Chapter 31
thirty-one
. . .
SIENNA
When we soft-launched the Wild Sage Ranch social media accounts two weeks ago, I drew a hard line: the family could be involved, but their privacy came first.
I tapped the screen, locking the focus. Keeping the camera angled from the knees down, I captured Wyatt’s heavy, scarred leather cowboy boots scuffing through the leaves beside Maisie’s pink ones, which lit up with every step.
"Wyatt, just match her pace," I called out, crouching low in the dirt driveway.
He chuckled, adjusting his grip on her small hand.
"You are walking too slow, Daddy!" she protested.
"I know, bug. You're leaving me in the dust."
I smiled as Maisie stepped firmly onto a pile of dry cottonwood leaves, crunching them.
"Got it," I said, stopping the recording and brushing the dirt off my knees.
The clip performed even better than I’d hoped. Engagement was through the roof. People were loving the Wilder family.
Yesterday, Colt had taken it upon himself to film a "review" of every Outlaw energy drink flavor they’d sent us. The video peaked when he strolled out to the paddocks and tried pouring a splash of “Blue Raspberry Rush” into Dusty’s water container to see if the mare wanted a boost.
Brock slapped the can out of his hand, yelling that if the horse got hold of taurine, he’d throw the rest of the drinks in the trash. I had to cut those parts out, but an hour after I posted the edited version, Outlaw’s rep emailed asking for a whole series.
I spent the rest of the morning at my laptop, riding the high of climbing metrics and conversion rates.
Silas had also tried one of the Outlaw drinks yesterday and delivered his verdict in classic deadpan style.
"Tastes pretty good," he’d said, pushing the can away. "But I reckon if you drink enough of this, you don’t need a horse to buck you off. Your own heart will do it for you."
The comments flooded with people begging for more of the “savage cowboy grandpa.”
"Hey, you’re burning a hole in that screen."
I looked up. Brock was leaning against the kitchen door, freshly showered. He wore a sage green thermal henley, and his dark hair was damp, curling slightly. He smiled as he crossed the room, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
"You should go get ready, Starlin’. We’ve got to leave for Sheridan in twenty minutes."
My stomach flipped. The flight. I’d been so deep in the numbers I hadn’t even noticed the time.
An hour later, I was standing at the baggage carousel in the tiny Sheridan airport. The sliding glass exit doors were right next to the belt, letting in a blast of cold wind every time someone walked through.
Mara appeared, dragging a massive suitcase behind her. She was wearing a gray cashmere sweater she’d stolen from my closet, paired with a stylish wool coat that looked wildly out of place among all the Carhartt jackets.
"Sienna!" She launched herself across the linoleum and threw her arms around my neck. "Oh my god, you smell so nice."
I laughed, hugging her back tightly. "It’s my new soap. I’ll get you a bar."
She pulled away, holding me at arm’s length. "Look at you, wearing cowboy boots! And that hat! I want one too."
I grinned. "I’ll get you one. How were midterms?"
"Brutal, but I survived." Mara looked past my shoulder, her eyes going wide. "Oh. Wow."
I turned to see Brock walking toward us, having just paid the parking meter. He stopped beside me and slid an arm around my waist.
"Mara, this is Brock," I said. "Brock, this is the genius of the family."
"Nice to meet you, Mara." Brock offered her an easy smile and reached down to take the handle of her suitcase. "Heard a lot about you."
Mara blinked. “Sienna didn't exaggerate. The videos don't really capture how tall you are."
He let out a short laugh. "Guess I look smaller on a phone screen. Come on, truck’s this way."
The drive back to Wild Sage passed in a blur of catching up. Mara fought off yawns for the first half, still tired from the journey, but the moment we turned onto the long dirt road leading to the ranch, she shot upright in her seat, pressing her face to the window to watch the horses.
When we finally pulled into the yard, the whole family was waiting on the porch.
Wren bounded down the steps before the truck was even in park. "You must be Mara! Sienna told me you were dying to get on a horse, so I'm officially claiming you tomorrow. I’ll teach you how to ride like a barrel racer."
Mara grinned. "Yes, please! I have zero experience, but I learn fast."
