Chapter 5 #2
“All done.” Rowan released Huck’s hand and began cleaning up the first aid supplies. “Keep it dry for a day or two, and change the bandage tomorrow.”
The microwave beeped and saved her from bursting into crazy tears.
She pulled the plate out and set it on the table. Grabbed a fork.
Huck took a chair and dug in. “My dad was a soldier.”
She stilled.
Rowan sat in the chair opposite him. “Really.”
“Yeah. He died though. Before I was born.” Huck shoveled the noodles into his mouth, wearing much of the sauce on his chin. “Right, Mom?”
Oh. “Right.” She met Rowan’s eyes. “Good man.”
Rowan drew in a breath. “I see.”
She turned away. So maybe…oh, no, no. How was she supposed to do this?
A knock came at the door, and she looked over to see his friend come in. Dark hair, a military build. “I’m getting a ride to town with the fire crew. I’ll find my own wheels. You coming?”
Rowan looked at Sierra, back to him. “I’m sticking around here.”
The man glanced at Sierra, back to Rowan. “Alrighty then. Stay frosty.” He shook his head and headed out.
“What does that mean?” Huck said.
“Oh, it’s just a military term that means, you know, watch out for danger. Stay alert.”
“Like be careful?”
Rowan glanced at Sierra. “Something like that.”
She frowned, then walked over to Huck. He’d finished his food. “You need to get to bed. It’s way past your bedtime.”
“But I’m not tired.” Huck’s eyelids drooped as he said it.
“Nice try. Upstairs, teeth brushed, in bed in ten minutes.”
“Can Rowan tell me a story?”
Sierra felt her carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble.
“I don’t think—”
“I’d be happy to,” Rowan said quietly. “If it’s okay with your mom.”
Sierra looked at her son’s hopeful face, then at Rowan’s steady gaze. “One story. Then bed.”
“Yes!” Huck pumped his good fist in the air. “Come on, Rowan. My room’s upstairs.”
Oh boy.
But she needed a hot minute here to gather her thoughts. She rinsed the plate, then put it in the dishwasher, then wiped the table and then…just stood at the window above the sink and stared out at the barn’s remains.
How could it be that she got Rowan back the same day she nearly lost him?
She pressed the towel to her face, shaking.
The sound of Rowan’s voice drifted down from upstairs, too quiet to make out words but carrying the cadence of someone spinning a tale. Huck’s occasional laughter punctuated the narrative.
What was he doing here, in her house, tucking her son into bed like he belonged here? And every minute he stayed…
Except he wasn’t staying, was he? His expression on the street when she’d asked him exactly that told her…
I don’t know.
No, he wasn’t planning on sticking around. Which meant she couldn’t count on him. Not really.
Which of course, she knew. But how could she tell Huck about his father, only to have him break his little heart?
And yes, Rowan deserved to know. But not if he planned on walking away.
“He’s asleep,” Rowan said, coming down the stairs. “Kid was exhausted.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Story about a soldier and his team who had to rescue some villagers from a flood. Nothing scary, just teamwork and problem-solving.”
“He likes adventure stories.”
“I figured. He’s got good questions too. Smart kid.”
Sierra’s throat tightened. “He gets that from his father.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Rowan went still.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Sierra.” He stood at the bottom of the stairs. “He must have been a good man.”
His gaze found hers. She just stared at him. Really? But, “He was.” The truth felt heavy on her tongue. “Huck doesn’t remember him, obviously. But I tell him stories.”
“That’s important. A boy should know about his father.”
Sierra nodded. Instead of running. But in her head, she was sprinting. “I should make up the bed in the guest room,” she said instead and started down the hall.
“Sierra.”
Something in his voice made her turn. He was standing in the middle of her kitchen, hands at his sides.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “For letting me stay. For letting me help with Huck. I know this isn’t easy for you.”
“You saved his life. It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s more than that. You could have sent me to a hotel, could have kept your distance. Instead, you’re letting me into your home.”
She folded her arms. “Don’t read too much into it. This is about safety, not sentiment.”
“I know.” He offered a smile. She looked away from its devastating power. “Still. Thank you.”
Sierra nodded and grabbed fresh sheets from the linen closet.
The room was small but comfortable, across the hall from the den where she and Rowan had spent countless teenage evenings watching movies and gaming.
