Chapter 6 #2
They brought out horses, and for the next hour, Sierra watched her son learn alongside other kids while Rowan moved between them like he’d been teaching children his whole life.
Huck’s natural talent was obvious—he picked up techniques faster than kids who’d been practicing for months.
Several parents commented on his skill, and Sierra’s heart squeezed with pride and guilt in equal measure.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Buck Gilmore finally called out. “Don’t want to tire out these horses before next week’s competition.”
The kids groaned but began gathering their gear. Rowan walked back over, coiling his borrowed rope with practiced ease.
“Thanks for letting me help,” he said to Sierra. “That was fun.”
“You’re a natural teacher,” she said softly. “Those kids loved you.”
“They’re good kids. Huck especially.” Rowan’s gaze found her son, who was saying goodbye to his friends.
“We need to get back.” Sierra stood, suddenly needing movement. “I want to check on the cattle before evening chores.”
“I need to stop by the hardware store and pick up some supplies,” Rowan said. “I’d like to set up some security around the house.”
And weirdly, just like that, the dream shattered. Right. He was here because he thought she needed his protection. She couldn’t take care of herself.
Not because…well, not because they might be a family or something crazy like that. Clearly the sunshine had gone to her head.
“Sure,” she said and dumped the picnic wrappers into the garbage.
They stopped at the hardware store, and Rowan picked up most of his supplies. Then they drove home, the sun sliding down to the backside of the day.
Huck stared out the window, humming. She hadn’t heard him do that in ages. So maybe it wasn’t such a terrible thing to have Rowan around. Even if it might not be permanent, he could be good for Huck.
As they turned up the gravel drive, Sierra’s peaceful mood evaporated. Two official vehicles sat parked near the barn’s charred remains—Detective Martinelli’s unmarked sedan and a white SUV with Colorado State Fire Investigation emblazoned on the side.
“What’s all this?” Rowan asked, his voice immediately alert.
“I don’t know,” Sierra said, pulling up beside Martinelli’s car.
Mike Martinelli approached as they climbed out of the truck, his expression professionally neutral. Beside him walked a woman in her mid-thirties, wearing khakis and a polo shirt with the state fire marshal’s badge.
“Sierra, sorry to show up unannounced,” Martinelli said. “This is fire investigator Robbie Swenson. She wanted to take a look at the barn while the scene was still fresh.”
“We can’t confirm it was arson,” Swenson said quickly, apparently reading the worry on Sierra’s face. “But we’re running some tests on the burn patterns, just to be thorough. Insurance companies like documentation.”
Sierra’s shoulders sagged with relief. “So someone didn’t deliberately—”
“The damage pattern does suggest accelerant, but it might simply be flammable material that caught fire—paint cans in the rubble. But it could be an electrical origin, faulty wiring in the back corner. Old barns, rodent damage to insulation—it’s more common than people think.”
“We already talked to your hands,” Martinelli added. “Tomás and Jake said they left around five, didn’t see anything unusual. Morrie was out in the north pasture working on the hay bailer until after dark, didn’t notice the fire until he came back and saw the flames.”
“That’s a relief,” Sierra said, and meant it. The thought that someone had deliberately tried to destroy her family’s legacy…
Well, that sort of meant that maybe Rowan didn’t need to stick around, didn’t it?
“I don’t know,” Rowan said. “Her grandfather updated that wiring about ten years ago. I helped him.” He shook his head. “How long before the results come back?”
“Lab results take a few days,” Swenson said. “But based on what I’m seeing here, I really think you’re looking at an electrical fire. Probably been smoldering in the walls for hours before it finally caught.”
Rowan nodded, gave a grunt, not of agreement.
And suddenly, painfully, Sierra realized that…shoot, she didn’t want Rowan to leave. And maybe that showed on her face, because Rowan glanced at her, his voice low.
“You okay?”
“I guess so. I was so afraid someone had done this on purpose.”
“No matter how it happened,” Rowan said quietly, “you wouldn’t be facing it alone.”
Oh. Oh. And she didn’t know why she drank up his words, why she nearly turned to him to throw her arms around him.
But standing there beside the ruins of her barn, watching her son chase fireflies in the gathering dusk while investigators documented the end of one chapter of her family’s story, Sierra realized something had shifted.
For the first time in ten years, she didn’t feel like she was carrying the weight of the world by herself.
Maybe that was worth risking everything, even her secrets, to keep.
