeth snap together, breath knocked halfway out of me. But I’m still on, still centered.

A grin pulls at my mouth.

There it is, that feeling. The one that makes everything else, every expectation, every disappointed look, every version of me that never quite fit, fade into nothing.

Out here, I don’t have to be anything but this.

The bull spins sharp, trying to sling me off its side. My body follows without hesitation, hips rolling, shoulders loose, staying just ahead of the insanity.

I can hear the crowd, but it’s far off, happening in another life.

Dust kicks up around us, sticking to the sweat already building along my neck. The rope burns into my palm, rough and biting.

Good, I want to feel it, I want to feel everything.

Another violent buck comes higher this time, meaner than the last.

“Yeah,” I mutter, low and breathless. “That it?”

The bull answers by trying to launch me into next week. My body snaps forward, then back, boots digging in, muscles straining. I wrestle for balance against eight hundred kilos of pure bad intentions.

That’s the whole point. Out here, it’s not about taming anything; it’s about surviving it, about owning those eight seconds because they belong to me. Because nothing else ever does.

The pressure builds, every second stretching, dragging, my grip tightening, legs burning, lungs working harder now.

But I’m still here, still riding, still in it. And this is the closest thing to being alive that I know how to get.

The buzzer hits.

I let go instantly, because holding on past that? That’s how you get yourself killed. I hit the dirt hard, roll fast, and come up on one knee as the bull spins back.

We’re eye to eye.

Wild, unpredictable… then the clown pulls it away, and just like that, it’s over.

I push to my feet, chest heaving, heart still pounding; it doesn’t know we’re done yet. Then the sound of the crowd hits me. The noise swells into a deafening roar, alive with excitement and adrenaline. All of it for me.

A slow smile spreads across my face as I reach down, grab my hat from the dirt, and slap it against my jeans before settling it back on my head.

I tip it toward the stands.

This never feels old or dull, because for those eight seconds I’m not the screw-up.

Not the brother who left, or the son who couldn’t stick around long enough to be worth anything.

Out here I’m exactly what I’m supposed to be, and that’s a feeling I’d burn everything else down to keep.

The roar follows me all the way back behind the chutes.

Hands clap my shoulders, someone presses a cold beer into my hand before I’ve fully caught my breath, and voices blur together. Numbers and laughter blur as someone shouts about my score. I don’t bother asking what it is.

I already know it was good.

“That’s how you ride, McCoy!” someone calls.

I take a long pull from the bottle, the burn settling warm in my chest while the adrenaline slowly unwinds. My muscles ache in that satisfying way that reminds you you’ve earned it.

“Eighty-seven!”

A whistle cuts through the noise.

I shake my head, pretending it doesn’t matter, even though I settle at the number. It isn’t pride exactly. It’s lighter than that. Easier to carry.

“Solid,” I say, mostly to myself.

Because it was, and these nights are why I keep coming back…

The bar’s already packed when we get there.

Music spills out into the street, boots thudding against worn wooden floors, neon lights flickering across dust and sweat. Girls lean against the bar with easy smiles, and guys talk louder than they need to, reliving rides that somehow get better every time they’re told.

I settle into it easily.

“First round’s on you, champ,” Brandon says, knocking his shoulder into mine.

“Figured as much,” I reply, heading for the bar.

I don’t mind because tonight feels good. Loose. Easy. I could keep moving like this forever. One town to the next, one ride after another, nothing tying me down long enough to make a mess of things.

A blonde steps in beside me while I wait, her hand brushing my arm gently. “Hell of a ride, McCoy.”

I glance down at her, a half-smile coming naturally. “You caught it?”

“Hard to miss.” Her eyes flick over me. “You always that good under pressure?”

The flirting is easy; familiar, and simple, with no strings attached. Exactly how I prefer things.

I lean in just enough to play along, ready to give her the answer she’s looking for…

And my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I almost ignore it.

But it manages to pull me out of the moment just enough that I step back, already reaching for it.

“Give me a second,” I tell her.

Boone.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

There’s noise on his end. Movement. Voices layered over each other. “Clay.”

