Chapter 4 #2
“Okay,” I said, brushing hay dust off my jeans. “I’ve got enough for today.”
Brock glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “That’s it?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed. And no, not yet. I need your schedule between now and Cheyenne.”
Brock didn’t answer right away. He led me out of the barn and across the yard toward the field where cows were grazing. A section of fence had come down near the gate, the wire sagging low.
He stopped, unlatched the gate, and looked down at my sneakers. They were dark with dew and something I was choosing to believe was mud.
“You slip in those, I’m not carrying you back.”
“It was these or the heels,” I said sharply.
He grunted and walked through the gate. I followed.
“So? The schedule?”
“Cody first week of July. Sheridan the week after. Small ones in between if the draw’s right. Then Cheyenne.”
I groaned. “And Outlaw wants me at all of them.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I bet they do.”
“I’m not thrilled about it either.”
“Then don’t come.”
“Not an option.”
He turned back to the broken fence and picked up a hammer that was leaning against the gate post. He drove a staple with two sharp swings.
“Look, darlin’, I get on the bronc, I ride, I get in my truck and go home. I don’t do the fancy dinners, I don’t do the autograph tent, and I sure as hell don’t need you tailing me everywhere.”
“We don't have much choice here.”
I watched him swing the hammer again. He was the first one up this morning, already working before the sun was fully up.
“So who’s holding down the ranch while you’re gone?” I asked.
His rhythm broke for half a second before the next swing.
"Mostly me, Wren, and Colt. Our old man helps out where he's able. Wyatt's got his own job, so he mostly heads over from Redbow when he can, but Maisie comes first."
“So it’s just him and Maisie, then?”
“Yeah.”
I hesitated, treading lightly. “Her mom?”
“Gone.” He didn’t look at me. “Maisie was two when they found out the blindness was permanent. She decided she didn’t sign up for that life.” He drove the hammer so hard the post shuddered. “Wyatt doesn’t talk about it. So you don’t either.”
I didn't know what to say to that. The image of a two-year-old, already blind, and a mother who just... left.
“I understand,” I finally said, my voice tight.
He gave a single nod and moved down the fence line and started threading wire. He tried to pull it taut with one hand while setting a staple with the other. The wire slipped. He caught it and tried again. It slipped a second time.
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
The wire dropped a third time. He muttered a curse and yanked it back hard.
“Do you want me to hold that?” I asked.
“No.”
I stayed put. He wrestled with it for another ten seconds, then exhaled through his nose.
“Fine,” he said. “Here. Hold it taut.”
I stepped forward and gripped the wire. It bit rough into my palms.
He moved down the line. I moved with him, sneakers sliding in the dirt as I kept the wire tight. He worked fast, hammer ringing, staples sinking.
He crouched beside me, close enough that I caught the scent of hay and clean sweat.
“Almost done,” he said.
His hands moved fast—set the staple, two swings, done.
“There.” He straightened. “You can let go.”
I released the wire carefully. It held.
He looked at me for a second, then down at my hands. Red, itchy lines striped both palms.
Without warning, he reached out and took my hand. His fingers were rough and calloused, but his grip was careful as he turned my palm up to the light. His thumb hovered above the deepest groove.
“Should’ve given you gloves,” he said.
I pulled my hand back, skin still tingling where his fingers had been. "It's okay."
He didn’t answer. For a moment he just looked at me. I stood there a beat too long, fingers curling against my palm.
I made myself move.
"I'll get that video scheduled," I said, already turning.
I headed for the house. The sun was fully up now, burning away the last of the morning chill. In the mudroom, my sneakers left dark prints on the mat before I kicked them off, shoving them onto the shoe tray beside a pair of work boots.
I walked into the kitchen, dying for another cup of coffee. That's when I noticed my laptop was no longer on the table. Dammit. I'd left it sitting open like I owned the place, and someone had to put it away.
Before I could go looking for it, the back door swung open and Wren stepped inside, wearing old jeans and a faded flannel.
"There you are," she said. "I saw your bedroom door open but you weren't anywhere."
"I've been with Brock, up since five."
Wren's eyebrows went up. "Five. Of course he had you up at five." She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry. I'll take care of him."
"I don't think he's the type anyone takes care of."
"He's not, and it drives me crazy,” she said. “Colt and I keep tellin’ him we can handle things here so he can focus on the rodeos. I've turned down my own events to make sure of it. But he won't spend more than a few nights away from the ranch."
I frowned. On the flight, I’d read that he had made the NFR twice, one of them just last year. “So how is he still qualifying for Vegas?”
“The hard way. He runs himself ragged hitting a dozen small rodeos to scrape together the payout. Wrecks his body, but he’s always back by dawn to fix fences.” She shook her head. “Anyway. You eat yet?”
"I haven't."
She crossed the room to the fridge, pulled out a covered dish, and set it on the counter.
"There's leftover breakfast casserole. Bacon, eggs, some kind of cheese situation. It's good. Oh, and I moved your laptop to the living room. Hope you don't mind."
"No—sorry. I should've put it away."
"It's fine. You’ll soon learn that we're pretty laid-back here." She pushed the microwave buttons for me without asking, then leaned against the counter.
"Thanks for the jeans, by the way. I think I already got them dirty."
She waved a hand. "Don't worry about it."
"I'll go into town tomorrow and buy some clothes of my own."
“Can I come? I'd love to help you pick stuff out."
I smiled. "Sure. That'd be nice."
"I can't wait."
The microwave beeped. She took the dish and put it on the counter. "Okay, I gotta go. Colt's waiting on me to help unload the hay truck before he kills himself doing it alone."
"Thanks, Wren."
She waved and disappeared out the back.
After a quick breakfast and scheduling Brock’s annoyingly photogenic video, I grabbed my Kindle and slipped out the front door.
I followed the porch around to the other side of the house and found a flat rock at the edge. The dew had dried, and the stone was warm when I sat down.
The mountains stretched out in front of me, blue-gray ridges stacked into the distance, snow still holding on in the highest cuts. The only sounds were the wind and the occasional thud of a horse shifting in the paddock.
Maybe four weeks of this wouldn't be so bad. I opened my Kindle and—
"The Highlander's Midnight what?" asked a deep voice beside me.
I nearly threw the thing into the dirt.
Brock was standing there, leaning against the wooden porch, a sandwich in his hand. I had no idea how someone that big could move so quietly. His eyes flicked down to the screen, then back to me.
A smug grin spread across his face. "Was that a man wearing a skirt?"
My heart was beating fast. Of all the books and all of the covers, of course this would be the one he saw.
“That's none of your business."
He laughed and pushed off the porch. "Didn't say it was. Enjoy your book, darlin’."
I sat there, clutching the Kindle to my chest with my face burning, and listened to his boots crunch all the way back toward the house.