Chapter 8
My pulse thrums in my neck as I pad down the hall, Sam’s flannel hanging loose around me like a secret I shouldn’t be wearing. The scent of coffee hits me first, and I pick up my pace.
Phern’s at the stove when I walk in, her back to me, flipping something in a cast iron pan like it owes her money. I think back to what Sam said about angry baking. Is that what this is?
“Good morning,” I say, trying to sound casual. Normal. Not like I just made out with her half-naked brother ten minutes ago.
Without turning, she says flatly, “Did you sleep with my brother?”
I freeze halfway to the counter. “I—what?”
She hums, unbothered, finally turning to face me.
My lips part, and the truth fumbles on its way out. “Not like that.”
One eyebrow arches, skeptical. “So a little bit like that?”
I press my lips together. “We didn’t… you know… ”
Phern narrows her eyes, arms crossing, spatula still in hand like she’s not above using it as a weapon.
“Look. I’m not here to judge your life choices.
Sam’s a grown man. But if you hurt him…” She steps closer, her expression sharper now.
“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt because, for some strange, unknowable reason, he seems to like you.
Really like you. And he hasn’t liked anyone in a long damn time. ”
The weight of her words settles over me. Unexpected. Heavy. Honest.
I don’t say anything for a beat. Just meet her eyes.
Then, quietly, “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“You better mean that.”
“I do.”
She stares at me a second longer, like she’s deciding whether to believe me.
Then she turns back to the stove. “Good. Now grab some plates. If you’re going to be here, you’re helping with breakfast.”
And just like that, I’m either part of the pack or on probation. Hard to tell.
Phern scrambles the eggs like she’s got a personal vendetta against them, the spatula clinking sharply against the pan.
“After we eat,” she says, not bothering to glance at me, “we need to check the horses.”
She finally looks over her shoulder. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Ten,” I reply.
“I wear a nine,” she says, considering. “There’s probably some of Gwen’s old boots you can wear.”
I try not to flinch at the name, but I feel my reaction betray me. It’s the slightest stiffening of my shoulders and the twist in my stomach. Phern notices.
“There’s no point in being jealous of her,” she says flatly, still stirring the eggs. “She was a saint. No one will ever compare to her.”
My jaw tenses, and before I can stop myself, I snort. “No pressure there.”
She finally turns to face me, eyes sharp but unreadable. “Just telling you how it is.”
Her words hang in the air heavy like smoke. I meet her gaze, but the lump in my throat is harder to ignore now.
Saint. Untouchable. Unmatchable.
And I’m just the reporter who showed up during a storm and let her brother undress her with his hands and his voice and his mouth.
I try to keep my voice even. “Did you like her?”
“Still do.” Phern shrugs. “She’s kind. Soft-spoken. Always knows the right thing to say. But she wasn’t meant for this place.”
“Have you always lived here?” I ask, glancing over as Phern scrapes eggs across the pan.
“All my life.” She stares off for a second, her gaze distant, somewhere past the kitchen window and the snowy fields beyond. “I had big dreams once. But that all changed when Dad passed away.”
I nod, remembering what I’ve found from my research. Their mom died when Phern was born. A late-in-life surprise, the articles said. That’s why Phern is fourteen years younger than Sam. But info about their dad? The internet doesn’t offer much, other than he died when Phern was eighteen.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice softer.
She sets the spatula down, leaning her hip against the counter. “He was helping our cousin haul some bulls to Cheyenne. Someone left a padlock unlocked and Dad got caught in the stampede.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry, Phern.”
She shrugs, but the motion is heavy. “After he was gone, I didn’t want to leave home anymore. So I signed up for online classes and that’s that.”
I watch her for a moment, the way her jaw sets, the way she won’t quite look at me. Suddenly, her tough shell makes a little more sense. This ranch is more than land and fences. It’s all she’s ever had.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “Sometimes the place you’re from pulls you back in, whether you want it to or not.”
Phern finally glances at me. For a second, her eyes are softer.
“Yeah,” she says. “Guess it does.”
I grip the edge of the counter, the warmth of the stove grounding me as I stare at the eggs, trying to work up the nerve.
“You’re not the only one whose dreams didn’t pan out the way they were supposed to.”
Phern lifts an eyebrow, her attention flicking to me but not saying anything.
“I had this whole plan,” I go on, voice steady but quieter now.
“Back in Oklahoma, I thought I was going to be a serious journalist. You know, real stories. Politics, disasters, the kind of stuff that made people think.” I laugh under my breath, but it’s not really funny.
