Chapter 7 #3
“There.” Huck stepped back to admire their work. “Think that’ll keep the bad guys out?”
“I think it’ll give us fair warning when they try.” Rowan tested the connection on his phone. “Nice work, partner.” He held out his hand, and he and Huck did the Delta Snake handshake.
“I can’t believe you taught him that, Hammer,” said Saxon. “Now he’s an official Trouble Boy.”
“Why does he call you Hammer?” Huck asked.
Saxon answered for him. “It’s a nickname from the military. When you focus on a problem and don’t give up until it’s solved, they say you’re like a hammer hitting a nail. That’s our man here.”
“That’s so cool!” Huck’s eyes lit up. “Can I have a nickname too?”
“What would you want to be called?” Rowan asked.
“Something tough. Like…Lightning. Or maybe Storm.”
“I think you need to earn a nickname,” Saxon said with mock seriousness. “Has to come from something you’re really good at.”
“I’m good at roping,” Huck said hopefully.
“Then maybe we’ll see,” Rowan said. “Nicknames take time.”
A pickup drove into the driveway, and Huck left the porch. “Morrie!”
“Who’s that?” Saxon said, walking over to Rowan.
“Sierra’s ranch foreman.” He stood, watching the man get out of the car.
Saxon stood next to him. “Any reason to suspect him?”
“Don’t think so.”
Saxon grunted.
Yeah, what he said.
He walked out to the yard to meet Morrie, who was surveying the barn damage. “Howdy.”
The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the blackened timber and twisted metal. The smell of smoke still lingered in the autumn air, mixing with the scent of hay and horses from the intact buildings nearby.
Morrie glanced at him, his weathered face grim as he approached.
“Afternoon,” Morrie said. “Heard you boys were installing some security measures.”
“Basic precautions,” Rowan replied, noting the territorial edge in the foreman’s voice.
“Good thinking.” Morrie’s gaze lingered on Rowan with obvious assessment. “Sierra’s been through enough trouble lately.”
“That’s the plan—to make sure she doesn’t go through any more.”
“See that you do.” Morrie sighed then and lowered his voice. Huck had picked up a rope, started twirling it in loop circles.
“Sierra’s been carrying this place on her shoulders since Elway died. She doesn’t need anyone making her life harder than it already is.”
Rowan glanced at him, tried to tamp down a crazy spark of irritation. “I’m not here to make her life harder.”
“Maybe not intentionally.” Morrie’s eyes narrowed. “But sometimes folks bring trouble without meaning to. Sierra’s got enough to worry about without adding heartbreak to the list.”
Heartbreak? The word carried weight that suggested Morrie’s concern went beyond professional duty to his boss.
“Understood,” Rowan said evenly, though his jaw tightened.
“Good.” Morrie straightened, his voice returning to normal volume. “Now, about this barn. Gonna need heavy equipment to clear the debris before we can start rebuilding.”
“What kind of timeline are we looking at?” Saxon asked. He’d said nothing at Morrie’s warning.
“Depends on the insurance payout and whether we hire contractors or lean on neighbors for help.” Morrie glanced at Rowan. “Community around here tends to take care of its own.”
Mack had come out to join them from where he’d been installing motion detectors on the back of the house. “Neighbors helping with the rebuild? I’m sure my dad will help.”
Yeah, whatever.
“It’s an old tradition. Barn raising, they used to call it. Though I suppose now it’s more like barn clearing and rebuilding.” Morrie’s expression softened slightly. “Elway helped build half the barns in this county over the years. Folks remember that kind of thing.”
“When would something like that happen?” Rowan asked.
“As soon as the insurance agent is done. Maybe this weekend if the weather holds.” Morrie studied Rowan’s face. “You planning to stick around for it?”
“As long as Sierra needs me here.”
“Hmm.” Morrie’s grunt was noncommittal, but his eyes held calculation. “Well, if you’re gonna be here, might as well make yourself useful. We have roundup in the morning—going out to the western pasture. You ever done any ranch work?”
“I think I can handle myself.”
Morrie made a grunt. “Okay then.”
Rowan turned to Huck. “Huck, want to help me check the perimeter before dinner?”
