19. Clay
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Clay
The rodeo grounds glow before we even pull in.
String lights, loud music, and trucks lined up in the dirt. Buckhorn gathered under one roof as if the town has a pulse and every damn person here came to listen to it.
Once, I would’ve loved this.
The noise, the girls, and the endless beer. The easy attention. The way people said my name when I walked in after a good ride.
Tonight, every step on those crutches might as well be an announcement. Look who fell. Look who’s stuck. Look who came crawling home.
Nash walks beside me, close enough to help but smart enough not to touch. Dallas falls in behind, doing the same damn thing. They think I don’t notice.
“Quit babysitting me,” I mutter.
“Quit looking like you’re about to bite someone,” Dallas says.
“I might.”
“Try Hank Lawson first,” Nash says. “Town’ll thank you.”
That gets a rough laugh out of me.
We enter the barn, and heads turn.
Mom spots us from near Clara Jenkins and straightens. Boone lifts a hand from near the dance floor. Rose smiles, Faith waves, Lila pretends not to get excited, and Wyatt yells my name loud enough to stop three conversations. “Uncle Clay!”
He comes barreling toward me.
Boone catches him by the back of his shirt before he can slam into my bad leg. “Careful.”
Wyatt looks personally offended by the caution.
I lean down as much as I can. “You attacking injured men now?”
He grins. “Yep.”
“Good. Start young.”
Rose gives me a look. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m his uncle. That’s my job.”
For a few minutes, I let the family noise close around me.
Ellie tells me about some dance she knows.
Wyatt demonstrates it badly. Faith complains about chili.
Dallas fixes Lila’s ribbon with the patience of a saint.
Nash keeps glancing at Tessa and Hailey as if they might vanish if he blinks too long.
I shift my weight, pain biting up my leg. Sweat gathers under my shirt from the effort of standing this way doesn’t bother me.
“You alright?” Mom asks quietly.
I look down. She’s beside me now, sharp eyes missing nothing. “Fine.”
Her mouth tightens.
“I am,” I add.
“Clay.”
That’s all she says. She knows something is sitting between us and she’s waiting for me to hand it over.
I don’t.
Can’t.
So I glance toward the refreshment table. “Think Clara will force pie on me?”
“She’s already saved you a slice.”
“Of course she has.”
I start that way before Mom can say more.
Crutch. Step. Crutch. Step. I hate the rhythm. I hate needing rhythm at all.
Then I see her.
And the whole damn barn tilts.
Josie stands near one of the posts wrapped in lights, Penny Tucker beside her, both of them half turned toward the dance floor. But I don’t see Penny. I barely see anyone else.
Josie.
Her hair is down.
That’s the first punch. Dark chestnut waves brushing her shoulders instead of that practical bun she wears as armor. Then the dress. Green, soft, tied at the waist, small flowers scattered over it. Nothing flashy. Nothing trying too hard.
Still knocks the breath clean out of me.
Her eyes find mine.
Everything quiets. The noise in my head cuts off.
Nash says something beside me, but I don’t hear it.
I move before I decide to.
Crutch. Step. Crutch. Step.
Every step is slow and awkward and annoying as hell.
Josie watches me come closer, her expression careful, deciding whether to run or stay.
She stays.
Penny looks between us, then suddenly finds something fascinating across the barn. “I’m going to… head over there.”
Josie gives her a sharp look.
Penny grins and vanishes.
I stop in front of Josie, leaning heavier on the crutches than I want to. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
My gaze drops once before I can stop it. “You look…”
Her chin lifts slightly. Defensive already. “Unlike myself?”
“No.” I shake my head. “You look like trouble.”
The tension in her shoulders loosens just slightly.
Like she wasn’t expecting me to say something that made her smile instead of retreat.
The corner of her mouth moves. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’m very sensible.”
“Yeah,” I say, letting my eyes hold hers. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”
Color touches her cheeks, faint but there.
There she is.
The version of her that slips past my defenses before I can stop it.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she says.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Changed your mind?”
I smirk. “Got bullied.”
“By whom?”
“My entire bloodline.”
Her mouth curves more fully this time. “That sounds efficient.”
“McCoys don’t do much halfway.”
“No. I’ve noticed.” Something in the way she says it makes my chest pull tight. I glance past her, toward my family scattered through the barn. “They’re a lot.”
“They are.”
“Too much?”
Her gaze follows mine. Her expression changes. Softens, hurts almost. Then she tucks it away so fast I might’ve imagined it.
