Chapter 13
Will and I head back to Broken Heart Creek the next day.
Unfortunately, he booked the flight. Which means I’m stuck in a window seat with him right beside me shoulder-to-shoulder for three hours of thin air and unresolved feelings.
I keep my gaze fixed on my laptop, fingers flying over keys as I work on an article about Nash. It’s easier to focus on formatting quotes and cleaning up transitions than it is to acknowledge the man next to me.
We haven’t talked. Not since last night. He’s been quiet. Brooding. Classic Will. And I’ve been pretending like that silence doesn’t suffocate.
At one point, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and smile before I can stop myself.
Nash Kimzey
Made it home. Natalie and I are planning a revenge brunch. Pancakes and ignoring the internet.
Hope your flight’s smooth, cowgirl.
Will shifts beside me. Leans in. Reads the message.
His voice is low, clipped. “Isn’t your phone supposed to be on airplane mode?”
I snort without looking at him. “Wow. That’s what you’ve got? Airplane etiquette?”
He leans back in his seat, jaw tight.
I keep typing, pretending I don’t feel the heat radiating off him. Pretending his presence doesn’t still reach under my skin. But it does. And this flight? Just got longer.
The plane lands in Sheridan, and as soon as we step out onto the tarmac, the wind hits my face like a slap or maybe a reminder.
You’re back in Wyoming now, sweetheart. No more hiding.
We walk in silence through the tiny terminal.
No one says a word, and maybe that’s the safest option.
Inside, Will grabs our bags without asking.
Carries them like it's nothing. Like he hasn’t been simmering in silence since takeoff.
Like the tension between us hasn’t been buzzing louder than the engines.
Outside, the sky stretches wide and cloudless, so painfully blue it almost hurts to look at. The air is crisp and cleaner than Texas. It smells like dust and pine and home. My chest tightens.
Will’s truck is parked out front, the same beat-up beast it’s always been. Familiar. Uncomplicated. Unlike everything else. I climb in. Buckle up. Fold my hands in my lap and stare out the windshield like this is just another ride home.
Then I make the mistake of looking at him.
His profile is sharp. Jaw clenched, one hand gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The muscle in his forearm flexes as he shifts into gear, and my stomach coils because I know that silence. I know exactly what it’s covering.
Rage.
Regret.
Restraint.
I look away quickly, swallowing down the storm rising in my chest. Because if I let myself look too long, I’ll remember everything his hands said that his mouth still hasn’t. And I’ll ask for more.
We drive all the way to Broken Heart Creek without a word between us. Just the hum of the tires on the road, the wind outside, and the echo of what I just said hanging in the air like smoke.
When he finally pulls behind Knot and Spur, he kills the engine and turns toward me as I reach for the door handle.
“Phern.”
I pause.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts, then stops. “I just… I’ve never seen you smile at someone the way you smiled at him.”
I turn to him slowly, keeping my voice even. “Maybe because he never made me feel like I had to earn it.”
Then I open the door. And I don’t look back.
My peace lasts exactly one hour.
That’s how long it takes before Sam and Charlie show up at my place. No text, no warning. Just the sound of a familiar truck in the driveway and two sets of determined footsteps at my door.
Probably because Will told them I was home.
I open the door with a sigh already forming in my chest, but Charlie’s holding baby Sam, and all my irritation dissolves in one breath.
“Oh my God,” I coo, taking the baby from her arms. “I swear he’s grown since I saw him last.”
Charlie laughs, stepping inside behind me. “I think so, too. He’s already outgrown every newborn outfit we bought. Sam says he eats like a linebacker.”
I cradle the baby close, inhaling that sweet, powdery scent. It's grounding and pure. Everything else fades for a second.
But not everything. Because I can feel it. The weight of Sam's stare on me, steady and unmoving.
Charlie heads toward the kitchen to grab water, giving us space.
I don’t bother dancing around it.
I glance at my brother and sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Don’t know what you mean.”
“Come on,” I say, adjusting baby Sam in my arms. “I’m sure Will called you the moment he pulled out of my driveway.”
Sam lifts his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “We just want to make sure you’re fine. That’s a lot for anyone to go through. God knows you know how I feel about the internet.”
I force a smile. “I’m totally fine.”
His brow lifts just slightly. “You don’t have to pretend with us.”
“I’m not pretending,” I say, a little too fast. “I’m just not in the mood to be dissected right now.”
