GRACE
The lights are brighter than I expected. The cameras loom, and the set smells like fresh-cut wood and cinnamon coffee from the lobby café. There’s a faint hum from the audience, polite chatter, low laughter, and beneath it, I can feel them.
My cowboys.
All eleven of them are packed into the front two rows like they’re gearing up for a rodeo instead of a daytime talk show; boots tapping, shirts pressed, eyes fixed on me like I’m the main attraction and the only thing worth watching in the world.
And on their laps? Our kids. All eight of them. The six I fell in love with when I met them, and the two who grew under my ribs and changed everything. Brody’s bouncing our son gently. Conway’s holding our daughter tucked against his chest. Dylan has a kid curled on each side, while Corbin wipes what might be chocolate off Hannah’s chin. The others nestle between their uncles, their legs hanging over the edge of chairs that are too large for their little bodies. They’re my chaos, my comfort, and my home. My pride and joy.
The host, a polished woman in wide-legged jeans, a blue plaid shirt and a turquoise bolo tie, grins toward the camera.
“Welcome back, y’all. If you’ve spent any time on BookTok this year, you already know our next guest. She’s the author behind the breakout cowboy romance, The Cowboy Pact, which spent sixteen weeks at number one and sparked more marriage proposals than we can confirm. Please help me welcome… Grace Delaney.”
The audience claps. A few enthusiastic whoops make me smile. One of the twins lets out a yell that could crack glass, and I watch Levi lean over, most likely to whisper, “Inside voice, bud.”
I step onto the rug in my favorite pink cowboy boots and a soft floral dress that floats around my legs. I’m wearing the rose quartz necklace Lennon gave me on my birthday, and my wedding ring feels heavier than usual. Not burdensome but reassuring.
The host reaches for my hand as I sit beside her on the little leather couch.
“Grace, you’ve got quite the fan club with you today.”
I look toward the audience and laugh. “Yeah, I brought a few people with me.”
“Eleven cowboys,” she says, grinning.
I lift a brow. “My own personal, rugged cheer team!”
The audience laughs again, and I breathe easier. It’s surreal being here. For years, I believed that love was conditional at best and unreliable at worst. I wanted to write stories with love at their heart, but how could I when I hadn’t experienced it and didn’t believe in it?
Now I’m here to talk about the love that I’ve poured onto the pages of my third novel, fueled by eleven men, eight kids, and a faithful dog who all prove, time and time again, that love is everything.
The host leans in. “So let’s talk about The Cowboy Pact. You went to Cooper Hill to write a magazine piece, and ended up writing your own love story instead?”
I glance at the men and the family we’ve built and smile so wide it hurts.
“Exactly. I thought I was there to tell someone else’s story. They were looking for a woman. Their woman. And it was my job to tell the world about their family and what they were hoping to find. Turned out, I was there to write my own love story.”
The host tilts her head. “So… you went from city reporter to ranch wife. That’s a plot twist worthy of a sequel. What’s life like now?”
I laugh softly. “It’s a little louder. A lot messier. And so much more beautiful.”
“Let’s back up a bit,” she says, tapping her cards. “I think we’re all dying to know about the wedding.”
The crowd murmurs eagerly. My eyes flick again to the front row. Jaxon winks. Lennon pushes up the front of his hat, nodding like he’s remembering. I shake my head, smiling.
“Well,” I begin, “We actually had three!”
“Three?”
The audience claps.
“Three,” I admit, grinning. “One in town, so everyone who had spent months gossiping and speculating could see that what we have is real. It was a way to bring the community into our lives. None of us was content to hide away.”
The host nods, so I continue.
“The second one was under the stars, with the kids and a bonfire and a whole lot of whiskey. When I first arrived at Cooper Hill, my cowboys threw me the best birthday party ever, and we wanted to recreate family fun for the children.”
“And the third?”
“That one was just for us in the barn where our love story started.”
The audience awws, and I feel my cheeks heat remembering how Levi carried me across the yard and showed me how a real man gives pleasure to his woman. And the afternoon where Harrison, Lennon, McCartney, and Dylan showed me what a roll in the hay with four rugged cowboys could feel like.
“There was a lot of cake,” I add, trying to get my mind off sex, which is always a challenge when my eleven cowboys are nearby.
The host laughs. “I love that. And now? What does your average day look like on Cooper Hill Ranch?”
“Well,” I say, “the morning starts with coffee, always. And about ten rounds of ‘Where’s my other boot?’ Then the kids are homeschooled, the livestock are fed, and fence lines are checked. The garden’s bigger now, and that’s my second favorite place. And then there’s my writing.”
“How easy is that to fit in?”
“I manage to squeeze in some words every afternoon,” I say, nodding. “I disappear into my writing nook, which is exactly what it sounds like—a little reclaimed woodshed behind the barn with a crooked window and a hand-painted sign that says Grace’s Writing Nook – Bestseller in Progress. McCartney made it crooked on purpose, because it gives the place’ character.’”
