Chapter 23
twenty-three
. . .
brOCK
"Ten dollars for a pumpkin is steep, son."
Dad tapped a slow rhythm against the warm tailgate of the truck. We were parked in the center of Redbow’s town square, where the morning breeze had died out hours ago. By noon, the sun had turned the farmer's market into a slow-cooker, and the asphalt radiated heat through the soles of my boots.
Wyatt did not look up from the metal cashbox. He straightened a stack of wrinkled singles, his thumb flicking the corners. "These are pie pumpkins. It’s only the first week of September, and, if people want the porch-ready look today, they will pay the premium for it."
"They're the same ones from the patch behind the barn," Dad said.
Wyatt snapped the cashbox shut. “And they make a better pie than anything at the grocery store. Besides, Maisie picked this one herself. She spent twenty minutes runnin’ her hands over the entire patch and said this one had a stem like a twisted rope. It’s premium."
Colt was back at the ranch, face-down on the living room sofa with a tequila hangover, claiming he was 'guarding the perimeter.' That left the rest of us on pumpkin duty. It mostly meant standing in the humidity while Dad and Wyatt argued over price points.
I leaned against the truck fender and nursed a cup of iced black coffee.
The ice had melted, leaving a watery sludge that tasted like burnt dirt.
It was a miserable substitute for the scent of sugar cookies drifting from the Wagon Wheel Diner across the street.
Getting back into the chute meant a clean diet, so the cookies were out of the question.
I pressed the cool plastic cup against my forehead, trying to steal a second of chill.
Sienna sat on the dropped tailgate, wearing a thin tank top with lace edging the straps. She kept twisting the lace between her fingers, rolling it into a tight spiral and letting it unspool again. The sun had brushed her nose and cheeks a soft pink.
She watched Dad and Wyatt bicker like she was front-row at a show. Every few seconds, her boot kicked the bumper, the vibration humming through the metal and into my hip.
The urge to pull her off that metal and into the cab clawed at me. I wanted to roll the windows up and bury my face in the crook of her neck to smell that perfume of hers.
Instead, I took a swallow of the dirt-coffee and watched the street.
"Uncle Brock! I found the bumpy one!"
Maisie was right there by the truck bed. She had her cane in one hand and a lumpy, pale pumpkin hugged awkwardly to her chest with the other. Every few steps she shifted it higher against her chest without breaking the steady rhythm of her cane's sweep across the pavement.
"Good find, May-bug," I called out, pitching my voice low so she could home in on me. I crouched, the gravel crunching under my boots. "That is a solid one."
She shifted her grip on the ribbed rind. "I’m giving it to Sienna!"
The diner door across the sidewalk clicked open, the bell chiming above the frame. Wren stepped out with a cardboard tray of iced drinks.
"Maisie, I have your lemonade right here," Wren called out. "It is the one with the extra lemon, just like you asked."
"Auntie Wren! Look!" Maisie chirped, moving toward the sound.
She started across the sidewalk. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then came the frantic, scrabbling click of claws on concrete. A guttural snarl cut through the market chatter, coming from the alleyway to our right.
Maisie screamed. Her hands flew up, and the cane clattered onto the asphalt. The pumpkin hit the ground with a dull thud and rolled under the truck.
Air left my lungs. I set the coffee down on the bumper. Wyatt cleared the tailgate in one fluid motion, but I was closer. I threw myself between Maisie and the snarling blur of fur.
Maisie let out a squeak as Wyatt hauled her into the air.
The blue heeler lunged, teeth bared, snapping for my calf. Before the jaws could lock, Wren lunged forward. The cardboard tray tipped, lemonade sloshing over the rim and splattering the asphalt. She drove her boot down hard, the heel striking an inch from the dog’s nose.
"Get back!" she roared.
The dog skittered back with a yelp, its nails tearing at the ground until the leash jerked him up short. Holding the other end of the loop was Hayes.
He leaned his weight onto a cane with a shiny silver knob, and he wore a custom sport coat that cost more than a good saddle.
He had a sour, pinched-up face under thinning gray hair.
He looked more annoyed than anything else.
Didn't even bother checking to see if his dog had put its teeth in my leg.
His pale eyes slid past me and locked onto Dad.
"Tell your granddaughter to watch where she swings that stick," Hayes said. "Duke thought she was coming at him."
The last thread of my restraint snapped.
I closed the distance. Hayes recoiled, his silver-handled cane slipping and clanking into the gutter as I backed him against the brick wall.
I did not touch him, but I slammed my forearm inches from his ear, caging him. The impact sent a hard jolt through my bad shoulder, but I bit down and refused to flinch.
"Pick that up!" Hayes's voice went high and thin, his eyes going wide.
I crowded his space until he had no choice but to look at me. "Maisie needs hers too. This is the second time your dog has gone for her. There won’t be a third.”
