Blame It On The Cowboy. Delores Fossen

the world needed more beauty, good food and whale protection.

      Number four was “find the best tequila.”

      She’d checked that off only because they’d all started to taste the same.

      Number five was dye her hair pink, and number six was eat whatever she wanted and in any amount she wanted. Reese wasn’t sure exactly how much weight she’d gained, but she had been forced to wear a T-shirt and a skirt with an elastic waist.

      And yet she’d still managed to accomplish number seven.

      Have sex with a hot cowboy.

      “It’s ticked off,” Jimena said, looking at number seven. “You actually went through with it? You didn’t chicken out?”

      Reese nodded. No chickening for her.

      “Any, well, you know, bad memories?” Jimena asked. “And sorry if I’m bringing up bad memories just by asking if it brought up bad memories. Because you know the last thing I want is for you to remember the bad shit.”

      Despite the semirambling apology, Reese knew what Jimena meant and dismissed it. “No bad memories.” It was true. There hadn’t been, but the bad memories always felt just a heartbeat away. Because they were. “It was nice. He was nice.”

      Jimena smiled, and yes, she did it with that mouthful of chewed-up Cheetos. “So, how nice is nice? Tell me all about it.”

      “It was good.” Reese wouldn’t do the tell-all, though. The cowboy was the bright spot in all of this, and the last thing on her bucket list she’d gotten around to doing.

      Jimena stared at her. “That’s it? Good? If you checked it off, it must have been better than just good, or you’d be looking for another one.”

      It was more than just good, but even if it hadn’t been, Reese wouldn’t have looked for another one. No time. After the radiation treatments started tomorrow, she’d be too sick and tired to pick up a cowboy in a hotel bar.

      “He was hot,” Reese settled for saying, and she showed Jimena the picture she had taken on her phone. Definitely not an Instagram-worthy shot, but Reese had wanted something to look at after she left him.

      Jimena squealed. “Yeah, he’s hot. Like on a scale of one to ten—he’s like a six-hundred kind of hot.”

      She made a hmm-ing sound, looked at Reese, and even though Jimena didn’t say it, she was no doubt thinking how the heck had Reese managed to get him into bed. He was a six hundred, and Reese was a six on a really good day.

      Last night hadn’t been a really good day.

      Jimena took the phone, studied the picture. “You know, he looks kinda familiar. Is he an actor or somebody famous?”

      Reese had another look for herself. He didn’t look familiar to her, but he was special. He’d given her the best sex of her life. Right in the nick of time, too, since he would be her last lover.

      “Are you going to try to see him again?” Jimena asked.

      “No. I don’t even know his name. Besides, this morning I found an engagement ring box in his pocket so I think last night for him must have been a sow-your-wild-oats kind of thing.”

      “Ewww.” She jabbed the button to close the photo. “Then he’s a hot asshole cowboy.”

      Yes, he was, if that’s what had happened. “But it’s possible his girlfriend turned him down. I figure there’s a reason he was drinking all that Scotch, and he seemed almost as miserable as I was.”

      At least, that’s how Reese was choosing to see it.

      “And the watch?” Jimena pressed.

      “The cowboy has it.”

      However, if Reese had seen that ring the night before, she wouldn’t have landed in bed with him or given him the watch. Which meant, of course, that she’d given her most prized possession to a potential hot a-hole, but since this was her fantasy, she preferred to believe that he would treasure it as a reminder of their one incredible night together.

      “Good.” Jimena made a shivery, ick sound. And Reese knew why. Jimena had this aversion to antiques or rather what she called “old shit previously owned by dead people.” That’s the reason Reese hadn’t given the watch to her one and only friend.

      “So, what’s left?” Jimena said, looking at the bucket list again.

      “Nothing.”

      And no, Reese wasn’t counting throwing away the popcorn glue. Since she’d traveled all over the world, there weren’t any places left that she really wanted to see. Besides, she’d learned about four moves ago somewhere around Tulsa that, like tequila, places were really all just the same.

      So, there it was—everything important ticked off her bucket list.

      For the past week there’d been times when it felt as if a meaty fist had clamped on to her heart to give it a squeeze. That fist was doing a lot of squeezing now.

      “I started my own bucket list of sorts,” Jimena said. “I’ve decided to sleep my way through the alphabet so last night I had sex with that busboy named Aaron.”

      Most people put travel and such on their bucket lists, but this was so Jimena. She didn’t have any filters when it came to sex and saw it more as a recreational sport. Unlike Reese. Sex for her was more like forbidden fruit. It meant tearing down barriers, letting someone into her life, and while it had been an amazing night with the cowboy, part of that amazement was that he hadn’t known who she really was.

      Not exactly a pleasant reminder.

      Reese stood to excuse herself so she could go lie down on the air mattress. Jimena wouldn’t even question it, thank God, but before Reese could say anything, she heard the movement in the still-open doorway.

      “All the stuff is gone,” Reese said, figuring this was just another neighbor responding to her “free stuff” sign that she had taped on the side of the apartment complex’s mailboxes.

      But it wasn’t a neighbor.

      It was Dr. Gutzman.

      Since Reese had never seen the stocky gray-haired man outside his office and never dressed in anything but a white coat, it took her a moment to realize who he was. Another moment for her to think the worst.

      “Did you come to tell me there’ll be no radiation, after all?” Reese managed to ask.

      He opened his mouth, closed it. Then nodded. “You won’t be having radiation,” he confirmed.

      As much as Reese was dreading the treatments—and she was indeed dreading them—they’d been the tiny sliver of hope. Her 2 percent chance of survival. Of course, she hadn’t truly embraced that sliver, but now Dr. Gutzman had just taken it away.

      “I’d rather not die in a hospital,” Reese volunteered.

      Jimena stood and took hold of her hand. Reese could feel the bits of sticky Cheetos on her friend’s fingers.

      The doctor nodded, came in and eased the door shut. He glanced around the nearly empty room and frowned. Perhaps because of the junk-food stash.

      “You’re not going to die in a hospital,” he said. “At least, not in the next week or so from an inoperable brain tumor.”

      Reese was still on the page of thinking the worst. “Does that mean I’m going to die even sooner?”

      He huffed, glanced around as if this were the last place he wanted to be. “There was a glitch with the new electronic records system. Your images got mixed up with another patient. When I realized the mistake, I had a look at yours, and other than an enlarged left sinus cavity, you’re fine.”

      Reese couldn’t speak. She just stared at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The doctor didn’t look like a prankster, but