“And I was good. I moved up. Fast. So fast that I moved to Denver. And then to LA.”
“What happened?” she asks, tone still cautious but not cold.
“My ex,” I say, the word sharp in my mouth. “He was a co-worker. Charming. Smart. Knew how to say all the right things. I trusted him too much.”
Her expression shifts. Slightly. Her arms aren’t crossed anymore.
“He stole a story from me. My story. Took it to our boss, claimed it as his own. Got promoted. Got the glory. And I got pushed out. Well, I assumed I’m being pushed out. I guess I’ll find out for sure when I go back.”
“Damn,” Phern mutters, not unkindly.
I force a smile. “So, yeah. I get what it feels like when the life you planned turns into something else.”
Phern studies me for a long beat. Her eyes are sharper than Sam’s, more analytical. It’s clear she’s used to reading people.
“You still a reporter?”
The question feels pointed, and I know what she’s really asking: Are you here for Sam? Or are you here for a story?
I meet her gaze. “Yes. But not in the way you think.”
And for once, she doesn’t press. She just nods once, then scoops the eggs onto a plate.
“Grab the coffee, would you?”
I do. It’s not exactly friendship. But maybe it’s a start.
We’re both seated at the table, coffee in hand, when Sam walks in.
My lips part without thinking. Good. God.
He’s wearing jeans that hug his thighs and ass in a way that should be illegal this early in the morning, especially since I know what’s under that denim.
His black button-up hugs his muscles in his arms, and the top two buttons are undone just enough to show the tan skin of his chest. His hair is combed back, still damp from the cold shower, I assume.
And then he looks at me .
That slow, confident smile spreads across his face like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Because he does.
“Smells good in here,” he says casually, walking over like he’s not a walking sin in denim and confidence.
Phern rolls her eyes, grabbing a fork. “Well, this is a change. Usually you’re a grump until you’ve had coffee.”
Sam grabs a mug and winks at me. “Found something else to wake me up.”
Phern groans, holding up a hand. “Gross. Say no more.”
He chuckles, pouring his coffee like he didn’t just drop a bomb at the breakfast table. I lower my gaze to my plate, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. Not to mention the heat pulsing low in my belly and maybe between my legs.
Sam sits beside me, his knee brushing mine under the table. He doesn’t move it. Neither do I. And when I glance at him, that smirk is still there. Yeah. I’m in trouble.
Phern is completely oblivious to the simmering tension between me and Sam, or she’s just choosing to ignore it altogether. Honestly, hard to tell with her.
She stabs her eggs and says, “Liam called. He tried to get across the bridge, but the water’s still too deep.”
My heart jumps. “He didn’t happen to see my car, did he?”
Phern shakes her head, reaching for her coffee. “Didn’t mention it.”
“Darlin’,” Sam says, his voice gentle, “that car is long gone by now.”
I sigh, pushing my eggs around my plate. “I figured. Just wishful thinking, I guess.”
I picture it. My poor Prius floating somewhere in the Wyoming wilderness, full of everything I thought I needed, slowly becoming part of the landscape .
Sam shifts his attention back to Phern. “Did Liam say how his place is doing?”
“No major damage,” she says. “But he lost two heifers.”
“Damn,” Sam mutters, shaking his head.
Then he turns to me. “Liam’s our cousin. His ranch backs up to ours, to the south. His land's a little lower, so he gets the worst of the run-off when the creek floods.”
I nod, trying to absorb the mental map. “Is that common?”
“Not really,” Phern says. “We haven’t had a spring flood this bad in years.”
Sam leans back in his chair, fingers drumming once against his mug before going still. “This storm was different. Hit harder than any of us expected.”
“Liam said it’s not over yet,” Phern says as she scrapes the last of the eggs into the sink. “More snow’s forecasted this afternoon.”
Sam pushes back from the table, already standing. “Then we should get out there before it comes down again.”
Phern nods toward me. “I told Charlotte she could wear Gwen’s old boots.”
If that name stirs anything in Sam, he doesn’t show it. No flicker of discomfort. No hesitation.
He just nods. “Good. I’ve got a coat you can wear, too, darlin’.”
We move into the mudroom together. The tile’s cold beneath my socks, and the scent of hay and leather seeps in from the back door. Phern hands me a pair of worn-in brown boots that scuffed but sturdy.
I snort under my breath as I step into them. They’re nothing like the pristine white boots with blue flowers I had on the other day. I wonder what happened to those. Did they float away? Sink to the bottom of the creek? Get thrown into the trash?