Chapter 6
Six
She should have known that saying yes to Rowan’s request to join them would only drag up the past.
Sierra sat on the bleachers of the Renegade Community Arena, her travel mug of coffee growing cold in her hands as she watched the practice session.
The morning sun slanted across the dusty arena floor, where a dozen kids worked on their roping techniques under a couple volunteer cowboys’ patient instruction.
Parents dotted the stands around her, some chatting quietly while others called out encouragement to their children below.
Rowan had sat beside her for the first twenty minutes, making polite conversation about the weather and the upcoming Fall Festival Rodeo.
But she’d seen the way his eyes kept drifting to the arena, the way his hands unconsciously mimicked the movements of the kids practicing their throws.
When one of the instructors had called out a correction about wrist position that was completely wrong, Rowan had shifted restlessly in his seat.
“You should go down there,” Sierra had finally said.
“I don’t want to interfere—”
“Rowan.” She’d given him the look that had worked when they were teenagers, the one that said she could see right through his protests. “Go help.”
But it wasn’t just the past she was worried about.
It was how normal this morning had felt when she’d come down from taking a shower and found him in her kitchen, another pot of coffee brewing, a snack for Huck half packed on the counter.
He’d moved through her space like he belonged there, reaching for mugs in the right cabinet without asking, and for a hot, dangerous minute, she’d let herself imagine this was her life—waking up to find Rowan making breakfast, their son chattering about his plans for the day, the three of them moving around each other with the easy familiarity of an actual family.
That was the real danger. Not the past, but how effortlessly, just like that, he fit into her present. How right it felt to have him here, how much she wanted to keep him.
She was already in so much trouble.
And it had only gotten worse. Now she watched him move between the young ropers like he’d been teaching children his whole life, his voice carrying clear across the arena as he demonstrated techniques that most of these kids had never seen before.
The parents around her had started whispering, asking who the newcomer was, commenting on how naturally he worked with their children.
And Huck—her heart squeezed as she watched her son hanging on Rowan’s every word, his face bright with the kind of hero worship she’d never seen him direct at anyone before.
“Keep your wrist loose,” Rowan was saying, his voice patient. “The rope needs to flow, not fight you.”
Huck nodded seriously, his small hands working to position the coils correctly. “Like this?”
“Better. Now, remember what I said about your stance. You want to be balanced, ready to move with your target.”
Sierra’s breath caught as memories crashed over her—Rowan at sixteen, cocky and confident, showing off with his lasso at the county fair. He’d roped her then, literally, pulling her close with a grin that had made her teenage heart stutter.
“Caught myself something pretty,” he’d said, his voice low and teasing.
“Let me go, Rowan Wallace,” she’d said, but of course she hadn’t meant it.
“Not a chance.”
The memory was so vivid she could almost feel his hands on her waist again, could almost taste the cotton candy and excitement in the air. They’d been so young, so sure they had forever stretching ahead of them.
“Mom, watch!” Huck’s voice snapped her back to the present.
Her son threw the lasso with surprising precision, the loop sailing toward the practice dummy and settling neatly around one of its horns. Huck whooped and turned to Rowan with shining eyes.
“I did it!”
“You sure did.” Rowan’s smile was pure pride. “Natural talent.”
Natural talent. Sierra’s heart squeezed.
“Try it again,” Rowan said.
As Huck reset his position, Rowan glanced over at Sierra. “He’s good. Really good for his age.”
“He’s been practicing since he was six.” The words came out steady, but Sierra’s pulse hammered. “My grandfather taught him the basics.”
“Your grandfather was a good teacher.” Rowan’s voice held history. “He taught me a lot too.”
For a second, Rowan’s eyes searched hers, and Sierra felt like he could see straight through to her soul. All the secrets, all the years of silence, all the guilt she’d carried.
Tell him. The conviction hit her like a hammer. Tell him now.
“Got it!” Huck’s shout interrupted her. The rope had indeed caught the dummy’s horns, and Huck was doing a victory dance that involved a lot of arm pumping.
Rowan walked over to the fence, laughing. “That’s some celebration.”
“Yeah, well, he never does anything halfway.” She glanced at Rowan.
He looked pure cowboy in the light of the arena, a little dusty, his shirt rolled up over his strong forearms, a little whisker grizzle on his skin.
Oh boy. She looked away.
