15. Clay
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Clay
I know exactly two things the second I see her. One, I didn’t imagine her. And two, I'm absolutely not prepared for this.
The way she says my name lands somewhere between surprise and something tighter, that I can’t quite pin down before it’s already sitting heavy in my chest.
“Josie.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
It’s as if I just remembered how words work.
She stands there in the dust with her bag slung over her shoulder, hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from the heat, and eyes locked on me, trying to figure out whether I’m real or just another problem she doesn’t have time for today.
Fair.
I don’t look much better.
Crutches, cast, sweat already sticking my shirt to my back from the effort it took just to get down the damn porch steps. Probably look like a man who lost a fight with something mean and came out worse for it. Boone cuts through the silence. “You two know each other?”
I don’t look at him.
Josie doesn’t either.
“Met,” I say.
“Once,” she says at the same time.
We both stop.
That lands about as well as you’d expect.
Boone’s gaze moves between us slowly, cataloging something he doesn’t have all the pieces for yet. “Right…”
That’s all he says, but it’s enough to tell me he knows this is weird, which means I'm definitely not pulling this off.
I shift my weight, adjusting on the crutches, and immediately regret it when pain shoots up my leg. I try not to react. I fail a little.
Josie notices.
Her eyes drop to the cast, then back to my face, something sharper flickering there. “You didn’t mention that.”
“Wasn’t exactly the highlight I wanted to lead with,” I mutter.
Her lips press together, deciding whether to say something else. She doesn’t.
Boone clears his throat. “Calf needs moving into the smaller pen. Shade’s better there.”
Right.
Work.
Good.
Work is simple. Work doesn’t involve figuring out why Josie Wright is suddenly standing on my family’s land pretending she belongs here more than I do.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “I got it.”
Boone looks at me. “You sure about that?”
“I can stand and hold a rope, Boone,” I snap.
Josie’s gaze flicks between us.
Boone doesn’t rise to it. He just hands me the lead rope, giving me exactly enough responsibility to keep me from being useless without letting me wreck anything important.
“Stand here,” he says, nodding toward the side of the pen. “Keep her steady while Josie guides the calf.”
I take the rope. This should be easy. This is easy. I’ve handled worse with one hand and half a brain after a long night and no sleep. Except now I’ve got one working leg, a body that doesn’t feel mine anymore, and Josie standing three feet away pretending this isn’t weird.
Which makes it worse.
Way worse.
She moves first, slipping into the pen with quiet confidence, all focus now. The shift in her is immediate. Whatever awkward tension was there gets packed away and replaced with something precise, controlled, and competent.
It hits me all over again that I don’t know her.
Not really.
I know how she sounds at two in the morning over text. I know how she looks when she’s smiling when she’s not supposed to. I know how she felt under my hands that night.
But this version of her is something else entirely.
“Alright,” she says, crouching near the calf. “We’re going to move her slowly. Don’t pull too hard, just guide the cow forward.”
“Got it.”
I wrap the rope around my hand, planting my crutches under my arms, trying to find a stable stance that doesn’t make me almost fall over in front of her.
The cow shifts, suddenly very aware that we’re interfering with her calf.
“Easy,” I mutter, tightening my grip.
She steps forward. I compensate. Or try to.
My balance shifts wrong.
The ground feels uneven under my boot, and the crutch on my left slips just slightly in the dirt.
“Shit…”
The rope jerks.
The cow pulls.
My body tilts hard to the side, the cast dragging me down in a way I can’t correct fast enough.
For a split second, I’m going down.
Again.
In front of Boone.
In front of Josie.
Perfect.
“Clay.”
She has one hand on the rope near mine, the other braced against my arm, firm and way too close.
“Hold,” she says, low and controlled.
I freeze.
Because she’s right there, because her hand is on me, because I can smell that clean linen and citrus, and my brain decides now is a great time to stop functioning.
“Clay,” she repeats.
“Yeah,” I manage.
“Don’t fight her. Let her move, then correct.”
“I know how to—”
“Then do it,” she says, not unkind, just focused.
That shuts me up.
I adjust my grip, breathing through the stupid spike of adrenaline, forcing my weight back into something resembling balance.