"Hey, hold on," Colt protested, stepping up to the wooden railing. He pushed his hat back, shooting Mara his best, most charming smile. "Don't listen to her. Barrel racers just teach you how to go fast and fall off. I’m the fun brother. I’ll teach you the real way to ride."
Wren scoffed, elbowing Colt out of the way. "You tried to get on a practice horse last Tuesday and got bucked."
"He sneezed unexpectedly!" Colt argued, throwing his hands up. "It was a tactical dismount!"
Mara laughed, her eyes bright as she watched the siblings bicker.
Maisie carefully came down the porch steps, holding the railing. Wyatt stayed close behind her. She reached out toward Mara’s voice. "Hi, can I touch your hair? Sienna let me when she got here."
Mara crouched down. "Sure."
Maisie ran her small hands lightly over her hair for a moment, then smiled. "It’s soft."
Silas chuckled low in his throat, tipped his hat to Mara, and held the heavy oak door open. "Alright, everyone, come on inside. Chili’s getting cold."
The house felt incredibly full that night. Silas had made a massive pot of venison chili and jalapeno cornbread, and the kitchen quickly turned into a loud, chaotic mess of overlapping voices and clattering plates. Mara jumped right in, bantering with the siblings like she’d known them for years.
As soon as the dishes were cleared, Wren grabbed Mara’s hand and dragged us both upstairs to her bedroom. We happily shed our denim and changed into pajamas.
"Okay, the itinerary is set," Wren announced, throwing three fluffy blankets onto the carpet. "Pajama party. Wine, face masks, and we are giving Mara the official cowgirl crash course so she’s fully prepared to deal with horses and Colt tomorrow."
A soft rap sounded on the wood. "You said my name? Can I come in?" Colt shouted, though his head popped around the open doorframe before anyone could even answer. "I heard a wine cork pop."
"Girls only, Colt," Wren said, pointing a stern finger at the door. "Out."
"That's not fair! I want in on the gossip. Let me stay, and I'll go into town for pizza!"
"You don't even like face masks."
"Not true. My pores are clogged, Wren. The dust out here is a nightmare for my T-zone."
At that, I laughed so hard my stomach ached. A second later, Brock appeared in the hallway. He grabbed Colt by the back of his shirt collar and hauled him backward into the hall.
"Leave them alone," Brock muttered, sounding extra grumpy. "And stop yelling about pizza, some of us are actually trying to eat clean."
I caught Brock’s eye just before the door shut. He gave me a quick wink, and the lock clicked into place.
I sat on the floor and passed a plastic cup of wine to Mara. Wren queued up a terrible romantic comedy, slathered a thick green clay mask over her cheeks, and dropped onto the pile of blankets with a dramatic sigh.
For the first half of the movie, we mostly roasted the main character’s terrible decisions. But once we opened the second bottle of wine, the conversation drifted away from the screen.
"So," Mara said, pulling her knees to her chest. "Is Colt always that… much?"
"Worse," Wren said, already a little tipsy. "You’re getting the polite, guest-friendly version. Usually, he doesn’t even knock."
"It must be wild growing up with so many brothers. Do you guys ever get any privacy?"
"Barely. Someone’s always around."
Mara grinned. "Still, at least the scenery’s gorgeous. And, with all these cowboys around, you must have some good dating stories, right?"
Wren snorted, nearly spilling her drink. "Please. Everyone in Redbow is either related to me, or I've watched them eat dirt in kindergarten. There is zero mystery left in this town."
“Aw, come on,” I said. “There has to be someone. At the rodeos? Some guy you met in the city?”
Wren waved her cup lazily. “Rodeos are great, but dating in that crowd gets messy fast. And guys from the city… I don’t know, they’re just not my thing.” She took another sip. “Still… I can’t say there aren’t any good ones around here, though.”
Mara’s eyes lit up. "Who?"
"His name was Hunter," Wren said, leaning her head back against the edge of the bed. "He was my oldest brother’s best friend. He practically lived here when we were growing up, and I had the biggest, most obvious crush on him for years."
"Did anything happen?" Mara asked, leaning forward.
Wren let out a sharp laugh. "God, no. He’s ten years older than me."
Mara grinned. "Ah, so you’re into older guys. Love a silver fox?"