“I mean,” she says, gesturing to the crowd, “this whole thing is made of character.”
I glance at my cowboys again. They’re all watching me with the look I’ve come to recognize that’s one part pride, one part awe, and a thousand parts love.
“It really does,” I say, soft now. “It’s full of heart, and hard work, and healing. And somehow, I get to call it mine.”
The host smiles warmly. “That might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“My cowboys are the most romantic men in the world.”
“I heard they bought you the boots.”
I lift my legs and click the heels of my new boots together. “Yeah. They wanted me to see that I belong in their world. These are my third pair.”
“Tell me about your support network. Was it strange to leave your life behind?”
“It was,” I admit. “I always thought I was a city girl. Turns out that I love wide-open spaces and perfect sunsets. And it’s been easy to make friends.”
“A little birdy told me your lifestyle isn’t that unusual.”
I smile, thinking about Sunday afternoon and how perfect it was to spend time with Melanie, Danna, and their families. Between us, there were twenty-six men. We didn’t have to lift a finger. Life is good.
“Yeah, there’s a poly community in our local area, but I’m also a member of the Reverse Harem Ladies club.”
The host laughs. “What’s that?”
“Well, it started with Natalie and her friend Connie, who were the poly-pioneers. Natalie has three men, and Connie has four. Melanie was next with five. Sandy has six, Luna seven—”
“Luna was on the show three weeks ago, promoting her new album.”
“I saw that,” I say. “Kyla has eight, Dawn nine. My friend Allie has ten.”
“So, you’re the one who hit the man-jackpot?”
“You could say that! I guess they all feel like they’re living their own romantic dream, and it’s great to have a network of other families like ours.”
“Do any of you ever have to take the trash out?” the host asks.
I shake my head and cup my mouth. “I don’t even know where the trash goes.”
“Ladies and gentlemen… Grace really is living every woman’s dream!”
The host leans forward now, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a secret with the whole room. “Let’s talk more about the book. The Cowboys Pact. It’s topping charts, making hearts melt, and it’s obviously inspired by… real events.”
There’s laughter from the audience—a few hoots from the front row. The book received five hot chili stars for steamy content, but I’m not about to confess which parts are based on my own experience and which come from research and imagination.
I smile, a little shy. “I wrote it because I wanted to tell a story that felt like the kind of love I was always told was impossible. Something messy, big, and complicated.”
The host lifts a printed copy of the book. On the cover: a pair of worn boots, a lasso, and a typewriter set against a wide-open sky. “You wrote about the eleven men who taught you what love really looks like. Was anything off-limits?”
I glance at Dylan, who raises an eyebrow. “Plenty,” I say, smirking. “The really good stuff stays in our hayloft where it belongs.”
The audience laughs.
“But honestly,” I go on, more serious now, “the book was more than a love story. It was healing for me, and perhaps it will be for others as well. It’s about pulling together a life from scraps. Taking all the hard and all the hurt and building something honest. Something tender.”
The host touches her heart. “That comes through. Especially in the epilogue.”
“I wrote that the day I found out I was pregnant,” I admit. “With our son.”
Collective awws from the audience again. I reach out instinctively toward the front row, where little George is curled in Brody’s arms, his hands clenching around the shirt fabric. Star, who’s a year older, holds her arms out to me, and I wave as Conway bends to kiss her brown curls.
The host leans in again, lowering her voice with a smile. “Last question, Grace. If you could go back and talk to the version of you that stepped off the plane into cowboy country with nothing but a suitcase and a deadline, what would you say to her?”
The room hushes. I glance down at the copy of my book in her hands, then to the front row where my family sits, watching me proudly.
“I’d tell her to stop bracing for impact. To stop assuming she has to prove her worth to be loved.” I swallow, eyes locking on McCartney, who’s smiling softly. “I’d tell her love doesn’t always look like it does in the fairytales, but if it feels like peace and laughter and a home you never want to leave… It’s worth working for. I’d tell her, in the end, that love is all we need.”
I run my hand over the tattoo I got to match McCartney’s, feeling emotion swell.
The audience erupts in applause. And that’s when I feel it—a shift. A quiet buzz crosses the crowd as movement stirs in the front row.
Brody rises first. Then one by one, my cowboys stand and walk toward me. Eleven tall, broad, sexy, boot and hat-wearing men, every one of them with sunrises in their souls, steel in their bodies, and unending love in their hearts.
The audience rises, applauding loudly as my eleven men gather close around me. Star launches herself into my arms, and I kiss her soft, rounded cheek, breathing in the scent of Conway’s cologne that lingers in her hair.
This is what it looks like when a woman is loved out loud.
This is the story I was always meant to write.
(C) STEPHANIE BROTHER 2025