He watches me for a beat longer, then nods like he gets it even if he doesn’t.
Charlie reappears with two glasses of water and a softness in her eyes that I’m grateful for. She touches my arm. “You don’t have to talk. We can just sit.”
And that? That’s the kind of love that doesn’t feel like pressure. So I sink into the couch, baby Sam nestled against my chest, and let the quiet settle between us.
But my dumb brother has to ruin the moment by asking, “So, is it serious with Nash?”
I snort. “God, please tell me we’re not doing this.”
“It’s just a question.”
“Yeah? Well, notice how I didn’t ask anything when you and Charlie first got together?”
Sam raises a brow. “So it is serious.”
I groan, adjusting baby Sam in my arms as a shield. “It’s not serious. We went out to eat, then dancing. The photos made it look ten times bigger than it was.”
He watches me, too quiet.
“And the one where he was kissing you the next morning?” he asks, like he’s genuinely trying to keep it neutral.
I shrug. “I’m grown.”
“That you are, little sister.” He exhales, running a hand down his face. “I guess I just feel protective. I keep wondering what Dad would do right now.”
That hits like a gut punch. The tears hit the backs of my eyes before I can stop them.
“Well now you’re making me feel like an asshole,” I murmur, blinking fast. “For the record, I think Dad would do the same thing you’re doing. Even if it annoyed the hell out of me.”
We share a look—equal parts fond and aching.
“Just know that we’re here for you, Phern,” Sam says gently. “Will, too. He was worried when those photos hit.”
I cringe at the mention of Will’s name.
But I keep my voice even. “I know you’re here. And I appreciate it. Really.”
Sam nods, and the room falls quiet again for a breath.
Then, mercifully, Charlie jumps in.
“Sam told me about the articles you’re doing,” she says, her voice bright and warm. “If you’d like I’d love to help.”
I blink at her. “Seriously? I can’t believe I didn’t think to reach out to you before.”
Charlie used to be a reporter before she married Sam.
I grin. “I absolutely want your help. That is if you’re serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” she says, already moving to clear space on the table like we’re diving into battle.
I grab my laptop, still open from earlier, and flip it around to show her what I’ve been working on—notes, quotes, rough outlines. She leans in immediately, scanning the screen with laser focus.
“Okay,” she murmurs, pointing to a sentence. “Let’s tighten this. And this stat could use a source. Also I know a few people from my byline days who might have good stories about the Pbr circuit, if you want them.”
My heart swells a little. This is what I needed. Not a fight. Not another emotional detour. Just this. Purpose. Progress. Someone who sees the work and respects it.
Somewhere between edits and laughter, Sam stands and heads for the door. “I’ll be at Flowers End if you need me.”
“Don’t start a bar fight,” I call out.
He smirks. “Only if it’s worth it.”
And then he’s gone. Just me, Charlie, a sleeping baby Sam, and the blinking cursor of something finally taking shape.
The month blurs.
I tell myself it's because I'm busy. That I’m focused. That I’ve got too much going on to think about Will and what he said in the truck. And maybe that’s true. Most days.
Charlie and I fall into a rhythm that feels good.
Comfortable. She shows up every morning with coffee and that old reporter gleam in her eye, ready to dive in.
We build the calendar for the Love Lost Rodeo together.
Line up interviews, chase down quotes, plan coverage like it’s our own tiny newsroom. It’s chaos. It’s exhausting.
And I love it.
We spend long nights in my living room with draft pages scattered across the floor. Some nights we talk more than we work. About the riders. The old rodeo stories. About what it’s like to leave one version of yourself behind to become someone else.
In all this time I manage to avoid Will.
Well, not really. I see him more than I want to, and when I do, I hurry to be anywhere else.
I cross the street when his truck pulls into Flowers End.
I pretend to be on a call when he walks into the feed store.
When I have to be in the same space, I sit as far from him as I can. That’s life in a small town, though.
He doesn’t push. Not directly. But I feel him watching. And every time my phone buzzes, part of me wonders if it’s him.
Nash texts every now and then, always light. Thoughtful. He doesn’t press, just reminds me I’ve got people in my corner.
Sam hovers. Brings over food. Checks in under the guise of “how’s the article going?
” but I see the way he studies my face when I’m not looking.
I keep telling him I’m fine. It’s not a lie.
Not exactly. It’s just that fine doesn’t mean fixed.
It means I get out of bed. I hit my self-imposed deadlines. I show up.