24. Josephine #2
“What? He has.” Maggie looks back at me. “Don’t take it personally if he growls. Injured men are worse than livestock.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The main house is quieter than expected. Family photos line the hallway. Boys in various stages of dirt, denim, and growth. Clay as a child with a gap-toothed grin. Clay as a teenager, already too handsome and too wild around the eyes. Clay with his brothers, standing slightly apart even then.
My chest aches.
I climb the stairs slowly. At the top, a door sits partially closed. I knock before I can lose courage.
No answer.
I knock again. “Clay?”
A pause.
Then, rough and low, “What?”
I should leave.
Instead, I push the door open carefully.
Clay is sitting on the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out, crutches nearby, shoulders hunched like he’s holding himself together by force. The room is dim, curtains half drawn. There’s a plate of untouched food on the dresser and an open bottle of pain medication on the nightstand.
His hair’s a mess. His jaw unshaven. His eyes, when they lift to mine, are sharp and bloodshot and guarded.
He looks terrible.
He also looks furious that I can see it.
“Josie.” My name comes out flat. “What are you doing here?”
I close the door behind me, slowly. “Tessa invited me for dinner.”
His gaze flicks toward the hall. “Course she did.”
The bitterness in his voice makes me pause. “Is that a problem?”
“Nope.”
I grip the strap of my purse. “You seem upset.”
He laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Good observation, Doc.”
I inhale carefully. “I can leave if this is a bad time.”
“Then why come up here?”
Because I’m pregnant. Because you deserve to know. Because I'm terrified. Because every time I think I understand you, you turn into someone else.
Tell him.
The words sit right behind my teeth.
Now. Before I lose my nerve again.
I open my mouth…
And Clay laughs bitterly under his breath, dragging one hand through his hair.
“Did they send you up here?” he asks. “If you’ve come to talk to me about taking my meds, I don’t want to hear it.”
Ah. That explains the rapid decline.
“I wanted to check on you,” I say.
His mouth tightens. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do that.”
I stare at him. “Do what?”
“Come in here looking at me like I’m some busted animal you’re trying to decide whether to put down or patch up.”
“I…” Why won’t the words just come?
“I’m already drowning here, Josie.” His voice roughens. “Everybody wants something from me lately. Everybody needs something.”
The words hit so hard I actually take a step back. “That's not what I’m doing.”
“No?” He gestures toward himself. “Leg broken, mood ugly, whole damn family hovering outside the door. Must be a real interesting case study.”
My face warms. “That’s unfair.”
“Probably.”
“At least you’re aware.”
His eyes flash. “Don’t start.”
I stiffen. Control sliding into place because emotion is too dangerous. “I haven’t started anything.”
“You came here.”
“I was invited.”
“By my family.”
“Yes. Because they’ve been kind to me.”
His jaw works. “They’re real good at that.”
“At what?”
“Pulling people in. Making this place look solid.”
I frown. “It's something solid.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know what kindness looks like.”
He looks away. I think I’ve reached him. Then he says, quieter and meaner somehow, “You don’t know anything about this family.”
The room goes very still.
I should respond calmly. I should remember he's in pain. I should remember injured animals bite when cornered, and men are apparently no different.
But I'm tired.
I'm pregnant, scared, and tired of trying to interpret every shift in him like weather.
“You’re right,” I snap. “I don’t. But I know they care about you.”
His laugh is sharp. “Yeah? That’s what they told you at dinner?”
“They didn’t need to.”
He pushes a hand through his hair. “Great. So what is this? You here to tell me to be grateful?”
“No.”
“To tell me I’m lucky?”
“No.”
“To fix me?”
“I'm not trying to fix you, Clay.”
“Then what do you want?”
The question cracks through the room.
I freeze.
There it is. The opening. The moment.
I could tell him. I should tell him.
My hand drifts toward my stomach, barely, almost nothing.
But his face is thunder, and my heart’s racing, fearful of the lightning cracks.
