3. Silas
The tires crunch over familiar gravel as Wilder drives my Maserati through the open gates. The sound louder than usual. I told him I wasn’t coming unless my car came with me. So he drove down to Denver with a ranch hand who followed us back in his truck.
I’ve driven this road a hundred times. Thanksgiving. Short summer breaks. The quick weekend resets I used to sneak in when the season schedule lined up just right. Usually, I come blazing in late and leave early, never staying long enough for the dust to settle over my sports car.
This time, there’s no getaway clock ticking. No checking my watch noting to self “three hours tops.” This is home for the next six weeks.
Minimum, apparently. Thankfully—which feels odd to say right now—it was the biceps. Tear in the tendon. Cleaner surgery, the surgeon had said. Apparently, the resurfaced injury wasn’t my shoulder. But it wasn’t stable either. The biceps tendon was compensating—and that’s what finally gave out.
Still have to wear this sling for four to six weeks, with PT starting next week.
My eyes wash over the same view. Same fence line. Same mountains cutting the horizon.
I’m on a different timeline now. One set for me—not by me.
“I’m not staying with you and Rose,” I mutter as he pulls to a stop in front of his house.
Wilder kills the engine and steps out. “Come on, pretty boy. You can wash the dirt off your sneakers later.” He comes around to open my door and I kick it against him for even trying.
“Sorry,” he wheezes like I’d just knocked out a lung. “Thought you could use a hand.” He coughs a laugh.
“That got old an hour ago,” I deadpan, then walk around him and up the porch steps, where Dallas lingers by the door frame, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place.
Fucking Christ.
Judging by the accusing look on his face, I almost prefer Wilder’s hand jokes.
Dallas is the only one who knew about my shoulder pain resurfacing last fall. Made me promise I’d take care of it. He doesn’t realize—or care—that there’s zero chance I can have someone examine me without word getting out and putting my career on the line.
And I know exactly what this look means as I pass him to go inside—you didn’t take care of it and now look at ya.
The house smells like cookies when I walk in. “Aw, you baked for me,” I say, settling myself on the couch, careful not to groan from the shooting pain when my right arm brushes against the cushion.
Jesus Christ that can’t be good.
Wilder walks in and shuts the door. “Make yourself at home. We’ll get you settled into Dallas’s old room upstairs.”
I’m about to tell them no need for it, but Dad steps out of the kitchen. Ginger behind him with a tray of cookies and a mug. My eyes sweep past the measuring look on Dad’s face. Like he’s appraising cattle instead of his son.
Instead, I focus on the ray of sunshine in his life—Ginger.
The godsend to the Thorne family. Been the ranch manager practically since Dad opened thirty years ago.
And with the loves of their lives both long gone, Dad and Ginger became close, keeping each other company, and a few months ago, finally moved in together.
She wasn’t just a ranch manager, she’s been a huge part of our lives—practically family.
Which is why none of us understood why they’d keep their relationship a secret.
“Where’s his suitcase?” Dallas asks Wilder.
“I’m right here,” I call out.
Dallas snaps his head to me. “Fine. Where’s your stuff?” He points a finger at me. “Don’t think you’re leaving anytime soon.”
“What is your deal?”
“My deal is last fall, you told me you’d have that shoulder looked at and like a damn idiot, I believed you—now look at you!” He shakes his head.
I laugh.
“What’s so funny? You never listen to me. It’s how you ended up here.”
“Thought I was here because I needed a hand.” I smile and glance at Wilder. Dallas sighs and flips around like he might punch something.
“Son, go blow off steam someplace else and give your brother a break.” Dad’s voice is low with a subtle edge that’s enough to put even the oldest in his place.
Dallas steps aside while Ginger rests the platter next to me on the coffee table. “Tea is hot so give it a minute, dear.”
I flash her a bright smile and reach for a cookie. “Thanks, Ginger. Hey, can I stay with you?”
Dad scowls in my direction because he knows I’m messing with him.
“What?” I complain. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Dad, but there’s nothing but new relationships across the board here.” I run my good arm around the room. “No one needs a third wheel in the house right now.”
Dad takes a seat on the chair across the couch. “Wilder told us what the doctor said. Knowing you, you’re blowing it off and just thinking about getting back on the ice.”
I roll my eyes.
“Now I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on taking care of yourself or denying you need anyone, but we’re going to help you heal properly.”
I shift uncomfortably and his eyes drop to my sling.
“I know it can feel limiting, for someone who’s always on the move.
Someone with your . . . competitive nature.
But we’re not just anyone. We’re your family.
Now if I understand correctly, it’s at least ten days before the stitches come out.