The cow settles. The rope steadies.
Josie moves again, guiding the calf gently, coaxing it forward inch by inch.
I follow her lead. Literally. Which is a new experience, and not one I hate as much as I should.
We get the calf through the gate without disaster, which, considering how that almost went, is a win.
Boone swings the gate closed behind us. “There we go.”
I release the rope, flexing my fingers as if I wasn’t just one bad step away from eating dirt.
“Solid effort,” Boone says.
I glare at him. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Josie straightens, brushing dust off her jeans. Her expression is composed again, but there’s something softer in her eyes now. “You should be more careful.”
I snort. “Yeah, I’ll add that to the list.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Her gaze holds mine a second longer than necessary. Then she looks away, and just like that, the moment breaks.
Boone claps his hands once. “I’ll check the water in the other pen.”
Which is his way of leaving, not so subtly.
I shift awkwardly on the crutches. “So…”
“So,” she echoes.
Great.
We’re back here.
“I didn’t know it was your ranch,” she says.
“Didn’t know you were coming out here.”
“Clearly.”
“Clearly.”
We both stop again.
This is painful.
“I got your message,” she says finally.
My chest tightens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
She hesitates. And I hate that.
“I’ve been busy,” she says.
“Right,” I say, because what else is there to say to that?
Busy.
Sure.
Makes sense.
People get busy. People move on. People don’t sit around waiting for some guy who disappeared for a week and then came back with a broken leg and a half-assed apology.
“Look,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “I wasn’t… I didn’t just…”
I stop, because I don’t actually know how to explain this.
I don’t know how to explain the wreck, the hospital, the pain, the way everything went sideways all at once.
I don’t know how to explain why texting her felt too much when I could barely keep my own head straight.
I don’t know how to say any of it without basically making excuses.
She watches me and waits, and I think maybe I should say it anyway. Just… tell her.
Then the words don’t come.
Because I’m standing here on crutches, in the middle of the ranch I’ve spent half my life running from, trying to explain myself to a woman who’s already decided she doesn’t need the explanation.
“I should go,” she says instead.
“Yeah,” I say.
She picks up her bag. It’s that night all over again. Temporary, simple, and ending before it ever had the chance to be anything else.
Except it doesn’t feel simple anymore.
She pauses when she passes me. “You did okay.”
I huff out a breath. “High praise.”
“I mean it.”
She keeps walking.
Just like that.
Gone.
I don’t do much after that. Or at least, nothing useful.
I limp back to the house, drag myself up the steps, drop onto the porch chair as if I just ran ten miles instead of standing in a pen for five minutes.
Rusty follows me, flopping down at my feet because obviously he’s earned the rest too.
“You’re not even injured.” He pants at me. “Must be nice.” I lean my head back and stare out across the ranch. “Good job, McCoy. Real smooth.”
I replay it in my head. Every second. The way she said my name. The way she looked at my leg. The way she didn’t answer my message. The way she said she was busy.
It shouldn’t matter. We were never anything. One night. A few texts. That’s it. Except…
It doesn’t feel that way anymore.
I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
Open the messages.
Clay: Been off the grid. Sorry. Had a bit of drama but all good… how about you?
No wonder she didn’t answer.
I type.
Delete.
Type again.
Clay: Today was unexpected.
I stare at it.
Too obvious.
Delete.
Clay: You were good with the calf.
I grimace. What is this, a performance review?
Delete.
I exhale hard and drop my head back against the chair.
Why is this harder than getting on a bull that actively wants to kill me?
Because this actually matters.
That thought hits out of nowhere, and I don’t like it.
I sit up again and try one more time.
Clay: Sorry if that was weird today. I didn’t handle it great.
I stare at the screen.
Yeah, that’s honest. More honest than I usually get. My thumb hovers, then I hit send before I can overthink it into nothing.
The message goes.
And just like that, I’m back to waiting. Again.
I toss the phone onto my chest and stare up at the sky, squinting against the sun.
Rusty shifts beside me, pressing closer.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I know.”
Because I do. I know exactly what this is. I’m in deeper than I meant to be.
And this time, I don’t know how to ride my way out of it.