If Sierra wasn’t in danger, he didn’t have to stay, right?
The silence stretched between them as they walked back into the house, Huck racing ahead to wash his hands.
Rowan automatically cataloged potential threats—sight lines from the driveway, cover positions, escape routes. Old habits from a decade of dangerous work, but useful when someone might be targeting the woman he loved.
Because that’s what this was about, wasn’t it? Not wanting to find reasons to stay, but needing reasons to keep Sierra safe.
Needing reasons to stay.
Because he was painfully and forever in love with the girl—woman—next door.
He simply hadn’t left the kid who wanted her to be impressed with him behind—that much he’d figured out after spending the day showing off his old skills. Her smile lit a sort of fire in him and did nothing to douse the old memories.
Caught myself something pretty.
Yeah, he was in trouble.
They went inside, and he set the bag of security equipment on the kitchen table. Maybe this was overkill.
“You’re doing it again,” Sierra said, pulling ground beef from the refrigerator.
“Doing what?”
“You used to get really quiet when you were thinking about something. Sort of pulled into yourself.”
He glanced over at her. Shoot, she remembered him that well?
Maybe he’d been the one who’d forgotten who he was.
In fact, he’d felt more like himself today, with a rope in his hand, teaching Huck and the others rope tricks, than he had in a while.
Or maybe a different side of himself, one he’d tucked away for too long.
She set the meat on the counter. “The fire investigator said it wasn’t arson.”
“She said inconclusive and probably not arson. There’s a difference.” Rowan moved to the kitchen window.
The barn’s charred skeleton cast long shadows across the yard, a reminder of how quickly things could turn dangerous.
“You think I’m in danger.” It wasn’t a question.
Rowan turned from the window, meeting her dark eyes. “I think someone wants you gone. The methods don’t matter as much as the results.”
Sierra’s hands stilled on the package of meat. “You’re scaring me.”
He met her eyes. “Good. Scared keeps you alive.”
The words seemed harsh, but fear was a tool he understood. Fear made people careful, made them check locks and avoid dark corners and call for help when they needed it.
“Mom, can I watch TV?” Huck appeared in the doorway, his face clean but his hair still bearing traces of arena dust.
“After dinner,” Sierra said. “Go get cleaned up properly. We have church tomorrow—so scrub.”
“But—”
“Go.” Sierra’s voice carried enough authority to send Huck trudging toward the stairs, muttering about unfair parental tyranny.
Rowan’s mouth quirked upward. “Some things never change.”
“What do you mean?”
“You still get that look when you’re not having any arguments. Same expression you used to give me when you tried to talk me out of doing something dangerous.”
“I was usually right.” Sierra began browning the meat.
“You were always right. Drove me crazy.” Rowan leaned against the counter, breathing in the scents of home cooking and Sierra’s shampoo. This—this ordinary moment of watching her cook dinner—this was what he’d been missing without even knowing it. “What are you making?”
“Goulash.” She kept her eyes on the skillet. “Not exactly gourmet, but it’s what we can afford.”
The slight defensiveness in her voice made his jaw clench. She shouldn’t have to worry about grocery budgets, shouldn’t have to stretch meals to make ends meet. Not when he had money sitting in accounts he’d barely touched.
“I could—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than necessary. “I mean, thank you, but we’re fine.”
Rowan studied her profile, reading the stubborn pride that had always been part of her appeal. Sierra Blackwood didn’t accept charity, never had. But this wasn’t charity—this was him…well, finally stepping into a life he’d thought would be his.
Maybe still could?
He moved to the sink and began washing dishes that had been sitting in the basin since morning.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He rinsed a plate and set it in the drainer. “But my mother raised me right.”
The casual mention of his mother sent familiar grief through his chest.
“I was so sad for you when she died.”
“I was OCONUS, so I didn’t hear about it until after the funeral. Felt too little too late to come home, so…” He lifted a shoulder.
She looked at him, her brow creased. “You never said goodbye?”
Rowan’s hands stilled in the soapy water, the words a rock in his chest. “I left straight from your house, went to Denver, joined up. So, yeah. Not really.”
She nodded. Glanced upstairs as if looking for Huck, back to him. “She was…she was an amazing, strong woman. And very…well, very kind to me. Especially after…” She trailed off, catching her lower lip.
“After I abandoned you.” The words emerged soft, mostly because he hated hearing them aloud. “I’m…” He swallowed. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back.”