Chapter 3
three
. . .
SIENNA
I stared at my water glass, praying the heat in my cheeks would disappear. I could still feel Brock’s eyes on me from across the wooden table. So I did the only thing I could: I focused on my plate.
Luckily, the food was the perfect distraction. I had not eaten since that stale granola bar at O’Hare.
When Wren had shown me to the guest room earlier, I had only wanted to collapse face-first onto the mattress. Instead, she had hooked her arm through mine and dragged me back toward the stairs.
“You have to come down for dinner. It’s the rules,” she had said. “Also, never leave your shoes near the stairs unless you want Moose to steal them. But mostly, the dinner thing.”
The roast chicken—steaming next to a mountain of buttery potatoes and fresh rolls—tasted better than anything I'd had in weeks. The skin was crisp and salted, and the meat was practically melting off the bone when I cut into it.
The table was loud, filled with the clatter of silverware against ceramic.
“I’m telling you, Dad, it’s the O-ring,” Wyatt said. He spooned potatoes onto Maisie’s plate and cut them into small pieces.
“It’s not,” Silas replied, passing the gravy boat down the line. “The intake valve is shot. We need to order a new one.”
“I’ll look at it tomorrow,” Brock rumbled.
“Just don’t break it worse,” Colt said, earning a scowl from his brother.
I tore open a warm roll. The butter melted into the soft crumb as my knife spread across it. When I finally glanced up, I locked eyes with Brock. He looked away immediately and went back to eating.
Silas caught me staring blankly at my plate. He nudged the serving dish toward me. “You want more chicken, sweetheart?”
Funny. When Brock had called me sweetheart, I'd wanted to throw one of my heels at his head, since that was the only weapon I had on me. Coming from his dad, it didn't bother me at all.
"I'd love some more," I said.
He placed another piece of chicken on my plate: a crisp, golden thigh glistening with butter and herbs. Steam curled up to meet my face.
Maisie had been quiet through most of dinner, but I could tell she was listening to everything. She was right next to me, her small legs swinging under her chair.
“Sienna?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“What does your hair look like?”
The question caught me off guard.
“It’s brown,” I said. “Kind of like milk chocolate. And wavy.”
"Can I touch it?"
Wyatt glanced at me. “She doesn’t have to.”
“Of course you can.” I leaned down a little. “Go ahead.”
Maisie’s fingers found my shoulder first, then my neck, then my hair. She grabbed a handful and squeezed gently.
“It’s thick.” Her hands moved slowly from the crown of my head down to the ends, exploring the curls at the bottom. “And curly.”
She kept going, both hands now, petting it down. I sat still and let her explore.
“It’s almost as thick as a horse’s tail,” she said.
A ripple of laughter went around the table.
I smiled. “Thank you. That might be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, settling back in her chair.
Silas passed a bowl of green beans down the table and turned his warm, weathered eyes on me. “Sienna, you got family waiting on you back in Chicago?”
“My parents and my younger sister.”
Wren rested her chin on her hand. “A sister. That must be nice. I always wanted one. Instead I got stuck with these guys.” She gestured at the men around the table.
Colt pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m a great brother.”
“You ate my leftover pizza last week and put the empty box back in the fridge.”
“I was starving!”
Wren looked at me. “See what I’m dealing with?”
“Where do you even get pizza out here?” I asked.
"Sheridan," she replied. "Fifty minutes each way, so you understand why the theft was personal."
I smiled. “Mine borrows my clothes without asking and never returns them. But she’s also the only person who’ll pick up the phone at three in the morning, so I keep her around.”
She smiled back. “Okay. I’m still jealous.”
Maisie tugged on Wyatt’s sleeve. “Daddy, I want a sister too.”
He coughed so hard he had to put his fork down. "Eat your potatoes, Maisie."
"But—"
"Potatoes."
She huffed. Colt nearly choked on his drink laughing. Even Brock looked like he was fighting back a smile.
I yawned, the exhaustion of the long day finally catching up to me.
Wyatt cleared his throat. “Rough drive once the pavement ended?”
“It was definitely a surprise,” I said. “The roads are… different.”
“You should see them in winter,” he said.
Brock leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “She won’t be here in winter.”
Wren shot him a sharp look. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“Have you ever been out west before?” Silas asked, smoothly steering past the tension.
“Never. This is my first time in Wyoming.”
Maisie’s head whipped toward me. “Your first time? But where do your horses live?”
“I don’t have any horses.”
“Then what is your job?” she asked.
