Chapter 7
seven
. . .
brOCK
The text took four attempts to send to our group chat.
The Wilder Bunch
Me
Truck died near Shell Canyon, need a pickup.
Colt
lmaoooo
wait you’re serious?
Do I sound like I’m joking.
Wren
Oh no. Are you and Sienna okay?
We’re fine. Truck’s not.
Colt
it’s the alternator again isn’t it
I fucking told you last month
You gonna come get us or keep texting about the alternator?
Wyatt
I can leave in twenty
No. You’ve got Maisie and you were up at five. Go back to bed.
Wren
I can come! I’m at Sara’s but I can leave right now
Colt
Nah, I got it. Already pulling my boots on
Wren
You sure?
Colt
Yeah it’s fine. Just slammed an energy drink
Wren
At 11pm??
Colt
Brock sit tight. Probably two hours. Save me one of those Outlaw drinks for the ride back
Just drive
I shoved the phone into my pocket and leaned back against the headrest.
Two hours. Could've been worse.
Knowing Colt, he'd stop for gas and come back with nachos, sunflower seeds, and a story about the cashier. That was just how he was.
I probably should've let Wren come, but Colt had already jumped on it. Besides, I wasn't about to have my little sister driving two hours through the mountains in the middle of the night because I couldn't keep an old truck running.
The dome light had blinked out, leaving nothing but darkness. Outside, the moon washed over sagebrush.
"Colt's coming," I said. "Two hours, maybe less if he drives like he usually does."
She nodded and tucked her hands under her thighs.
"You cold?"
"I'm fine."
She was not fine. I could see the goosebumps running up her arms.
I reached behind the seat and grabbed my old Carhartt jacket. It smelled like hay, motor oil, and every cold morning I’d ever spent wearing it, but it was still heavy and warm.
I dropped it into her lap.
She stared at it, then at me. "Thank you."
She slipped it on, and it swallowed her whole. The sleeves hid her hands, and the thick collar brushed her jaw.
She looked ridiculous. She looked—
I turned toward my window.
The ache in my arm was still there. I rolled my shoulder in a slow circle, trying to loosen it. The joint popped. I clenched my jaw and did it again.
"You okay?" she asked.
"It's nothing."
She'd slept on me for an hour. I hadn't meant to let her, because my shoulder was already sore from the ride, and I didn't need another thing reminding me how beat up I was.
But when her head dropped against my arm, I'd frozen.
Then I saw the way her hand had gone slack in her lap. I couldn't make myself wake her.
And now she was sitting in my truck wearing my jacket. I could smell the perfume she'd made herself mixing with the hay and motor oil, and it made me want to lean over and—
"Sorry," I said, cutting the thought off fast.
"For what?"
"For this."
"It's not your fault the truck died."
It was, though. I'd kept putting it off. Last month, Colt left the yard gate unlatched, and Moose got out, wandered down to the pond, and picked a fight with a porcupine. Between the emergency vet pulling two hundred quills out of his face and the farrier bill for the horses, the truck had to wait.
Sienna pulled out her phone and held it up toward the windshield like another inch would make a difference. After a few seconds, she let out a frustrated sigh and dropped her arm, finally giving up on a cell signal. A moment later, the soft, warm glow of her Kindle lit up her side of the cab.
I leaned back against the glass. The silence, the rodeo, and the long drive had finally taken their toll.
"Wake me if a serial killer taps on the glass," I muttered.
"Go to sleep, Brock. I’ll handle the glass-tapping murderers while you drool on the window."
I smiled and closed my eyes, just meaning to rest them for a few minutes.
When I woke up, my neck was stiff. I shifted, blinking against the dark. Sienna was still awake, bathed in the faint light of her screen. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips parted slightly as she read.
"Still reading about the guy in the skirt?" I asked, my voice gravelly with sleep.
She jumped a little, shooting me a glare. "For the last time, it's a kilt. And no, I finished that one."
She clicked the screen off, plunging the cab back into near-total darkness. She stretched her arms out in front of her, the oversized sleeves of my jacket bunching around her wrists.
"I need to stretch my legs,” she said.
Then she got out. I heard her boots crunch on gravel, then silence, then: "Oh my god."
I got out too. She was standing at the back of the truck, head tilted all the way back, mouth parted.
"Not like this in Chicago?" I asked.
"Not even close. You get maybe five stars on a good night. And two of them are airplanes."
I leaned against the tailgate. She came and stood next to me, still looking up. Her shoulder brushed against my arm, and I should've moved, but I didn't.
"You don’t miss home?"
She shrugged. "Some things. My sister. Good pizza. Being able to walk to a coffee shop."
"So what happens after?"
She turned her head. "After what?"
"Cheyenne. Your contract's up, and then what? Another guy who punched someone on camera?"
She chuckled. "Back to my job, yeah. Avery will probably have someone else lined up for me. Hopefully one with a working truck."
I snorted. "So you just get shipped out to fix strangers?"
"It's not usually like this."
"No?"
She smiled a little. "I mean... I don't usually have family dinners every night. I'm really going to miss that chicken."
"Don't let Dad hear you call his chicken special."
She laughed. "He's a good cook."
I looked back up at the stars. "You ever think about doing something else?"
"All the time."
"Like what?"
She was quiet for a second.
"I used to think about starting my own perfume line. I had all these ideas. Different scents for different moods and seasons. I even sketched out bottle designs."
"Why don't you?"
"Well, Mara's tuition comes first, so maybe in two years when she finishes university. If I've saved enough."
Two years.
She'd be doing this for two more years. Some other guy who'd said something stupid or couldn't keep his temper in check.
She'd show up with that phone and that look she got when she was about to tell you you were wrong.
She'd learn someone else's schedule. Make someone else do a statement video they didn't want to do.
I didn't like that. I didn't like that at all, which was stupid. She wasn't mine. She was doing a job, and in two weeks that would be over. Then she'd be back in Chicago, and I'd be back to fixing fences alone, and everything would go back to normal.
The wind picked up. Her hair blew across her face, and she pushed it back with the sleeve of my jacket. Whatever was left of that perfume hit me again.
"You'd be good at it," I said. "The perfume thing."
She looked at me sideways. "You told me to stop wearing it."
"I told you to stop wearing it outside. Because of the bees."
"So you do like it."
I didn't answer that, because headlights appeared on the horizon, bright and bouncing. Colt's truck. Of course he'd made it in under two hours. Probably broke every speed limit between home and here.
The tailgate was cold against my hand as I stood. I didn't look at Sienna. Didn't trust what my face was doing.