Page 2 of Claimed By the Cowboys

“Nope.” She loops the strap over her shoulder and starts steering me toward the staff exit. “We are going to the Dusty Boot. One drink. A little music. Maybe, if the Lord is feeling generous, a man who knows how to use his hands for something besides fixing a fence.”

I groan, but I let her move me, pulling off my scrub top as we make our way down the hallway. “The last time I went on a date, I spent half of it texting my mama and the other half explaining why I couldn’t stay out past nine. He called me ma’am when he dropped me off.”

Annie throws her head back and cackles as we step into the cool evening air. The parking lot shimmers under a pale wash of moonlight, and the breeze touches my skin like a welcome balm.

“That is exactly why we’re fixing this tonight,” she says. “You’re thirty-one, gorgeous, and those thighs deserve appreciation from somebody who is not related to you.”

“Annie.”

“I said what I said.” She unlocks her truck with a chirp. Then, more quietly, “Jasmine would haunt you in church shoes if she saw you living like this.”

My smile fades.

Even after two years, my sister’s name can still slide between my ribs and find the softest place. I rub the center of my chest out of habit, right over the ache that never fully leaves.

“Mama already thinks I’m headed down the wrong road if I miss too many Sundays,” I say. “Every time I sit in that pew, she’s scanning the congregation for my future husband. A respectable one, of course.”

Annie opens the passenger door and gives me a look. “Your mama is scared because she lost one daughter. That does not mean she gets to bury the other one alive.”

I flinch as her words land hard enough to hurt.

She softens again. “Get in, Brandy.”

So, I do.

The drive to the Dusty Boot is short, loud, and entirely Annie. She blasts old-school country, slaps the steering wheel on every chorus, and gives a running critique of every single eligible man in Rockwell Ridge. According to her, half are emotionally unavailable, a quarter are allergic to soap, and the rest have been ruined by their mothers.

By the time we pull into the gravel lot, I’m laughing despite myself.

The Dusty Boot glows at the edge of town, its red neon sign buzzing above the door, throwing a pinkish halo over pickup trucks, motorcycles, and the occasional SUV. Music pulses through the walls, low with the kind of bass that vibrates in your chest. When Annie opens her door, the night fills with the scent of beer, fried onions, dust, and an air of recklessness that’s enough to make my pulse shift.

Inside, the bar is warm, crowded, and comfortably rowdy. Boots scuff across the worn plank floor. A couple spins near the jukebox, laughing when they nearly knock into a table. Strings of amber lights loop over the bar, softening the place's rough edges. Framed rodeo posters and old license plates cover the walls, and a Longhorn skull hangs above the whiskey shelves like it’s judging everyone for living.

Annie pushes through the crowd like she owns the building and finds two stools at the bar.

“Two margaritas,” she tells the bartender. “Extra salt. Heavy on the liquor.”

We laugh about work, about Mr. Jenkins flirting with every woman over sixty-five, about Elijah’s latest dinosaur phase, and about Naomi deciding she wants to be a pastor because they only have to work on Sundays.

That one makes me laugh until my eyes sting. For twenty blessed minutes, I let myself breathe.

Then Annie’s phone rings.

She looks at the screen and curses under her breath. “It’s my aunt.”

I already know from her face. “Trey?”

“Drunk and doing something stupid, apparently. That boy is allergic to sense.” She slides off her stool, frustration pinching her mouth. Then she catches my hand. “Stay.”

“Annie—”

“Please.” Her eyes soften. “Have one drink without me. Listen to a song. Let somebody look at you like you’re a woman and not a full-time emergency contact.”

I glance toward the door.

Responsibility tugs at me. The kids will be asleep soon. Mama has probably already texted twice and left a voicemail that starts with “I’m not trying to bother you, baby” and ends with a full list of concerns.

Annie squeezes my hand. “One terrible, wonderful decision,” she says, kissing my cheek. “You deserve to feel good, Brandy. Even if it’s only for tonight.”