'The Cowboy’s Girl'
Fuck London. Here’s to new beginnings! Seeking a fresh start, Shiko runs from London to a Wyoming ranch, where she falls head over heels for a very hot and very rugged cowboy – only to discover he’s engaged to be married?!
Drama doesn’t follow Shiko, Shiko is the drama.
CHAPTER ONE
“Consider this: I either go to Wyoming or lose my fucking mind,” I spit out at the Terminal 5 check-in desk.
“Language, Shiko!” Mum snaps.
The lady behind the counter keeps her head down, rereading my passport details, refusing to get involved.
Mum didn’t want me to go and I really shouldn’t care what she thinks, I’m 27 for goodness sake! I have an impressive banking career, I have my own money, own flat, own car… but still, she’s like this annoying voice in the back of my head, always questioning everything, always worrying. It’s half to do with being Kenyan, half to do with being her eldest daughter I think.
“You’re doing this to spite me,” she says rolling my hand luggage away.
“Not everything’s about you!” I groan, snatching my boarding pass from the check-in lady. I hurry after her, weaving through the madness of Heathrow, bumping shoulders with strangers.
She doesn’t let up. “You’re running away. I told you, ignore the headlines, what’s done is done. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”
My stomach knots. I glance around, paranoia creeping in. I swear everyone is watching me– listening, eavesdropping. They know, don't they?! They've read the articles about me! I can feel their eyes on me, judging.
“I’m not running away,” I mutter, but my voice cracks, betraying me. I am running away. I’m tired of the press reminding me about the worst day of my life!
Mum comes to an abrupt stop and I crash into her, the documents in my hands go flying.
“Now look!” I huff, dropping to my knees. When I’m back up, she’s frowning, arms crossed.
“If you insist on putting yourself in harm's way, so be it. But you need to be careful who you make friends with-- where you go out!”
She’s referring to the racists. Mum’s bombarded me all week with news reports, viral fights in supermarket car parks, and even dodgy WhatsApp University stats claiming that Black people working on ranches have a shorter life expectancy– like what?!
“Can you stop?!” I snap, stuffing my paperwork into my bag. “Do you know how many Black people safely live there? Spoiler alert: lots!”
“Still, nice people can be horrible and you don’t always see that.”
“It’s only six weeks!” I shoot back. Heads swivel and the heat of embarrassment rises in my cheeks. It’s only now that I clock we’re standing in everyone’s way, in the middle of the security entrance, slowing down the flow of people rushing to get in line. I pull her aside.
“Just promise me one thing?”
I try my hardest not to roll my eyes, “what?”
“Whatever you do… you have fun,” she sighs, her shoulders dropping.
Her words disarm me. I quickly throw my arms around her, squeezing tight. Even though Mum drives me clinically insane sometimes, she's the best thing about London.
“I’ll miss you,” I say pulling back, taking my hand luggage from her.
“Be safe”
We don’t cry. We’re not a crying family, so instead I wave a final goodbye and join the security line.
It’s only when I settle into my first-class cubicle– shoes off, seat reclined, the hum of the moving plane filling my ears– that the anxiety comes flooding in.
Wyoming?!
Like cattle and horse poop, Wyoming??
I yank my seatbelt off and leap out of my seat.
Mum’s right, I can’t do this! I’m a soft-life babe. I won’t survive the Mosquitoes and mud!
I go to shout at the flight attendants, 'stop the damn plane!' but we jerk forward and I’m thrown back into my seat as London shrinks to ant-size below us. Guess there’s no turning back now…
* * *
I lean my head against the Greyhound window. The rugged mountains and endless fields feel worlds away from stuffy, concrete London. But even after a thirteen-hour flight and four hours on the road, I feel like I’m going to blink and find myself sipping overpriced coffee in some sterile café, watching someone get their phone jacked.
The bus turns off the highway and shudders to a stop at a small gas station. I bolt out to stretch my legs, the fresh breeze hitting me like a wave– crisp and sharp. If it had a flavour, it’d taste like drinking ice-cold water after running a marathon in the sweltering heat.
The driver helps a small Chinese group pull their luggage from the boot. They’re getting off here but I’m the last stop, which according to my watch is like another hour away.
