Epilogue
. . .
SIENNA
Spring had finally arrived in Wyoming, and it felt damn good.
After months of freezing cold and snow piled up to the top of the paddock fences, the weather had finally turned. The mountains stood tall with their snow-covered peaks glowing in the sun. All across Wild Sage, the pastures were exploding into a bright, fresh green.
I stood by the open window of my perfume studio and let the breeze wash over my face. The scent of damp earth, sweetgrass, and pine drifted in.
I took a deep breath, picked up a glass pipette, and added three drops of juniper oil into the bottle resting on my scale.
Wild Sage Botanicals was thriving. My February fragrance launch sold out in a month, with the signature scent Wild Sage leading the way.
The women’s version combined soft, warm notes of jasmine, sweet vanilla, and sage, while the men’s featured a richer, earthier blend of sage, cedar, juniper, and leather.
I fitted the little spray nozzle back onto the amber bottle, wiping a smudge of oil off the label with my thumb.
"Auntie Sienna!"
I turned just as Maisie came hurtling around the corner from the hallway, her white cane tapping a rapid, erratic rhythm against the hardwood floor.
She’d started calling me “Auntie” two months ago, and it still made my chest tight every single time. Wren and Colt loved to tease us about it, constantly taking bets on when Brock was finally going to “make it official.”
I just let them talk. Brock and I made decisions the same way we did everything else now: together. And right now, our priority was the plot of land out by the apple trees, where the wooden frame of our new cabin had just gone up.
"I'm right here, bug," I said, catching her as she barreled into my legs.
"Daddy said I can have a perfume lesson after dinner," she announced proudly, pulling back. "I want to make a new one. The last one was too flowery. I want it to smell like Moose."
"You want to smell like Moose?" I asked, suppressing a grin.
"No, I want it to smell like where he sleeps," she clarified, her small brow furrowing. "Like under the porch. It smells warm."
"Earthy base notes," I nodded, matching her professional tone. "I respect the vision. We’ll look at some vetiver and patchouli tonight."
Maisie beamed, her gap-toothed smile lighting up her face. She tapped her way back out into the hallway, shouting for her dad.
I stood up, shaking my head with a soft laugh. I slipped the amber bottle into the front pocket of my denim apron and headed downstairs toward the kitchen.
The door to the back porch was propped open, letting in the sounds of the season’s first barbecue—Silas’s low laugh, the sizzle of meat on the grill, and Colt talking loudly.
When I got to the kitchen, I found Brock leaning against the center island with a cold Coors Light in his hand. He was wearing a faded gray T-shirt and denim jeans, his dark hair messy from wearing a hat all day. He looked relaxed.
Thanks to the success of Wild Sage on social media and the funds it brought in, he wasn’t chasing world standings or punishing his body anymore. This year, he was finally riding for the love of the sport.
He had said he wanted Cody, Cheyenne, and the Thermopolis Rendezvous. The last one, mostly because the last time they went, Colt got drunk and accidentally bid on a miniature donkey at the livestock auction. Brock wanted to see if he’d do it again.
The corner of Brock’s mouth curved up when he saw me. He set his beer down on the granite counter, reached out, and pulled me flush against his chest.
“You smell like a walking meadow,” he murmured, burying his face in my neck.
The rough, delicious scratch of his stubble grazed my skin as he pressed a warm kiss just below my ear.
I smiled and leaned into him. “Occupational hazard.”
I slipped my hand into my apron pocket, pulled out the small amber bottle, and pressed it against his chest.
“I finished the new batch of your custom blend. The last one needed a little more juniper to balance the cedar.”
He took the bottle, his mouth curving into a slow smile. He popped the black cap off and spritzed a sharp burst onto the side of his neck, then rubbed his wrist against it.
Colt walked in with a slice of red bell pepper in his hand. He took a bite, then stopped chewing and sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling.
“Are you wearing that spray again?” he groaned. “The guys in the chutes are gonna laugh your ass out of the arena if you show up smelling like that.”
Brock didn’t even glance at him. He just tightened his arm around my waist.
“Let them,” he said with a shrug. “My girl loves it. That’s good enough for me.”
I laughed and looked over at Colt. “Manly men can smell good too, you know. You should try it sometime. Might help with the whole girlfriend situation.”
Colt let out a gasp and pointed the half-eaten bell pepper at me. “That was one time. I said it once after three beers at the Wagon Wheel. And I didn’t say I wanted a girlfriend. I just said it’d be nice to have someone look at me the way you look at this grouch.”
