Chapter 19
Good Golly Miss Molly
Cole
We’ve been in Lone Mesa now for six days.
Six days without Layla. Six days without being on my ranch.
Six days of falling asleep without touching Layla’s skin, without feeling those soft curves pressed against me, her breath warm on my neck, her legs tangled with mine like she’s claiming me in her sleep.
The hotel room smells like stale coffee, horse sweat still clinging to my clothes, and that cheap motel air freshener that’s trying and failing to cover up everything.
The AC rattles like it’s dying, blowing cold air that doesn’t quite reach the bed.
Dad’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead from the other queen bed—deep, rhythmic, the same sound I’ve heard my whole life on cattle drives and late-night calving.
Luke’s passed out on the pull-out couch, one arm dangling off the edge, boots still on like he might have to jump up and run at any second.
And me? I’m literally lying here in the dark, sheets twisted around my legs, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles, and the only thing I can think about is her.
She even sent me that tit pic the other night, perfect, full, nipples hard from the cold air in the guest house, skin flushed like she’d been thinking about me too. All I could do was like the damn picture. Couldn’t type a single word.
She thought she needed to tell me it was her, like I wouldn’t remember those perfect tits and who they belonged to.
Like I haven’t replayed every inch of her in my head since the second I drove away.
I can still feel the weight of them in my palms, the way she arched when I sucked one into my mouth, the little gasp she made when I bit just hard enough.
Fuck. My dick twitches against my boxers just thinking about it, but I don’t touch myself.
Not here. Not with Dad snoring ten feet away and Luke drooling on the couch cushion.
The horse shows have gone pretty good—better than good, if I’m honest. Me and Molly made it into the non-pro semi-finals tomorrow.
Damn, she’s such a good horse, steady, smart, listens like she reads my mind.
We’ve placed high enough in the early rounds that the prize money’s looking real.
The ranch needs this. I need this. Bills don’t pay themselves, and with feed prices up and the winter coming, every dollar counts.
But right now, lying here, my bones feel like mush, my brain’s fried from long days in the arena, hauling hay, cleaning stalls, smiling for judges when all I want is to be home.
I haven’t responded to any of her texts this week.
Not one. She sent a couple casual ones—asking how the show’s going, saying the pool’s nice but quieter without me tossing her in—and I just stared at them like an idiot.
And also the pic. Then “it’s Layla.” And I liked it.
That’s it. Like a fucking teenager too scared to reply. I’ve definitely fucked it up with her.
But didn’t I fuck it up when I left? When I didn’t give her my number like she asked?
When I brushed it off like it was nothing?
This is what she wants, right? She doesn’t want this life—the dust, the early mornings, the endless chores, the quiet nights where the only sound is crickets and wind.
She wants the city. Seattle. Book tours.
Lights and noise and people who don’t smell like horse and leather.
I told myself that’s why I kept it short.
Keep it casual. But lying here, chest tight, I know I’m full of shit.
I miss her too. I want to talk to her too.
I want to hear her laugh, to tease her about being a city girl, to pull her into my lap and feel her melt against me.
I told her I’m not a texter. Told her my phone is for emergencies and work.
It’s not a lie—I hate the damn thing most days.
But what am I gonna say? “I miss you too”?
Get all mushy and send love letters through texting?
That’s not me. Never has been. I don’t do flowery words.
I show up. I build things. I fix fences and hold doors and make sure she’s fed and fucked and safe.
That’s how I say it. But she’s not here, and all I’ve got is this glowing screen and a half-hard cock from her picture.
I slam my head back on the pillow, hard enough the bedframe rattles.
Slam my phone down on the side table. 12:03 a.m. I have to be up in six hours to feed Molly, walk her, get her braided and ready for the semi-finals.
If I keep staring at Layla’s text and that photo, replaying the way her tits looked in the soft light of the guest house, there’s no way I’m taking home this prize tomorrow.
The ranch really needs this money. I need this money.
So I roll over, close my eyes tight, and pray for sleep.
But all I see behind my lids is her, curled up in my bed, smiling sleepy when I kiss her forehead, whispering, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
We get to the arena, and the second we step through the gates, it hits me like a wall, all you can smell is manure, sweat, and beer—thick, familiar, the kind of stink that clings to your clothes and your skin and reminds you you’re exactly where you belong.