I’m so fixed on the view I don’t notice one of the men come up to me with a nervous smile, not until he’s inches away.
“Um… we, uh, grab your bags?”
I shake my head, “it’s okay. I’m getting off at the next stop.”
He nods slowly, half-understanding, before shuffling back to his group.
I return to the view, savouring the fresh air but he’s back seconds later, rolling my suitcase in front of him, beaming.
“Oh, I said no.”
“You… uh… say is okay.”
“Yes, I said ‘okay,’ but I meant no.”
“Yes!”
“No!”
I reach for the handle, ready to take it back myself, but he pulls it back slightly, determined to understand me.
“I… get off… next stop,” I gesture.
“Ahhh. Next! Yes!”
“Yes!” I sigh.
I watch him return my suitcase before quickly rejoining his group, loading their bags into a tourist minivan parked next to the bus. Some wives snap photos of everything, mostly aimed at me, which feels… never mind.
A different Chinese man drops my suitcase back beside me. “Here," he huffs.
I gesture slowly, “No… I… no… bag!”
“I’m not deaf,” he snaps, narrowing his eyes.
It’s only then I notice his Greyhound uniform.
“Wait, no! I didn’t mean–”
“Take your bags and go.”
“But I still have one more stop.”
“Darlin’ look around. This is the last stop!”
I turn to scan the area, confused.
“This can't…”
I follow the road running into a dusty town with crumbling buildings: the motel's neon sign flickers like it’s on life support, the grocery store has cracked, grimy windows and the diner has a sun-faded "OPEN" sign, swinging on rusted hinges. The town feels abandoned, like it gave up on itself decades ago.
“I’m supposed to be here…” I mutter, scrolling through the photos I saved on my phone– bright Google images of lush rivers and sprawling woodlands– exactly the kind of place one would abandon London for.
I glance at the driver, but he’s gone. The Greyhound doors hiss shut and it swerves back on the road.
“Hey! Wait!”
The bus kicks back a cloud of dust.
“Where the hell am I?!” I cough, swatting the air.
As it clears, a weathered sign across the road comes into view: WELCOME TO KAYCE!
The black letters have faded and someone's crossed out 'KAYCE' in red spray paint, correcting it to ‘NOWHERE.’ They topped it off with a giant penis in the corner. Classy.
“Welcome to Nowhere. Population… well, me.”
My phone PINGS in my hand: 5% Battery Left.
“No, no, no!”
I try to order an Uber but the spinning "loading" wheel taunts. No service.
“Seriously?!”
I wave my phone around, desperate to summon the Wi-Fi gods. Add the heat, the exhaustion, the isolation… I finally snap.
With a guttural scream, I kick my suitcase, sending it skidding through the dust, “fucking– fuck– fuck!”
“You kiss your mama with that mouth?”
I jump back and notice a Native woman strolling out of the gas station, a red dragon tattoo winding down her arm.
“Hey, no judgement. This place can be intense if you're not used to it,” she says breaking open a pack of Twizzlers with her teeth.
I retrieve my suitcase, still a little frazzled and fish for a crumpled piece of paper in my purse, “I'm trying to get to Devil's Creek. Know it?”
Her face flickers a moment before quickly masking with a tight-lipped smile. “Hard not to. It's only the second-largest ranch in all of Wyoming. Employs half the town.”
“Is it far?”
“About a 30-minute drive that way.” She points in the direction of the run-down town.
“Where can I grab a taxi?”
“You're lookin’ at a 20-minute walk that way.” She points in the opposite direction.
“Perfect,” I groan.
“I can give you a lift if you like?”
I hesitate, eyeing her beat-up truck parked nearby. Stranger danger crosses my mind, but so does lugging my suitcase down the road for 20 minutes… I’ll take my chances.
“You sure? I don't want to trouble you.”
“Not at all. I can't leave a woman stranded, it's getting dark. Hop in.”
She tosses my suitcase into the back of her truck with ease. When I open the passenger door, I freeze. The inside’s a mess– empty coffee cups scattered across the floor, crumpled snack wrappers sticking out of every corner, and the faint stench of stale coffee lingers in the air– eww! I awkwardly perch on the edge of the seat, trying not to touch anything.
