Cowboy’s Kiss (Seven Nights to Mr. Right #7)

Chapter 1

Jane

Caleb stands in the kitchen doorway, blocking my exit as if he thinks I might run away.

Rude.

Though I absolutely might run.

The fluorescent light above the sink flickers again. The barely noticeable strobe that everyone else seems oblivious to makes my teeth ache. The coffee maker gurgles, and someone has left the radio on low in the other room. The competing sounds layer over one another until my skull feels too small.

“Why do you have a bag?” Caleb asks, arms crossed and jaw tight, radiating the full weight of oldest-brother energy.

“It’s called luggage,” I reply, dragging my duffel strap over one shoulder. “People use it when they leave the house. Revolutionary, I know.”

Weston perches on the counter, mug of coffee in hand, wearing a look that says, This is better than cable. “Usually, people announce it first.”

“I did announce it,” I retort. “Internally.”

Boone’s newspaper twitches, which is the only sign he’s listening. “That doesn’t count.”

I set the duffel down and yank on my boots, stamping each one against the floor harder than necessary. “I’m heading out for a bit.”

Caleb steps closer. “For how long is ‘a bit’?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, and that’s the truth. “Long enough to breathe.”

The room falls silent.

That happens sometimes. When the thing I meant to keep inside slips out, sharp and too honest.

Weston lowers his mug. Boone folds his paper. Caleb’s expression changes. He’s not angry. Never angry. Just worried. Always worried.

And that’s the issue, isn’t it? Their worry fills this kitchen, a constant and inescapable presence. I’ve been breathing in their anxiety my entire life.

Caleb steps forward, eyebrows furrowed. “Out where?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t involve the three of you hovering like emotionally constipated cowboys.”

Weston’s mouth twitches. “Tell us how you really feel.”

“I’m practicing honesty,” I reply. “Apparently, that’s something people do.”

Caleb rubs the bridge of his nose—a gesture I’ve seen countless times, the one that means he’s counting to ten before speaking. He looks tired.

“We could’ve talked about this.”

“I did,” I shoot back. “You just told me to calm down.”

No one argues with that.

Because it’s true.

The words hang in the air—calm down—and I watch them land. I see Caleb’s jaw tighten. Weston suddenly finds his coffee fascinating. Boone carefully avoids looking at anyone.

I love my brothers. I do. They raised me after our parents died—Caleb barely twenty-two, Weston twenty, Boone still a teenager—trying to figure out how to keep a ten-year-old girl alive when they barely knew how to keep themselves afloat.

They fed me. Clothed me. Gave me space. Too much space, maybe. No rules, no boundaries. Jane’ll figure it out became our family motto.

And I did.

I learned to manage a household before I learned to manage myself. I figured out how to read their moods, ease their rough days, and ensure dinner was on the table, even when my mind was racing too loudly to think.

I picked up how to swear, drink whiskey, and outwork the ranch hands because that’s what Cutter women do, apparently. I learned to be loud, so no one would notice how easily I disappeared into my own head.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the baby sister who needed watching and became the woman who kept everything running: the cook, the cleaner, the emotional manager for three men who’d rather rope a bull than talk about feelings.

But in that transition, I lost the feeling of being... seen.

Loved, yes. Protected to the utmost. But seen? Known?

That part faded away.

“I just need to know who I am,” I say softly now. “Without you three hovering.”

Without being the Cutter girl who needs watching. Without being Jane-who-can’t-sit-still, Jane-who-talks-too-much, Jane-who-overreacts-to-everything.

“Jane,” Caleb says cautiously. “We just want to know what’s going on.”

My laugh is too loud and sharp around the edges. Even I can hear how off it sounds, but I can’t stop. “No, you want to know so you can tell me why it’s a bad idea.”

“That’s not true,” Boone says, finally putting the paper aside. “Sometimes we let you have bad ideas.”

“Name one.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again.

Weston clears his throat. “That time you decided to—”

“Nope.” I hold up a hand. “That doesn’t count. I was nineteen.”

“You're only twenty-six now,” Boone mutters. “Twenty-six is ancient in impulsive-decision years.”

Caleb exhales slowly. I see the weight he carries. The burden of being twenty-two and suddenly responsible for everything. “You didn’t come home last night.”

My stomach clenches. There it is.

“I did come home. Just not... here.”

His jaw tightens. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I was busy.” Busy pacing Marlie’s waiting room. Busy reading the contract for the fifth time. Busy trying to convince myself I wasn’t making a mistake.