Physical therapy after that. And the sling off in six weeks. ”
“Four,” I correct.
“Four minimum. Six recommended,” Wilder adds. That almost-smile twitches across his mouth again.
Six weeks of stationary life in a world built for motion and speed. At least my world.
The hell am I supposed to do? Watch the season start without me in it? “I feel so accommodated,” I mutter dryly.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Dallas says. “Once your sling’s off, we’re putting you to work on the field.”
Dad glares at his oldest.
“What? It’s physical therapy.” Dallas nudges Wilder and winks.
“Teach him to toss a lasso or something with that right arm. That’s almost like swinging a hockey stick, right?
” My brothers laugh and I’m a young teen all over again.
Feeling like the odd duck. The one without the cowboy gene. The jock. The joke.
“All right, get out—both of you!” Dad shouts.
Wilder straightens. “It’s my house.”
“It used to be mine—now get out. You can come back in when you two grow up.”
To my surprise, Dallas and Wilder shuffle out the front door. Boots hitting the porch in rhythm like something I never quite learned to match.
Ginger shakes her head and hisses under her breath at the front door. Then takes off to the kitchen. I suck in a sharp breath and lie back across the length of the sofa. The house still has that rustic charm that Mom put into it, but updated slightly with new rugs and furniture.
“If those two knuckleheads are going to be a problem, you can stay with me.”
“Dad,” I toss him a knowing look.
“You’re not used to being stuck. You thought you got away from this farm life. No one’s trying to bring you back. We just want to take care of you.”
“I didn’t get away,” I say quietly. “I just . . .” went somewhere I was better at not disappointing anyone. “Followed my own path.”
“And it was yours to follow. You built something for yourself,” Dad acknowledges. “You know we always respected that.” He takes a beat to make sure he has my attention. “Just don’t confuse being strong with never needing to lean on the people who raised you.”
Or the people who––as unintentional as it might’ve been—made me feel like an outsider in a world I thought I belonged. I fight an eye-roll. “I make no promises.”
He stands with a nod. “Not going to lie. Six weeks on a ranch moves a lot slower than the city.”
“You act like I wasn’t born here.” What else is new?
Before stepping outside, Dad pauses. “If you need anything, call. Otherwise, I’ll see you here for dinner on Sunday.”
“Sounds good.”
The house feels quieter than it should. Proving once again that empty space multiplies silence—and time.
I lean back into the couch cushions, shoulder tight, and stare out through the window where the pasture stretches toward the fence line my brothers helped build, repair, and then eventually, expand.
Suppose it was the path Dad had planned for me too before I was old enough.
Least that’s how he always made it seem when he’d give me the “kid’s chores.
” Granted, it wasn’t busy work. It was all the chores someone had to do.
And even though it was Mom who’d do them with me—it was Dad who taught me and had the same level of expectations for me.
Just . . . not yet.
The way you’re going, you’ll probably outgrow your brothers in a few years, so don’t be rushin’ to catch up—you’ll be sorry you asked.
I smile at the memory of that foggy morning in the chicken coop.
He was right about one thing. I did outgrow them—just never quite caught up.
Things changed after Mom died. Priorities changed.
Dallas and Wilder were already doing all the work—almost on autopilot—each one proving they could run the ranch one day.
That they wouldn’t let her accident take what our family had worked too hard to build.
I was fourteen. There was no “catching up” to their level at that point.
Dad was grieving. My training for the “big boy chores” wasn’t even an option.
Still can’t shake the feeling it never was. Even when Mom was here, teaching me to saddle, ride, take care of the stables, I felt like my fate at the ranch was being written and my sense of belonging slowly diminishing. At least in the same way my brothers did.
With Dad grieving, Dallas and Wilder had to step up in many ways.
I took comfort in other things. Friends.
Girls. Hockey—nothing more than an after-school sport at the time.
But eventually something I became so good at that I didn’t need to follow the family business.
Something a scout, a complete stranger, saw in me that earned a full ride offer to a Division I NCAA program at Denver U.
Which is rare given I only played junior hockey in my teens as a way to stay busy.
Get involved in something I might be good at.
Something I can be taught and trained to do.
But training isn’t the only thing I was gipped at.
Dad never took the same tone with me he did with my brothers.
It was softer, relaxed. Some things the youngest sibling typically gloats about.
Me—I felt like I wasn’t worth it. Like he’d already decided I’m not taking over the ranch and there’s no reason for that toughening-up.
But I knew as much as they did. Knew every post placement. Every patch of land where the ground dips.
I know this place.
It’s just been a while since I had to live inside it without something I am good at waiting on the other side.
Six weeks. No travel. No team. No guarantee it’ll be waiting for me when I return.