“No,” she says. “Just unfamiliar.”
I look back at her. “You don’t have a big family?”
She takes another sip of lemonade before answering, and I realize she’s stalling.
That tells me more than the answer probably will.
“Not like this.”
“Like what?”
“Loud. Present. Everywhere.”
I huff. “You make us sound like a rash.”
“A well-meaning rash.”
A real laugh breaks out, rough from disuse, and it feels strange in my chest. Better than it should.
Josie looks pleased for half a second, then tries to hide it.
“You laughing at my family now, Doc?”
“I’m making a medical comparison.”
I act horrified. “You’re diagnosing us?”
“Collectively? Yes.”
“And?”
“Severe boundary issues. Chronic meddling. Likely hereditary.”
I lean closer, grinning despite myself. “Any treatment?”
“Distance.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
The band shifts into something faster. Boots hit the floor in time, couples spinning, laughter rising. A part of me remembers how it feels to move without thinking. To grab a girl by the hand and pull her into the rhythm. To be easy in my body.
My bad leg throbs. It heard the thought and wanted to punish me.
Josie notices. “You should sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“You always bossy with your patients?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not one of your patients.”
“No,” she says, eyes dropping briefly to my cast. “You’re worse. At least animals admit when they’re hurt.”
I should snap back. Instead, I breathe out a laugh. “You calling me stubborn?”
“I’m calling you transparent.”
I glance toward the hay bales along the edge. “Fine. I’ll sit if you sit.”
She wants to argue, but she walks with me anyway. Slow enough that I don’t have to rush. Not so slow that it might as well be pity.
I notice.
I hate that I notice.
We sit on a hay bale under a stretch of string lights.
Neither of us says anything.
The music fills the space. Buckhorn moves around us, bright and busy. My family is somewhere behind me, probably watching. I don’t turn to check.
Josie holds her lemonade with both hands. “Does it hurt?”
“My pride? Constantly.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Your leg.”
“That too.”
“Are you taking the medication properly?”
I shoot her a look. “You always this romantic?”
Her eyes widen a fraction, then narrow. “That wasn’t romantic.”
“Felt intimate.”
“Medical questions aren't intimate.”
“They are when you ask them.”
She looks away, but not before I catch another flush. A tiny, stupid burst of victory hits me anyway.
Apparently, I needed that more than I realized.
“I’m taking them,” I say.
“Properly?”
“Mostly.”
“Clay.”
There it is again. My name in her mouth, precise and irritated and somehow enough to drag me back into my own skin.
“I’m not trying to make it worse,” I admit.
Her expression settles. “But?”
“But I hate sitting still.”
“I know.”
I offer her a one-shouldered shrug. “You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
That should bother me. It doesn’t.
I grin, instantly shifting the mood. “Dance with me.”
Her eyes drop to my cast. Then back up. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“You can barely walk.”
“Barely is still technically.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“You scared?”
Her brows rise. “Of you?”
“Of dancing badly.”
“I don’t dance badly.”
“Prove it.”
She studies me, and I can see the war happen. Sense versus impulse. Control versus whatever the hell pulls us together every time we’re within ten feet.
Then she sets her lemonade down. “One minute.”
I smile. “That was easy.”
“It was pity.”
“Liar.”
Getting upright is a production I’d prefer to murder. Josie doesn’t help unless she has to, which means I only hate it half as much. I hook one crutch under my arm and offer her my other hand.
My chest does a stupid skip as she takes it.
We make it about three steps onto the edge of the dance floor before I realize this is, in fact, a terrible idea.
The song is slower now, thank goodness, but even swaying is complicated when one leg is decorative.
Josie puts one hand lightly on my shoulder. “This is ridiculous.”
“Most good things are.”
“You’re leaning on me.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“You strong enough to handle it, Doc?”
Her eyes sharpen. “Don’t test me.”
A laugh pulls out of me, and I shift wrong. Pain flashes hot up my leg.
She catches it instantly. Her hand tightens on my shoulder. “Stop.”
“I’m fine.”
“Clay.”
“I said—”
“You’re allowed to stop before you make it worse.”
The words land harder than they should. Because no one says that to me. Not in that way.
I breathe through my teeth, then nod once.
We don’t leave the floor. We just stop trying to dance properly.
I keep one crutch grounded while she leaves her hand on my shoulder, our other hands still linked between us. We sway in a slow, uneven circle, never quite finding the rhythm. It's awkward and more than a little embarrassing, but neither of us seems willing to let go.