I glanced at Brock. He was watching me, waiting to see how I’d handle this.
“I’m here to help your uncle Brock with something,” I said.
“With what?”
“Well… you know how sometimes you do something and get in trouble for it?”
Maisie nodded. “I threw my juice box at Uncle Colt.”
“You sure did,” Colt muttered.
“So my job is to help people after they get in trouble. I help them say sorry the right way.”
“Uncle Brock, what did you do?”
Brock coughed. “Nothing, bug.”
“Then why do you need to say sorry?”
His jaw tightened, the bruise showing. “I don’t need to.”
“But Sienna said you got in trouble.”
Brock looked at me like this was my fault. I grimaced back with a small shrug that said, You brought this on yourself.
“Even grownups get in trouble sometimes, sweetheart.” Silas placed another roll on Maisie’s plate. “Even your Uncle Brock.”
“Especially your Uncle Brock,” Colt added.
“You’re one to talk,” Brock muttered.
“Eat, boys,” Silas said. He turned to me. “So this is what you do, Sienna? Clean up after people for a living?”
"Pretty much. Someone famous does something dumb, my phone rings."
He nodded, shooting a glance at Brock before looking back at me. “And do you like it?”
I chose my words carefully. “It has its moments. But the clients aren’t always the easiest to deal with.”
Brock stabbed a potato with his fork and stayed silent.
Colt’s eyes lit up. “Wait, have you worked with anyone famous?”
“I can’t say.”
“Come on. Just one name.”
“I'd love to tell you, but I really can’t.”
Colt leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Okay, I’ll say names. You say yes or no. Nobody’s gonna—”
“She said she can’t, Colton,” Silas cut in.
Colt dropped back in his chair. “Fine. But I’m gonna figure it out.”
Wren leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “He won’t. Just distract him with something else. Ask him about the time he tried to ride a sheep at the county fair. It’s his favorite story to tell.”
I laughed, and for a moment the tension in my shoulders finally loosened.
The kitchen was warm and golden from the summer light. The conversation continued without me. Butter and salt still lingered on my tongue, and exhaustion gave everything a soft, slightly unreal edge.
My eyes drifted past the hanging bundles of dried herbs to a framed photo behind Silas. A woman with dark hair stood on the porch, a baby on her hip. She had the same green eyes as Wren and Wyatt. Brock and Colt had inherited Silas’s blue.
Next to it was another photo—five kids lined up on the same porch railing, squinting into the sun. I glanced around the table, then back at the picture.
I reached for my water and said nothing.
“Sienna, you ever been to a rodeo?” Wren asked, pulling me back in.
“Never.”
“You’re in for it, then. I compete too. Barrel racing.”
“She’s good,” Wyatt added.
She waved him off. “I’m okay. Brock’s the real deal.”
“Is barrel racing what it sounds like?” I asked.
“You ride around three barrels as fast as you can without knocking them over,” she explained. “It’s a timed event. Brock does the dangerous stuff.”
“I think I like the sound of yours more.”
“He’s been doing it since he was fourteen,” Wren continued. She had turned toward me fully now. “Dad put him on a horse before he could walk, but the rodeo was all him.”
“She doesn’t need my life story,” Brock said.
“She literally does. That’s her job.”
He gave her a flat look.
“We all grew up riding,” she went on, ignoring him. “Our brother Knox used to compete too, when we were kids. He wasn’t as good as Brock, but—”
She stopped abruptly.
“But what?” I asked.
Wren glanced at Silas, quick and uneasy. “It’s kind of a complicated situation.”
Brock set his fork down and stared at it.
I looked around the table. “I’m sorry. Did I step in something I shouldn’t have?”
“No, honey,” Silas said quietly. “It’s just not something we talk about.”
“Old family stuff,” Colt said. “Every family’s got some, right?”
“Sure,” I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
Silas cleared his throat. “Anybody want more chicken?”
Nobody did. He stood and carried the serving dish to the counter.
Brock finished everything left on his plate in about forty-five seconds, then stood and rinsed his dish in the sink.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said.
He grabbed his hat from the peg by the door. The big wooden door swung open, letting in a rush of cool air before clicking shut behind him.
Maisie whispered, “Is Uncle Brock upset?”
“He’s fine, sweetheart,” Wyatt said.
There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t make it worse, so I stayed quiet and stared at the wood grain of the table. My face was hot.
Four weeks until Cheyenne, and then I could go home. I glanced at the battered clock beside the window. 7:22. Four weeks suddenly felt like a very long time, especially since my alarm would be going off at five.