The speakers are loud enough to bust your eardrums, announcer’s voice booming over the crowd noise, country music thumping between classes, kids screaming, horses nickering, metal gates clanging shut.
Dust kicks up with every step, coating my boots, settling in my throat, making my eyes water just a little.
But there’s families of all sizes everywhere—little kids in tiny cowboy hats running between legs, moms with strollers parked by the rail, dads in faded ball caps hollering at their buddies, grandparents in lawn chairs with coolers.
Laughter cuts through the chaos, someone’s grilling burgers nearby, the sizzle mixing with the dirt and animal smell.
This is my life. What I love. The rhythm of it—the early mornings, the hard work, the quiet satisfaction when a horse does exactly what you asked. What I wish Layla would love. What I hope she will love one day.
I can picture her here, standing at the rail in those cut-off shorts she wears by the pool, hair pulled back, sunglasses on, maybe laughing at Luke being an idiot or asking a million questions about how the scoring works.
She’d probably hate the dust at first, complain about the smell, call it “rustic” in that teasing city-girl way.
But then she’d see Molly cut a cow clean, feel the energy of the crowd when a good run happens, and maybe—just maybe—something would click.
Maybe she’d get why I can’t leave this. Why I don’t want to.
Why I built her that damn pool like it was the only way I knew how to say “stay.”
“I’m putting my bets in,” Luke hollers while walking away, already weaving through the crowd toward the betting window, hat tipped back like he owns the place.
I’m headed over to pick up Molly from the braider, her mane’s getting done up in those tight, perfect rows that’ll stay put through the run.
I’ve got one hour till show time. My stomach’s tight, not full-on nerves, but that low hum of adrenaline that makes everything sharper.
The sun’s beating down hard, sweat already trickling under my hat band, shirt sticking to my back.
“Are you nervous?” Dad asks while spitting his tobacco into a plastic cup, the wet plop barely audible over the noise.
“A little,” I mumble, honestly. “I trust Molly. She’s a good horse and.. I’ve trained her well. I think I’ve got a good feeling.”
“I do too,” Dad says, simple, sure. He claps my shoulder, hard, solid, the same way he’s done since I was a kid showing in junior classes.
“I’m going to go find Luke and me a seat.” Another good-luck tap, then he’s gone, disappearing into the sea of hats and denim.
I watch him go for a second, chest tight in a way that’s got nothing to do with the show.
Dad’s always believed in me, quiet, no bullshit, just there.
Like Layla’s starting to. Or was. Until I left without a word, without giving her a real way to reach me.
Seven days now of radio silence on my end.
She sent that picture—those perfect tits, nipples peaked, skin flushed like she’d been touching herself thinking of me and I just liked it.
Like a coward. Couldn’t even type “fuck, baby, I miss you” or “sexy” or anything real.
What the hell is wrong with me? I want to talk to her. Want to hear her voice, want to tease her about burning in the sun. But I don’t know how to say it without sounding soft. Without admitting I’m already deeper than I planned.
I’ve got fifteen cattle Molly has to herd. She can do this—she’s done way more than this at the ranch, cutting calves from the herd on cold mornings when the frost was thick on the grass. She’s got heart, got speed, got that quiet intelligence that makes her special. We’ve got this.
We draw our number—third out in the non-pro semi-finals—and the wait feels like forever.
The arena’s buzzing, crowd thick in the stands, announcer calling scores from the last run, that steady thump of bass from the speakers mixing with the low murmur of bets and cheers.
Dust hangs in the air like a haze, catching the floodlights, and the smell is pure rodeo.
Fresh manure from the fresh herd, horse sweat, leather, spilled beer from the concessions.
My hands are steady on Molly’s reins, but my gut’s tight—not nerves exactly, more like anticipation.
This is it. Fifteen heads of fresh cattle in the pen, ready to cut.
Two and a half minutes on the clock. One good run, and the prize money—$250,000 for the division win—could change everything for the ranch.
Feed for winter, new fencing, maybe even that tractor Dad’s been eyeing for years.