"Are you calling me old?" Wren threw a popcorn kernel at her. "He can’t have gray hair yet—I’m only twenty-two."
She let out a long breath, staring up at the ceiling.
"It doesn’t matter anyway. I haven’t seen him since I was a teen. After my brother Knox left, Hunter only stuck around for a few more months. He was really pissed at us for how we handled everything, so eventually... he just packed up and vanished too."
A heavy knot formed in my stomach. The last thing I wanted tonight was Mara accidentally ripping open old family wounds by asking too many questions about their estranged brother. I held my breath.
Thankfully, she just smiled and raised her plastic cup. "Well, here’s to outgrowing dumb childhood crushes."
I let out a quiet exhale of relief.
Wren grinned and tapped her cup against ours. "I’ll drink to that." She pointed at the screen. "Now shh, the male lead is about to ruin his suede jacket in the rain."
We spent the rest of the night laughing until our sides hurt, mostly because Moose kept sneaking into the room to steal popcorn and wedge his giant body between us. By midnight, Mara was passed out sideways across the blankets with one arm draped over the dog, and my eyelids were growing heavy.
Over the next week, it became obvious why Brock had been so grumpy about the pizza talk. He was deep in training mode: strict diet, resistance band workouts, and cutting out all the heavy diner food. Wren was personally offended.
"I'm just saying, bacon grease is a food group in this house," she grumbled one morning, staring at Brock’s plate of egg whites and spinach. "You’re eating like a rabbit. It’s unnatural."
But the hardest part wasn't the food; it was the ice.
Late October brought freezing nights and frost by mid-afternoon. Brock had loaded a portable, heavy-duty canvas plunge tub and four coolers of ice into the back of the ranch’s UTV.
We drove up the rocky trail to the Painted Basins, where thick steam rose from the natural hot springs.
Brock set the tub on a flat rock right beside the largest pool.
He then grabbed a long hose, walked it back out through the narrow opening in the rock wall, down to the cold creek that ran outside the canyon.
He started pumping freezing water into the tub.
Once it was full, he dumped in several bags of ice. The cubes hissed as they hit the water.
Wearing only red athletic shorts, Brock stared down at the tub. The soft light caught the yellowing bruises along his ribs.
"You don’t have to do the full five minutes today," I said, zipping my parka up to my chin.
"Doc said five minutes cold, then straight into the hot water. Gotta shock the shoulder."
He stepped over the edge and lowered himself in. The second the icy water hit his chest, he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Breathe," I said, stepping up to the tub. I started the timer on my phone.
Brock closed his eyes, gripping the rim. His breathing was fast and shallow. I reached out and covered his freezing knuckles with my warm hands. He opened his eyes and focused on me. Slowly, he matched his breathing to mine.
"Three minutes," I whispered.
He gave a tight nod.
When the timer buzzed, Brock stood with a sharp gasp, his skin flushed bright red. He stepped out of the ice tub and moved straight into the steaming turquoise spring.
He sank in with a long, ragged groan, lowering himself until the water reached his chin, his head resting back against the smooth limestone ledge.
I set my phone aside, kicked off my boots, and stripped down. The freezing air bit my skin for the few seconds it took me to grab my flip-flops and slip into the hot water with him.
The wind howled above the canyon, but down here it was warm and quiet. I waded over and settled on the underwater ledge behind him. He leaned back between my legs, resting his head against my collarbone.
“You’re tense,” I murmured, pressing my thumbs into the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders.
“Hate feeling fragile,” he grumbled, but he melted into my touch as the heat soaked into him.
“I know it’s hard,” I said, working my thumbs along his shoulder blades. “But you’re doing great. Let me take care of you.”
His wet hand rose from the water, catching my wrist. He pulled my palm forward and pressed it flat against his chest. His thumb stroked my knuckles.
“I want to be the one taking care of you,” he said quietly.
“You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore. Let me help.”
He let out a slow, heavy breath. The last of the tension finally drained from his body.
“I’m trying,” he said, voice low and rough.
I kissed his temple, steam curling around us. “I know. Vegas is six weeks away. You’ll be ready.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, tightening his grip on my hand. “I will be.”