Josie glances down. “We’re very bad at this.”
“We’re excellent.”
“We are moving approximately two inches.”
“Efficiency.”
She chuckles. “You nearly stepped on my foot.”
“Romance.”
“That’s not what romance is.”
“You sure?”
Her mouth twitches. “Fairly.”
I lean a little closer. “Then teach me.”
Her breath catches.
There.
The whole barn drops back. Fiddle, laughter, lights, family, pain. All of it blurs at the edges.
Just her.
Those brown eyes. That careful mouth. That fear she thinks she hides. That strength she carries around like armor. Like if she ever sets it down for too long, something important inside her might collapse.
I don’t know what I’m doing with her.
That should scare me.
It does.
But for once, I don’t want to run from the feeling.
The song ends, and applause breaks around us.
Josie steps back first, cheeks flushed. “That was definitely more than one minute.”
“Best minute of your life.”
“Medically unlikely.”
“But emotionally?”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. Really smiling.
We make our way back to the edge. Penny appears long enough to give Josie a look so smug I consider reporting her to someone. Josie ignores it with impressive discipline.
“I should go soon,” Josie says after a while.
The words drag through me. “Already?”
“I said one hour.”
“How long’s it been?”
“Longer.”
“Then you’re already in violation. Might as well stay.”
“I have work tomorrow.”
“So do half these people.”
“I also have a life that requires sleep.”
“Sounds fake.”
She laughs softly, then looks toward the open barn doors. The night beyond is dark and warm, the air dusted with music and summer.
“I’ll walk you home,” I say.
Her eyes flick to my leg. “You shouldn’t.”
“I can walk.”
“Clay.”
“I’m not asking.”
“That’s unfortunate because I’m not accepting.”
“It isn’t like you live far.”
She stares at me, deciding whether arguing is worth the energy. I can tell the second she gives up. “Fine,” she says. “But slowly.”
I tip my hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Saying goodbye to my family takes longer than it should because Mom notices everything, Boone smirks because he knows something, Faith looks delighted, Rose looks soft, and Nash whispers, “Don’t fall over trying to be charming.”
I tell him to shut up.
Then I walk Josie home.
Slowly.
The town is quieter away from the rodeo grounds. Music trails behind us, fading with each awkward step. Streetlights shine over the sidewalk. It smells of dust and cut grass and the faint sweetness of pie clinging to her somehow.
Josie walks beside me, matching my pace without making it obvious.
“You’re pretending you’re not slowing down for me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
I cock a brow. “You are.”
“I’m enjoying the scenery.”
“It’s a road.”
“A very scenic road.”
I huff. “You’re bad at lying.”
“I’m excellent at lying.”
“No. You’re excellent at withholding. Different skill.”
She looks over, and respect flashes in her eyes. “That’s annoyingly observant.”
“I have my moments.”
“I’ll document this one.”
We walk another few steps. Then she says, “You seemed lighter tonight.”
I glance at her. “Did I?”
“For a while.”
“That your doing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Her gaze drops. “You were laughing.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“I liked it.”
I stop near the little path leading to her place. She stops too.
Neither of us moves.
The porch light beams behind her, catching in her hair, warming the freckles across her nose. She looks tired suddenly. Beautiful and tired and scared in a way that makes a protectiveness rise hard and fast in my chest.
I don’t know what to do with that either.
“Josie,” I say.
Her eyes lift.
I step closer, slower than I want, because crutches ruin every dramatic impulse a man has. Still, she doesn’t move away.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” I say.
Her lips part slightly.
I should make it a joke. I should make it easy. That’s what I’m good at.
I don’t.
“More than I should,” I add.
Her throat works. “Clay…”
“I know.” My voice drops. “Bad idea.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say complicated.”
“That’s worse.”
“It’s more accurate.”
I look at her mouth. Then back at her eyes. “Tell me not to kiss you.”
She goes still.
The night holds its breath.
She should say it. She’s sensible. Practical. Smart enough to know I’m a mess with a broken leg and too much pride and not one clue what happens next.
But she doesn’t.
That’s all it takes.
I lean in.
As our lips collide, her hand lifts to my chest, fingers curling in my shirt, and the careful part burns away. She kisses me as if she’s been fighting herself all night and finally lost. I kiss her because I’ve been lost for weeks and just found the only solid ground in Buckhorn.