Brock let out a rough laugh, the low vibration traveling through the arm he’d wrapped around me.
“Keep talkin’. We both know you’re jealous as hell.”
Colt rolled his eyes so hard I thought he might pull a muscle. "I’m going outside to help Dad with the grill. I can’t be in here anymore. The romance is making me sick."
He grabbed two more bell peppers from the fridge and left.
The moment we were alone, Brock set his beer down. He turned me to face him, and in one easy motion lifted me onto the edge of the granite counter. I let out a soft gasp as he stepped between my knees, his hands sliding up my thighs and pushing my denim apron aside.
“He’s right, you know,” he murmured.
I looped my arms around his neck. “About what?”
“About the way you look at me. Makes it damn hard to focus on running a ranch or finishing our cabin.”
“I think you manage just fine.”
“Barely.”
His blue eyes locked onto mine. Then, he tilted my chin up and kissed me.
The kiss was deep and hungry, his mouth claiming mine until my pulse raced.
I tasted cold beer on his tongue. I breathed in the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne. My fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. A low groan rumbled in his throat as his hands moved around my thighs, holding me tighter.
For a long moment, nothing else existed.
When he finally pulled back, our breathing was rough and uneven.
"I could stay here all day," he muttered, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my inner thigh.
“Me too. But your dad is making his famous jalapeno cheddar burgers. If we don’t get out there soon, Colt will eat them all.”
He let out a heavy sigh. He stepped back, hands sliding down to my waist, and lifted me off the counter. My boots met the floor with a soft thud.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go wrangle the idiot.”
We went to join the barbecue. The afternoon sun bathed the yard in warm, golden light. Silas stood at the charcoal grill, flipping thick burger patties as smoke curled into the blue sky.
Sitting bolt upright beside his left boot, with his eyes fixed hopefully on the grill, was Moose.
“Don’t give him any, Dad,” Wyatt chuckled from the bottom of the porch steps, where he was tossing a rubber ball with Maisie. “He’ll get a stomach ache from the jalapeno again.”
Moose didn’t move. He let out a soft whine, tail thumping once against the grass.
When Wyatt wasn’t looking, Silas discreetly tossed a small, charred piece of meat down. Moose caught it out of the air before it even hit the ground, swallowing it whole.
I laughed, leaning my hip against the wooden porch railing, taking in the lively yard.
“Where’s Wren?” I asked.
Colt groaned. He was sprawled across a lawn chair like he had no bones left in his body.
“She went into Redbow to get beer almost an hour ago. I’m dying out here.” He shot a glare at Brock. “And someone drank the last two. I’m withering away. If she’s not back in five minutes, I’m drinking the marinade.”
“You drank two beers while I was out feeding the horses this morning,” Brock replied dryly, leaning against the rail. “You’ll survive.”
“That was morning beer! It doesn’t count toward afternoon hydration.”
The sound of tires crunching up the gravel driveway made us all turn. Wren’s silver pickup came flying around the bend, kicking up a thick cloud of dust. She hit the brakes hard enough to make the truck rock.
Colt pushed himself up from the lawn chair with a relieved sigh. “Finally. I hope she remembered the lime wedges.”
He stopped short.
Wren pushed open the driver's door and climbed out empty-handed, just her keys gripped tight in her fist. She walked toward us and halted a few feet away. Her face was pale. Her eyes flicked from me to her brothers.
"Are you okay?" Colt asked, his voice careful now. "You were gone a long time."
"Sorry," she said, her voice thin. "I didn't buy anything."
“Wren?” I said quietly. “What happened?”
She swallowed. “I just saw him. He’s back.”
For a second, no one moved. The only sound was the low hiss of the grill. Beside me, Brock’s hand slipped from my waist. I glanced down. His hands curled into fists at his side.
“Knox is back?” Brock asked, his voice low.
She shook her head. A flush was starting to creep back into her cheeks. “No. It’s Hunter. I just… I wasn’t expecting to see him. It threw me.”
Colt rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. Brock let out a slow breath through his nose, shoulders still rigid as he stared at his sister. Neither of them spoke.
I reached out to hold Brock’s hand, and he squeezed once, but kept his eyes on Wren.
It took a second for the name to land. Then a memory surfaced from a late night in Wren's bedroom with a bottle of wine between us.
Hunter. Knox’s best friend. The one who practically lived at the ranch, right up until he disappeared a few months after Knox did. The one Wren swore she was over.
He was back in Redbow. And looking at her pale face, and the way she was crushing her car keys in her fist, I knew one thing for certain.
This wasn’t about some old crush.