What the hell? This seems more than just a check-in.

I straighten without thinking, gripping the phone tighter. “What happened?”

“Tessa’s in labor.”

My grip tightens around the phone. “She’s early?”

“I know.” He exhales, rough. “They’ve got her at the hospital. They’re checking everything, but we don’t know much yet.”

The bar fades into the background, the music and noise turning distant. “I’m coming.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Good. We all need to be together for this.”

I’m not a fan of the way his tone dips. He’s worried, which means I need to be too.

“I’ll be there,” I tell him. “See you soon.”

The hospital is packed with McCoys.

Boone stands near the window, arms folded, his expression locked down tight in that way he gets when he’s holding everything together for everyone else.

Dallas is pacing a worn path into the floor, running a hand over the back of his neck every few seconds because he can’t burn off the nervous energy fast enough.

Mom sits upright in one of the plastic chairs, hands clasped in her lap, her spine so straight it looks painful.

No one’s talking much.

I lean back against the wall, boots planted, hat low over my eyes to try and make me less noticeable. Less of an obstruction.

They move around each other easily. Boone murmurs something to Dallas, and he slows, just a little. Mom reaches for Boone’s arm without looking, and he lets her. There’s a rhythm to it. A familiarity that comes from showing up, again and again.

I’ve missed too much of that.

“Doc said anything yet?” I ask, mostly because the silence is getting to me.

Dallas shakes his head. “Still waiting.”

Boone glances back at me and gives a short nod. “They’ll come out soon.”

I nod, but it doesn’t settle anything.

So I stay where I am, arms crossed, pretending I’m fine just watching it all play out instead of being just outside of it.

Time drags.

Eventually, a door opens down the hall, and everything shifts.

Dallas stops pacing mid-step. Boone straightens. Mom’s already on her feet before the doctor even fully steps into the hallway.

There are words. Explanations. Things I probably should be paying attention to, but all I really catch is: “They’re both doing well.”

The tension breaks so fast it almost knocks the wind out of me.

Mom presses a hand to her chest, her eyes closing. Dallas lets out a sharp laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. Boone’s shoulders drop just a fraction, but it’s enough to see the relief.

“Can we see them?” Mom asks.

The doctor nods, stepping aside.

I push off the wall and follow, a step behind, excited to see yet another niece or nephew joining the family.

We find Nash sitting up in the bed, looking wrecked and wide-eyed in a way I’ve never seen on him before. Tessa’s pale but smiling, her attention fixed entirely on the tiny bundle in her arms.

“Hey,” Boone says. “What do we have?”

Nash looks up, and his expression shifts when he sees us. Relief again. Pride. A little disbelief. “A little girl.”

I hang back near the foot of the bed while the others move in closer, Mom already fussing gently over Tessa, Dallas leaning in to get a better look.

“Come on,” Boone says over his shoulder to me. “Get over here.”

The baby is small. They’re always tinier than I expect them to be. She’s wrapped up tight, face scrunched, making soft little sounds, figuring out the world one breath at a time.

“Meet Hailey,” Nash says, and I don’t recognize his voice at first.

It takes me a second to realize what it is.

Love.

I swallow, nodding. “Hey, Hailey.”

“Wanna hold her?” Tessa asks gently.

My hands lift before I can think too hard about it. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

Dallas lets out a quiet laugh. “This I gotta see.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no real bite to it.

Tessa carefully passes her over, guiding my arms because I might drop her if left unsupervised.

And then she’s there.

I go still without meaning to, every instinct suddenly locked in place.

“Relax,” Nash says, amused. “She’s not made of glass.”

“Feels like it,” I murmur.

Hailey shifts slightly against my arm, settling in, and my chest tightens in a way I don’t have a name for.

I don’t hate it.

I hand her back after a minute, careful, almost reluctant, brushing it off with a small shake of my head. “Yeah, alright… you two did good.”

Nash huffs a laugh. “We’ll take that.”

They don’t keep us long after that.

Eventually, we’re ushered out with quiet congratulations and reminders to let Tessa rest.

By the time we step outside, the sun is already giving up on the day.