Chapter 15
fifteen
. . .
SIENNA
“I’m staying,” I whispered into his neck.
Brock let out a long, shaky exhale that sounded almost like a laugh and pulled me even closer.
We stayed like that for a while, tangled in the sheets, neither of us in a hurry to move.
His hand moved slowly up and down my back. My mind was still spinning, but for the first time all morning, the knot in my chest had loosened.
It had been so easy to say I was staying. So easy to mean it. I hadn’t let myself think about Avery, the agency, or what this could cost me. Not when Brock was slowly letting me in. Not when he’d thrown himself between me and that horse without a second thought.
Eventually, my phone started buzzing on the nightstand—a rapid string of texts. Without lifting my head, I reached out and grabbed it, squinting at the screen.
Mara had sent me a link.
Mara
Sienna this just popped up on my feed
Please tell me you’re okay, I’m really worried
I typed back one-handed.
Me
I’m okay. It was scary, but Brock got me out of there
Brock's hand, which had been lazily stroking my stomach, slid lower, curving around my waist with more purpose.
“We could stay in here and ignore everyone a little longer,” he murmured. “Pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a few more hours.”
As tempting as it sounded, we couldn’t hide in the hotel room forever. Colt and Wren were probably waiting downstairs for us.
When we finally made it down to the parking lot an hour later, the sun was already blazing. Colt was tossing his duffel into the bed of his truck while Wren leaned against the passenger door, looking miserable.
“I hate goodbyes,” she grumbled the second she saw us. “I just know I’m going to cry at the airport drop-off, so don’t make fun of me.”
Brock walked straight past her to his truck and casually tossed my suitcase into the bed next to his gear.
“We’re not going to the airport,” he said.
Wren blinked and stood up straighter. “What?”
“They extended her contract,” he added, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he looked at me. “Change of plans. She’s coming home with us.”
Wren stared at me, needing me to confirm it. I nodded, a huge smile breaking across my face.
She let out an ear-piercing scream that made two horses tied across the lot throw their heads up. One of them spooked and slammed a hoof into the trailer.
“Hey! Easy!” a man in a red cap yelled.
Colt pulled his hat lower against the sun and stared at us in disbelief.
“Wait. You two ditched us at the after-party without a single text, and now she’s coming back to the ranch?” He pointed at me. “Sienna, blink twice if he’s holding you hostage. Because a month ago, he wanted to throw you in a water trough.”
I quickly looked away from Brock, afraid my face would give us away.
I tried to sound casual. “The bar was really loud, and Brock’s shoulder was bothering him, so I made him come back early to rest.”
Brock let out a low cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. When I shot him a glare, he suddenly became very interested in the pavement.
Before Colt could push further, Wren grabbed me in a hug so tight my ribs protested. I let out a sharp squeak as the bruise from Brock’s belt buckle flared, but she didn’t notice.
“Who cares why you left early!” she squealed, shaking me a little.
“You’re staying! Okay, here’s what’s happening—Redbow Days is in two weeks and they shut down Main Street for this huge street dance, plus Linda’s pie contest that’s totally rigged but we go anyway, and then we’re doing the hot springs once it cools down, and oh—there’s this vintage shop in Sheridan I’ve been dying to take you to—”
Brock reached over and gently peeled her off me by the back of her shirt, before my ribs gave out completely.
“Wren,” he said. “Breathe.”
She pulled back, hands still on my shoulders, eyes shining. Behind her, Colt slammed his tailgate shut and ambled over, hands in his pockets.
“So now that you’re sticking around,” he said, looking at me, “any chance you could ask Outlaw to send more of those cans?”
“You’re not serious,” Brock said flatly.
“What? I’m just asking. The cherry-lime ones.”
“They sent a whole case last week.”
“Yeah, and they’re gone.” Colt shrugged. “I’ve been drinking one every morning before chores. I’m hooked on the damn things.”
Brock stared at him like he was a disappointing species of bug. “It’s a miracle you’re not glowing in the dark. Your heart’s going to explode before you’re twenty-five.”
“Then I’ll die highly caffeinated,” Colt said. “C’mon, they’re expensive. Might as well milk the sponsors while we’ve got ’em.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, already mentally drafting the email. “If I tell them we need them for product placement in video backgrounds, I can probably get a case of every flavor.”