I lose my nerve. The nerve I’ve spent all day building up. It falls out from underneath me completely.
“I… wanted to see if you were okay,” I say.
His expression closes so fast it’s like watching a door slam. “Well, now you’ve seen.”
The ache in my chest becomes sharper. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Pushing me away.”
He stands too fast, grabbing one crutch as pain cuts across his face. “Maybe because I didn’t ask you to come close.”
I flinch.
He sees it.
Regret flashes in his eyes.
“Fine,” I say softly.
“Josie—”
“No. It’s fine.” I sound too calm now. “I misunderstood.”
He grips the crutch, breathing hard. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
He says nothing.
Of course he says nothing.
I nod once, mostly to myself. “This is exactly the problem.”
His brows draw together. “What problem?”
“I never know where I stand with you.” The words come out before I can soften them.
“One minute you act like I matter. The next, I’m an inconvenience.
One minute you’re charming and sweet, and making me believe there’s something decent under all that recklessness, and the next you’re cutting me open because I had the audacity to care whether you’re alright. ”
His face tightens with every word.
Good.
No, not good.
I don’t know.
“I didn’t ask anybody to need me right now.”
The room goes hollow around me.
Because he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know there are already two tiny people who will need him for the rest of their lives.
And that makes the words hurt even worse.
I look at him for a long moment.
He looks back, breathing hard, eyes bright with anger or pain or fear. Maybe all three.
I cannot build a life on maybe.
I cannot raise children around a man who turns tenderness into a weapon the second he feels exposed.
My babies deserve steadiness.
So do I.
I swallow. “You’re right.”
His expression shifts. “Josie—”
“You didn’t ask.” I step back toward the door. “And I won’t make that mistake again.”
He looks like he wants to move, but his leg stops him. Or pride does. Hard to tell.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
A humorless smile touches my mouth. “Do what?”
“Walk away like that.”
I blink, stunned by the unfairness of it. “What would you prefer I do? Stay so you can decide whether or not you want me in the room?”
His mouth shuts.
There's my answer.
I nod again.
Everything inside me feels terrifyingly quiet now.
“I hope your leg heals well,” I say.
It's a ridiculous thing to say. Formal. Polite. Something you’d write in a card for a distant acquaintance.
Maybe that’s why it hurts.
I leave before he can answer.
Downstairs, the women are in the kitchen. All three of them look over the moment they see my face.
I must not be hiding it well.
Rose steps forward. “Josephine?”
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “Thank you for dinner. It was lovely. I need to go.”
Tessa’s face crumples with concern. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” I pick up my purse with hands that are still only because I've ordered them to be. “Nothing. I just need to go.”
Faith’s eyes sharpen. “Did he say something?”
I shake my head.
“I can’t do this,” I say, and I hate that my voice breaks on the last word. “I can’t chase him into liking me. I can’t make him want to want more. I can’t…” I press my lips together hard. “I can’t depend on someone who makes caring feel like a mistake.”
Tessa’s eyes fill because only she knows how deep this really runs. “Josie.”
I step back before comfort can undo me. “No, it’s okay. I know what I need to do. I’ll handle it.”
Then I leave.
Outside, it’s warm, but I feel cold all the way through. I make it to my car before the first tear falls, which I count as a victory because I’m very interested in victories tonight, even small and pathetic ones.
I sit behind the wheel with both hands wrapped around it.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Again.
Again.
The main house shines behind me. Full of people. Full of history. Full of everything Clay keeps running from and everything I've never known how to ask for.
I press one hand to my stomach.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, though I don’t know who I’m trying to convince. “We’re okay.”
My phone buzzes once in my purse.
I don’t check it.
I already know if it’s him, I won’t have the strength.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I start making a new plan.
One where I stop waiting for him to become someone steady enough to lean on.
One where I make decisions assuming he’ll leave eventually.
Because maybe that’s the cruelest part.
I don’t even think he wants to hurt me; I just think he will.
I start the car.
Then I drive away from the McCoy ranch without looking back.