He came in and helped her make the bed, his corners sharp. She smoothed the cover over the bed. “I’ll get you some towels.”
He stepped back to let her pass. “I could use a shower.”
And maybe first aid, but the last thing she wanted to do was put salve on his wounds. Yeah, that would only lead to trouble.
The man still had the power to turn her to rubble, maybe more so today.
“Me too. Help yourself to anything you want in the fridge. I’ll be up early to check on the cattle.” She pulled out a couple towels from the closet.
“I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to—”
“S.” He said her old nickname quietly, and she made the mistake of looking at him, her heart so loud he could probably hear it. “I’m here. Let me help.”
Oh, heaven help her. She shoved the towels at him. “Morrie will be here at six. You can help him assess the damage, figure out what we can salvage.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She turned to go, but his voice stopped her at the doorway.
“Sierra?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you don’t trust me. I know I don’t have the right to ask for anything from you. But I’m glad I was here tonight. Glad I could help.”
She nodded without turning around. Because the truth was, she was glad too. Grateful and terrified and overwhelmed by how right it felt to have him here, helping with Huck, moving through her home like he’d never left.
But he had left. And he would leave again, eventually.
In fact, sooner would be better. Before either of them got too attached to this temporary arrangement. Before her son started thinking of Rowan as something more than a helpful stranger.
Before she started believing in dreams she’d buried ten years ago.
She made it to her bedroom and closed the door before the tears came. Silent tears for the barn and the sense of security that had burned away with the hay. Tears for the exhaustion that made her want to lean on someone else for just five minutes.
Tomorrow, she would probably have to start figuring out how to tell the truth. Tonight, she would just have to survive having him under her roof without finding herself tiptoeing back downstairs and watching him sleep, those dark lashes on his handsome face.
Rowan Wallace, the renegade who’d stolen her heart, wasn’t dead.
And yet, it just might kill her.
He’d woken up in a lot of places over the past ten years—tents, safe houses, hotels that smelled like old socks. But none of them felt like home.
The sound of Sierra singing “Amazing Grace” in the kitchen drifted through the guest room door, and for one blessed moment, Rowan forgot he was supposed to be dead. Her voice carried the familiar melody with a sweetness that made his chest ache, soft and clear in the morning stillness.
For three heartbeats, he lay still in the double bed, eyes closed, letting himself believe he was eighteen again and this was just another Saturday morning in the life they’d planned together.
Then reality crashed back. The smell of smoke still clinging to his clothes. The charred skeleton of the barn visible through the guest room window. Ten years of separation stretching between him and the woman whose voice had once been his favorite sound in the world.
Rowan sat up, running a hand through his hair. The clock on the nightstand read 7:23 a.m. Early, even for ranch people, but the smell of bacon frying suggested Sierra had been up for a while.
He pulled on yesterday’s shirt and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, following the scent of coffee.
She stood at the six-burner stove with her back to him, and for a moment, he could only stare.
Her dark hair fell in waves just past her shoulders, catching the morning light that streamed through the window.
She wore a blue flannel shirt and worn jeans.
At five foot five, she’d always been petite, but ranch work had kept her lean and strong, her movements graceful and economical as she worked at the stove.
Even doing something as mundane as frying bacon, she projected the quiet competence that had always drawn him to her.
For a broken kid, a girl who believed in herself, in him, had magnetic power.
The kitchen island held evidence of her morning routine—coffee grounds scattered on the granite, a carton of eggs, strips of bacon laid out on a cutting board.
Pendant lights hung over the island, casting warm pools of light that made the space feel intimate despite its size.
Fresh flowers sat on the windowsill next to the sink, probably picked from the garden behind the house.
“Morning,” he said quietly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned, spatula in hand, and smiled. The expression transformed her face, softening the high cheekbones that gave her such striking beauty and lighting up the dark-brown eyes that had always seemed to see straight through to his soul. “Coffee’s fresh. Mugs are in the cabinet above the pot.”
“Thanks.” He moved to pour himself a cup.
The coffee maker sat tucked into a corner near the professional-grade stove, surrounded by the kind of well-organized chaos that spoke of a kitchen actually used for cooking rather than for show.
Mason jars filled with utensils, a ceramic canister set that looked handmade, dish towels draped over the oven handle—all of it practical and lived-in.
“Sugar?”