She starts the engine and glances over, “I’m India, by the way.”
“Shiko.”
“Beautiful name.”
“Thanks. You t–”
“Don't do that.”
I break a smile, “but I mean it.”
“I won't believe you anyway.”
India shifts into gear. “You might want to hold on tight.”
“Hu?”
* * *
India drives like she owns the road, zooming and swerving around cars while belting along to country music on the radio.
“So what brings you to Nowhere?” She shouts over the noise.
“You guys really call it that?”
She lowers the volume.
“Some kid wrecked the sign a couple of years back, guess it kinda stuck.”
“I needed a change, London was getting depressing,” I keep it vague. “What's this?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.
I pick up a cassette partially buried under empty coffee cups by my foot. I brush off the dust. “I haven’t seen one since I was a kid.” I read the label, “to the love of my life.”
India glances over and cringes, her grip on the wheel tightening. “God, I thought I tossed that. My ex made it for me. Valentine’s Day. Years ago.”
“Romantic.”
She leans over and fumbles with the glove compartment, one hand on the wheel.
“There’s a Walkman in here somewhere…”
The truck drifts to the right the more she stretches.
“Eyes on the road!”
A car in the opposite lane HONKS, its headlights glare as it speeds toward us.
“Car!”
She jerks the wheel back, narrowly avoiding a fatal collision.
“Relax, we're good.” She casually tosses the Walkman and headphones into my lap.
I glare so hard my eyes might pop out of their sockets.
“Pop it in then. Let’s see if it still works,” she urges.
“I think I need a moment to recover first.”
“C’mon, London. You're gonna need tougher skin to survive out here.”
I reluctantly insert the cassette and press play. A painfully off-key country song crackles through the headphones, the lyrics melodramatically romantic and painfully cliché.
“Girl,” I say in a ‘he can’t be serious, this is ass’ kinda way.
“He wrote and sang them all.”
I burst out laughing, “oh to be young and in love.”
I turn it off when the laughter dies down and ask, “do you know the Washingtons? The ones who own the ranch?”
“Everyone knows everyone here,” she says taking a sharp left.
My head wacks the window, “ow!”
“They're good people. They've had a rough couple of years though. Mrs Washington lost her husband– it hit the family hard, especially the boys.”
“That's awful.”
“They keep to themselves mostly. Her eldest son, Jackson, inherited everything. He works harder than anyone I know to keep that place running– a little too hard if you ask me.” India’s voice softens, a faint trace of something I can’t quite read.
“Her youngest, Eli, is allergic to getting his hands dirty but he's smart. Studied Accounting and Law so he helps on the business side.”
“Sounds like they've been through a lot.”
“Life isn't fair, even to the best people. You working for them?”
“Yeah. It'll be grunt work mostly. Shoving poop, bathing horses, stuff like that.”
“Any help is good help.”
India turns right when we pass a sign. The smooth tarmac gives way to gravel, crunching under the tyres. Lamps along the path flicker on, drawing swarms of insects. Ahead, a sprawling two-story cabin made of wood and stone comes into view. Its wide front porch is the only light for miles now that the sun has dipped below the horizon.
“Woah…”
India brakes sharply. I lurch forward.
“Well, here we are.”
She cuts the engine and the noise of crickets fills the silence.
“Welcome to Devil's Creek.”
Michelle Githua (she/her) is a bold, “the bigger the story, the better,” “twists that’ll make your jaw drop” kind of writer. This Kenyan-British talent started her journey at 18 when she was first published in Milton Keynes Literature Festival’s 2020 anthology. Since then, she’s been unstoppable! With over 4 years of experience shaping stories in high-end TV Drama and Comedy, Michelle is making waves in the TV and publishing industry! This year alone she’s been selected for Paramount’s prestigious Storyteller’s Summit, Babes in Development’s exclusive Literary Brunch ran in partnership with Bloomsbury Publishing, and awarded a coveted bursary for S&CO’s Writing Retreat in the Peak District! With her unique voice and unstoppable drive, Michelle aims to get more Black stories on our screens and bookshelves!
Instagram: @gxthoni