“With what?” Weston asks.

“Living,” I snap, then immediately regret it.

The room goes still.

I run a hand through my hair, which is too tangled and too loud, like everything else about me. My mind buzzes again, that familiar static telling me I’m about two minutes from saying something I can’t take back.

“Look.” I force my voice to steady. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I just... need to do something that’s mine. Figure something out on my own.”

Boone leans back, arms crossed. “You already do whatever you want.”

“Not really,” I say. “I do whatever you’re okay with.”

That hits home.

Caleb straightens, eyes narrowing. “That’s not fair.”

“I know,” I say quickly. “I know you love me. I know you’re trying. But you raised me—”

I pause. Shake my head. “I felt like I was made of glass and dynamite—too fragile to be out of your sight, yet too dangerous to be allowed to make my own choices. And now you're surprised that I want to figure something out on my own?”

Weston meets my gaze, and I see it—not agreement, but recognition. He understands. He’s always understood, even when he couldn’t do anything about it.

Caleb’s voice is softer this time. “Where are you going?”

I hesitate. My boots are on, my bag is packed, and the words are on the tip of my tongue.

“Clover Canyon.”

Boone frowns. “That’s... an hour away.”

“Exactly.” I attempt a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’m not running off to Vegas. I’m just... stepping sideways.”

“What’s there?” Weston asks.

“Space,” I reply. “And quiet. And people who don't know me as ‘the Cutter girl who needs watching.’”

Caleb studies my face as if searching for a lie. There isn’t one—just omissions.

He exhales through his nose. “For how long?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “A bit.”

The silence stretches, and I brace myself for the argument, the interrogation, the list of reasons this is a bad idea.

Finally, Boone stands up, walks over, and pulls me into a fierce hug. I inhale deeply—hay, coffee, home—and something cracks inside my chest.

“You call if you need anything.”

“I will,” I promise, my throat tightening.

Weston hugs me too, whispering, “Miss you already. The kitchen's gonna be too quiet.”

“You’ll survive.” I pull back, blinking rapidly. “Probably.”

Then it’s Caleb. He doesn’t hug me; he just holds my gaze, trying to see past the noise in my head.

“Be careful.”

“I’ll try.” It’s more honest than what I want to say.

He nods—permission, not approval—and steps aside.

Driving out of Tangle Creek feels like loosening a knot in my chest.

I roll down the window, letting the cold air rush in and tangle my hair. The chill stings my cheeks, but it feels real. Grounding.

The radio plays something country and forgettable, and I turn up the volume to drown out my thoughts.

My phone buzzes on the passenger seat.

Marlie: Still on for tonight? You can back out anytime, Jane.

I pull over to the shoulder—because I’m not an idiot who texts and drives, despite what my brothers think—and stare at the message until the screen dims.

Three months. That’s how long I’ve been planning this. Three months of research, background checks, and reading contracts until my eyes crossed. Three months of keeping this secret because the moment my brothers found out, they’d have opinions. Concerns. Better ideas.

Marlie’s Angels isn’t some sketchy backroom deal. It’s vetted. Legitimate. A matchmaking service for women who want a fresh start on their own terms.

The auction concept may sound medieval, but it’s not about being bought; it’s about being chosen by someone who has considered all the options and selected you.

But why am I doing this?

It’s not because I want to belong to someone.

It’s because I want to discover if I could.

Is there a man out there who would look at me, with my boots, sharp tongue, messy brain, curves, and rough edges, and choose me intentionally?

Not out of pity or the belief that I need fixing.

But because he wants me—this version of me, with all my complexities, even the parts that don't make sense and those that are overwhelming.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard. After three months of planning, it all comes down to this moment, this choice. I type back: Still in.

The reply takes a moment longer this time.

Marlie: Then you’re in the right place.

I exhale a breath and pull back onto the road.

By the time I arrive at the venue—a sprawling estate filled with warm light and old money—my hands are shaking. I wipe them on my skirt, pretending it counts as confidence.

The house is enormous, where old money meets western charm, with glittering windows and warm light spilling onto the snowy lawn. A line of trucks and sedans is parked out front, where boots, blazers, and cowboy hats mingle with cologne and cufflinks.

I don’t belong here. But I also don’t belong at the Cutter family dinner table anymore, so perhaps belonging is overrated.

Inside, everything hums. Soft music plays, polished marble gleams, and low lighting creates a quiet reverence in the air, like a church, but with better outfits and whiskey.