He pressed a hand over his heart. “I’m so glad you’re staying. You’re a genius.” He clapped Brock on the back and headed for his truck. “Wren! Let’s go before you spook another horse.”
“Hard pass.” She was already reaching for the back door of Brock’s truck. “You drive like you’re being chased.”
“I do not—”
“You took the cattle guard at forty when we left for Cheyenne. I watched my coffee leave the cup.”
“Wren.”
Brock didn’t raise his voice, but his tone stopped her cold.
"Ride with Colt."
Her eyes flicked between Brock and me. I spent my days reading what people noticed, so I knew exactly what it looked like when someone finally put the pieces together.
"O-kay," she said, drawing it into two suspicious syllables. "Wow. Fine. Enjoy your six hours."
She climbed into Colt’s truck and was still staring at us through the back window when they peeled out, gravel spitting.
We got into Brock’s truck, but he waited until they were a few minutes ahead before he started the engine.
“That was subtle,” I said.
“I didn’t want to listen to her plan for the pie contest for six hours.”
“That’s not why you sent her away.”
He put the truck in gear. "No, it's not."
The corner of his mouth twitched, slowly losing the battle as we pulled onto the highway.
He drove the first three hours one-handed, right wrist hooked loosely over the top of the steering wheel, left arm held a little too still against his side.
At a gas station outside Casper, he walked out of the convenience store and paused by the pump. He rolled his injured shoulder in a slow circle, jaw tight—the same thing he did when he thought I wasn’t looking.
But I was looking.
When he climbed back into the driver’s seat, I slid my hand over his and gently took the keys. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not hurting. Slide over. I’ll drive.”
“I’m fine,” he said stubbornly, but his fingers tangled with mine instead of taking the keys back.
“You rode Cheyenne on that shoulder yesterday, and then…” I trailed off, my face heating. “You didn’t exactly rest it last night.”
His mouth curved into a slow smile. “No. I didn’t.”
The keys dropped into my palm just as his other hand clamped around my thigh, fingers curling tight against the sensitive skin under the hem of my shorts. Heat radiated off him.
He leaned across the console, teeth grazing just below my ear. The clean smell of soap clung to his skin.
“Two hours,” he murmured. “Then I’m taking it back.”
He gave my thigh one last squeeze, then got out and walked around the hood. He opened the passenger door for me.
As I stepped into the baking heat, he caught my hand and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles, blue eyes holding mine for a long moment before he let go.
In a daze, I walked around the front of the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. The door slammed shut with a solid thunk that jolted me back to reality.
Brock folded himself into the passenger seat.
“The AC works best if you crank it all the way to four,” he said.
He tipped his hat down over his eyes, leaned his head back against the window, and reached over without looking. His calloused hand settled back on my thigh, heavy and warm.
I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling too wide.
He was out cold about twenty minutes later, but his hand never moved. I kept glancing over on the long straightaways—at the dark scruff along his jaw, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the way his shoulder was finally getting a chance to rest.
On the drive back from Cody, he’d let me sleep on him until his arm went numb. So when we hit the two-hour mark, I didn’t wake him. I just laced my fingers with his and drove.
He finally stirred when the pavement turned to gravel outside Redbow. He blinked slowly, checked the clock on the dash, and looked over at me.
“I told you two hours,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“I decided we’re even for Cody.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, failing to hide a smile. “Pull over, Starlin’. I’ll drive the rest of the way.”
We swapped seats. A few minutes after the cattle guard rattled under the tires, the wooden house came into view, glowing gold in the setting sun. It didn’t feel like just a place I was working anymore. Now, it just felt like home.
I left my suitcase by the truck, too wrung out to deal with it, but when I came back from saying hello to Moose, it was gone.
I found it upstairs in the guest bedroom, tucked against the wall next to the closet.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the scuffed black canvas for a long time. For the past month, I’d lived out of it, keeping everything zipped because I knew I was leaving. Now, I finally needed to unpack.
The terrifying, wonderful thought I’d pushed away all day finally settled in my chest.
This could actually work.
The quiet stretch of peace didn’t last long. The next morning, Silas dragged Brock to the doctor in Sheridan. He came back with a two-week light-duty order and a foul mood.
The Cheyenne payout meant he could afford the time off, but Brock was terrible at resting. Within two days, he’d reorganized the entire tack room, and Wren was threatening to hide his truck keys.
The hardest part wasn’t his injury, though. It was the space between us.