Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
SILAS
Eight years, and nothing’s changed—except everything.
I step out of my truck to Buzz’s barking. Old dog, can’t believe he’s still kicking. He rushes forward, ready to herd me into line. I meet him kneeling, taking warm licks to the face. Like this place is timeless. Like time weighs a little less heavy … for a couple of heartbeats.
The cold air burns my lungs. I half expect to see my adopted dad, William McCauley, mending fences in the distance or to hear Sage’s light laughter floating from the barn.
Instead, a lonely quiet settles in the marrow of my bones.
The wind cuts through my jacket like a knife, sharp enough to remind me why I left this place for Montana. But the ache that follows—hollow, bone-deep—reminds me why I came back.
The white beams of my headlights cut long shadows across the cottonwood where the swing I built for her still hangs.
My throat tightens, memories washing over me—the sunlight in her amber hair, the green of her snapping eyes, the dusting of cinnamon freckles across her nose and the tops of her rosy cheeks.
The taste of her, a forbidden flavor I shouldn’t know, flashes through me—her body melting against mine, the one moment I’ve never stopped reliving.
The sight of that swing twists something inside me. Something wrong I can’t make right.
Every mile between us was supposed to burn that feeling out of me. Eight years, and it still flares like it never left.
But I couldn’t ignore her texts. Couldn’t ignore her.
The air hangs heavy with pine as I step forward, drawn to the spot where she sits. Frozen mud crunches beneath my boots as my eyes trace her silhouette in the moonlight. She wears it like an icy crown, her breath lacing the air.
Snow drifts through the beams of the headlights, each flake catching light like ash. My pulse hammers louder than the engine still ticking behind me.
I hesitate, frost biting my skin as her eyes find mine. For one heartbeat, she’s sixteen again. The sight guts me.
“You came,” she says, steely, guarded. Her voice used to hold laughter. Now, it sounds like barbed wire wrapped in honey.
I draw closer, throat tight, unable to speak. The atmosphere grows thick with all we should say and don’t. I clench my jaw, eyes dangerously stinging as regret and shame flood me. And something else I can’t deny, though I’d give anything to no longer bear this burden—love.
“Your text sounded like you didn’t have anyone else to ask,” I manage, thick-voiced, drawing near.
I want to grab the ropes, push her until laughter fills the air. Pull her into my arms, lose myself in her mouth. The warmth of her lips hangs between us like a memory that won’t die. Maybe I don’t want it to.
She lifts her chin, defiant as ever. “You staying, then?”
I shrug. “At least, for a while.”
Her mouth twists, like she’s fighting a smile. Maybe I imagine it. My heart thuds so loud I’m sure she hears it.
“Come inside then, Brother,” she says like a knife to the heart, rising and floating past me, imperious as ever, the faint smell of vanilla lingering where she walks.
Her boots crackle through the frost. I follow at a distance, glancing over my shoulder at the swing swaying behind us.
Inside, the ranch looks exactly the same, and yet so much is different.
So much Dad would roll over in his grave to see: stacks of unpaid bills, like violence, across the dining-room table that once meant hospitality.
The woodstove’s cold, coffee grounds crusted in the pot, hearth cold.
No Christmas decorations. No warmth or cheer.
I strip off my gloves, the chill biting. “What’re you trying to turn this place into a refrigerator?” I grumble, striding to the hearth. I eye the meager woodpile. “This all you’ve got?”
She nods.
“Walter?” I ask, forcing the name out.
“Passed out in the old bunkhouse.” Her face is indifferent, her voice brittle with pain.
“Some things never change,” I say. Heat rises in my chest. Her eyes spark. Too much meaning in one sentence.
“Herd moved to winter pasture yet?”
She nods.
“At least, Walter’s still good for something, then.”
“Actually,” she says evenly, “I helped Ralph and the other hands move them.”
“You?” I arch a brow.
“Someone had to,” she says, shields rising. Her tone—and the look in her eyes—wrecks me. She has every reason not to trust anyone, least of all me.
My gaze drops to her hands, clasped so tightly her knuckles are white. Those small hands once fit perfectly inside mine.
I used to think I could protect her from anything—storms, men, the world. Turns out the danger was always me.
“Better deal with Walter,” I say flatly.
“What difference does it make?”
“You called me here to help with the ranch. That starts with getting the foreman sober.”
“He never should’ve been foreman,” she whispers.
I shift my weight. “After how I repaid your dad’s kindness, what else did you expect?”
Memory washes over me in a sickening wave. Eight Christmases ago, when Sage’s father—my adopted dad—caught us kissing under the mistletoe.
I eye the spot where it happened, head echoing the angry tirade of words that followed. The hurt, the betrayal. The night our family, our world ended. At least, for me.
“Your dad, too,” she reminds, and I hang my head.
“Makes it worse,” I manage.
We haven’t spoken of the kiss since that night, the night I left home—severed ties, joined the Marine Corps, vanished. Now, it hangs between us like a curse.
I can’t have this conversation with her. I wheel around and head for the abandoned bunkhouse. The cold air hits harder when I push outside, each breath a punishment I probably deserve. I can feel her following behind me, though I don’t acknowledge it.
Inside, Walter’s passed out, muttering in his sleep like he’s apologizing to ghosts.
I grit my teeth, lean down, and cover him with the blanket he’s thrown off. My brother. My adopted brother. Never a day passed that he didn’t remind me of it.
“He wasn’t always like this,” Sage says softly.
Her words hit like lightning. Maybe she’s talking about Walter—but it feels aimed at us.
“Neither was I,” I mutter.
Silence settles, broken only by wind whistling around the eaves. The weight of those three words nearly buckles me. I can’t stay here another minute.
I turn for the door and my truck.
Sage follows. “Wait, are you leaving?”
“Probably should,” I grumble, shoulders hunched. Sage has too many problems for me to fix. And yet the pull to stay is too strong.
“Just like you did the last time.”
I stop dead. Stare at my boots.
“You think leaving fixed it? You think I didn’t pay the price, too?”
Her words hang between us like smoke. I can feel her anger and hurt, the heat of it crawling across the distance until it finds me.
I turn. She nearly collides with me. We stop inches apart, breaths mingling. My resolve hangs by one brittle thread.
“You were sixteen, Sage. My sister, for heaven’s sake. I had no right—”
“Then, why does it feel like you do?”
Snow drifts between us, fat flakes gliding through the cold air. Her cheeks flush, chin trembling. Our eyes lock, and for one split second there’s nothing but wanting.
“I don’t,” I say firmly. “And I’m not leaving. Just turning off the truck, getting my overnight bag.”
“Oh.” Her face is unreadable.
As we trudge toward the house, Buzz following at our heels, my heart feels like lead.
I shouldn’t have come back. But now that I have, I don’t know how to leave her again.
When I start toward the bunkhouse, Sage stops me. “Sleep in the main house. I’ve got the guest bedroom ready for you.”
My throat tightens. The idea of sleeping under the same roof again sets every nerve on fire. She’s older now—curves where there once was innocence—and the sight of her sparks both heat and disgrace.
I tell myself it’s just the years that changed her. But deep down I know it’s me—the man I became, the one she still looks at like he’s worth saving.
I half turn at the entryway. Through the swirl of flurries, the swing in the old cottonwood creaks softly, bobbing in the wind as if remembering everything I’ve tried to forget.