“You okay? You seem…” Rowan’s gaze lingered on her face.
“I’m fine.” The lie tasted bitter. She wasn’t fine. She was terrified and hopeful and guilt-ridden and…oh, shoot—maybe still painfully in love with Mr. Not Sticking Around.
What was she doing letting him into her house? Her life? “Just thinking about things.”
“What kind of things?”
The question hung in the air between them.
“We’re breaking for lunch.” Huck jogged back over, rope coiled in his hands. “Can we come back for the afternoon session?”
The moment shattered. Sierra closed her mouth, the words swallowed back down.
“Sure,” Rowan said.
Huck climbed over the fence. “You ever done any breakaway roping, or tie-down?”
“Some,” Rowan said, with a smile tugging up his face.
Huck looked at his rope, back out to the arena. “But I bet I could learn pretty fast if I had the right teacher.”
He looked hopefully at Rowan, and Sierra’s heart clenched at the naked adoration in her son’s eyes. Sure, Morrie had filled in, tried to be a sort of father figure. And then there was Mike, for a little while. But really, it had been Great-Grandpa who’d filled that role.
Now, watching Huck and Rowan together felt like watching pieces of a puzzle finally click into place.
“I bet you could,” Rowan agreed. “Tell you what—let’s work on your form a bit more, then maybe we can set up some different targets.”
“We’re going to do horseback work after lunch,” Huck said.
“That’s when it’ll get fun.” Rowan glanced at Sierra. “Kowalski’s deli still open?”
They bought thick roast beef sandwiches and Sierra’s favorite potato salad and ate lunch at a picnic table outside the Renegade Community Arena, watching other families enjoying the crisp October afternoon.
The arena buzzed with activity—kids practicing for next week’s youth rodeo, parents offering encouragement from the sidelines, the familiar sounds of horses nickering and people laughing mixing with autumn air.
Sierra unwrapped her sandwich, stealing glances at Rowan as he ate. Even something as simple as lunch felt different with him here, more complete somehow. Huck chattered between bites, pointing out friends and explaining the arena’s layout like a tour guide.
“That’s where they’ll have barrel racing,” Huck said, gesturing with his sandwich. “And over there’s the roping ring. Mr. R, can you help me practice? Please?”
“Rowan, you don’t—”
“Sure,” Rowan said. He got up and walked over to the roping ring, where a weathered cowboy was helping a group of kids with their technique.
“Go ahead,” Sierra mumbled to herself. “We’ll finish eating.”
And of course, instead of just observing, Rowan walked straight into the ring.
Sierra watched him approach the instructor—Buck Gilmore, one of the area’s best ropers.
Buck’s weathered face broke into a grin as Rowan extended his hand, and Sierra could see them talking, Buck nodding with obvious respect.
“Who’s that man talking to Mr. Gilmore?” asked a young girl at the next table.
“That’s Mr. R, my mom’s friend,” Huck said proudly. “He’s teaching me to rope.”
Within minutes, Rowan had borrowed a lasso and was demonstrating a technique Sierra had never seen before. The kids gathered around him like he was the Pied Piper, their faces bright with attention. He showed them a complicated wrist movement, his voice carrying clear instructions across the arena.
“Keep your elbow steady,” Rowan called to a boy about Huck’s age. “The power comes from your core, not your arm.”
Sierra found herself remembering another moment—Rowan at seventeen, pulling her into the kitchen after one of her grandpa’s barbecues. The party had been winding down, most of the guests heading home, but Rowan had lingered. He’d always lingered.
“Dance with me,” he’d said, even though there was no music.
“Here? In the kitchen?”
“Especially here.”
He’d pulled her close, swaying to some rhythm only he could hear.
Sierra had melted against him, her head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of soap and hay and something uniquely Rowan.
For those few minutes, she’d felt completely safe, completely loved, completely sure that they were meant to be together forever.
Now, watching him with all these kids—patient, encouraging, completely natural—that same sweeping longing crashed over her. This was what she’d dreamed of during all those lonely nights—Rowan here, their family finally complete.
“Mom, can I go practice too?” Huck had finished his sandwich and was practically vibrating with excitement.
“Go ahead,” Sierra said, and Huck ran out into the ring. Rowan, of course, turned and smiled at him, and her heart nearly exploded.
Tell him. The words simply flamed inside her. He deserves to know. They both deserve to know.
Yes. Yes, he did.