"You back off right now, boy, or I will have the sheriff—"
"He’s backing off."
Dad’s hand landed on my shoulder. It was heavy and firm, pulling me back a step.
"But if that dog gets near my granddaughter again, Harlan, I will be the one putting hands on you. And I hit a hell of a lot harder than my son."
Hayes's face went purple. He looked at me, then at Dad, then at Wren, who was standing a few feet away with her fists clenched, looking ready to break his other leg.
"You Wilders are all the same," Hayes muttered.
I dropped my arm from the wall and took a step back, giving him just enough room to move. He bent awkwardly, his bad leg trembling, and fished his cane out of the gutter. With a sharp yank on the dog’s leash, he limped down the street without a backward glance.
Wren retrieved Maisie’s cane and brushed off the street grit.
Behind us, Wyatt was backed up against the truck, Maisie pressed tight to his chest. She wasn't screaming anymore, but she let out small, wet hiccups into his collar.
"You’re okay,” Wyatt murmured, rocking her. “He’s gone. We ran him off."
"My heart is beating too fast, Daddy."
"I know, baby. Mine too."
Sienna reached down, picked up the pale, lumpy pumpkin from where it had rolled under the bumper, and moved in slow.
"Hey, Maisie," she said.
Maisie sniffled and tilted her head toward her.
"I think you dropped this." She nudged it against Maisie's arm. "I really need your help with it, too. It feels strange. Can you tell me what animal it reminds you of?"
Maisie’s hand slowly uncurled from Wyatt’s shirt. She reached out, her fingers finding the warty skin.
"It is bumpy," she said.
"Yeah. What else?"
Maisie’s thumb traced a deep ridge. Her hitching breaths began to level out. "It has lumps. Like a toad."
Sienna smiled. "I knew you'd get it. I was thinking dinosaur, but you're right. It’s definitely more like a toad."
Maisie sniffled one last time, then wrapped both arms around the pumpkin and hugged it to her chest.
Wyatt closed his eyes and exhaled a long, heavy breath. He glanced over Maisie's head at Sienna. "Thank you," he said.
"Come on, sweetheart,” Dad said to Maisie. “Let us get in the truck. I’ll crank the air conditioning until we freeze, and you can pick the music."
He took her, pumpkin and all, and carried her to the cab. Wren followed, muttering a string of creative curses toward Harlan.
Wyatt pushed off the truck and started gathering the chalk pricing signs, his movements stiff.
I stood there staring at Sienna in the morning sun, feeling a sudden tightness in my throat. I wanted to pull her against my chest and kiss her. It took everything I had to stay rooted to the asphalt.
She stood beside me, twisting the lace at the bottom of her top between her fingers, watching the truck.
“Who was that man?" she asked quietly.
"Hayes." The name tasted like dirt in my mouth. "He owns half the land around Redbow. Thinks that means he owns the town, too."
"He seems like a monster."
"He's a piece of work. Last time his dog went for Maisie, Wyatt got in his face, and Hayes threatened to ruin the ranch. He’s got enough money and influence to actually do it, so we try not to poke the bear."
"But you just made him drop his cane."
"He let his dog go after Maisie. He's lucky the cane was the only thing that hit the ground."
She searched my face, her dark eyes softening. Then she looked at the truck.
Through the glare of the windshield, I saw Dad sitting with Maisie on his lap. He held her tiny hand, guiding her fingers to the radio dial so she could find a station.
The chatter of the market began to swell back around us, but the world felt like it had shrunk to the few inches between me and Sienna. I stopped caring who was watching.
I reached out, my rough hand cupping the back of her neck. My thumb slid into the soft hair there. She let out a long breath, the tension draining from her shoulders as she leaned into the touch.
A throat cleared loudly.
I dropped my hand like I had touched a hot branding iron.
Dad was standing by the truck, arms crossed over his chest, watching us. I hadn't even heard him get out.
"That was real smooth," Dad said. His voice was conversational. "What you did there."
Sienna’s face flooded with a bright, hot red.
"She is good under pressure,” I said. "Calming Maisie down with the pumpkin... it was a great idea."
Dad tilted his head. He looked at Sienna for a long beat, then shifted his blue eyes to mine.
"Wasn’t talking about the pumpkin," he said.
The silence stretched. He held my gaze until I felt the weight of the secret we’d been keeping. Then, without another word, he uncrossed his arms, turned, and climbed into the cab. The door shut with a thud.
I stood there in the dead, still air, staring at the window. My heart was hammering, but the panic did not come. Only a strange, clean sense of relief.
I was damn tired of sneaking around anyway. It wasn't how I was built.
The secret was out, Dad knew, and I wasn't going to apologize for it. I wanted everyone to know she was mine.