“Can Bandit come?”
As if summoned by his name, the Jack Russell terrier bounded around the corner of the house, tail wagging furiously. The pup had clearly been digging, his nose caked in dirt.
Huck handed him a doggie treat.
“Sure.”
“We’re taking off,” Saxon said and extended his hand. “Call if you need anything.”
Mack too. “Nice to see you and Dad bonding.”
He wasn’t bonding with Alden Jenkins, thank you.
Mack and Saxon pulled out while Rowan walked the fence, Huck chattering about school and friends while Bandit investigated every interesting scent. When they reached the front porch again, Rowan called the dog over.
“Sit,” he commanded.
Bandit looked at him with intelligent brown eyes but remained standing.
“Sit.” Rowan demonstrated, placing his hand on the dog’s hindquarters and gently pushing down while repeating the command. “Got any more of those treats, Huck?”
He handed him a fistful.
After a few tries, Bandit finally settled into a sitting position.
“Good boy!” Rowan pulled out one of the treats. “I used to try and teach my dog how to do this.”
He balanced the treat on Bandit’s nose, the dog’s eyes crossing comically as he tried to focus on the prize just inches away.
“Stay,” Rowan commanded, holding his hand up in a stop gesture.
Bandit trembled with the effort of not moving, his whole body vibrating with restraint. After a second, he shook his head. The biscuit fell off and Bandit gobbled it up.
“Shoot.”
“My dad used to do this with our old dog, Bernie.” The memory surfaced, swift, with a tiny punch to his heart. “He said patience and consistency were the keys to training anything—dogs, horses, kids.”
“Your dad sounds like he was really smart.”
“He was.” Rowan handed Huck a biscuit. “Want to try?”
For the next twenty minutes, they worked with Bandit on the trick. Huck proved to be a natural trainer, his young voice carrying the perfect tone of authority mixed with affection. What a great kid. He hadn’t been lying to Sierra.
“I think he’s getting it!” Huck exclaimed as Bandit successfully sat long enough for the biscuit to balance.
“You’re a good teacher. You understand animals.”
“Thanks. Mom says I get that from my dad.” Huck beamed with pride.
The kid mentioned his dad a lot, it seemed. Maybe because Sierra did? “Does your mom talk about your dad often?”
“Sometimes. When I ask questions.” Huck shrugged, tossing another biscuit for Bandit. “Mostly she just says he was a good man who would’ve loved me very much.”
“I’m sure he would have.”
They headed back toward the house as the sun began to sink toward the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. The security lights Rowan had installed flickered on automatically, casting pools of brightness across the yard.
“Those are so wicked,” Huck said. “It’s like having robot guards.”
“Something like that.” Rowan chuckled. “Though hopefully we won’t need them.”
“Do you think the bad guys will come back?”
The question was asked with such innocent curiosity that Rowan’s chest tightened. How did you explain to a kid that some people were willing to hurt others for money or power?
“I think they might try,” he said. “But if they do, we’ll be ready.”
“Good,” Huck said. “Mom’s been worried. She tries to hide it, but I can tell.”
Oh, and that just made his heart hurt.
As they approached the porch, the screen door opened and Sierra stepped out wearing an apron over her jeans. The sight of her—hair escaping from its ponytail, flour dusting her hands, domestic and beautiful in the golden evening light—hit Rowan harder than it should have.
“Perfect timing,” she called. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“It smells incredible,” Rowan said, breathing in the rich aroma of pot roast and herbs wafting from the kitchen.
“Mom makes the best pot roast in Colorado,” Huck declared.
Bandit picked right then to dart off the porch, barking.
Huck lit out after him.
“Where are Saxon and Mack?”
“They headed back to town,” Rowan said. “Saxon is probably heading in for more of Dolly’s pie.”
Sierra laughed. “Saxon’s going to be the talk of the diner if he keeps that up. Dolly’s got the best information network I know.”
“Maybe he’ll find out everything we need to know.”
“Maybe he will.” Sierra’s smile was warm, and Rowan just about reached out, touched his hand to her face, the urge to curl his hand around the back of her neck, maybe pull her close sweeping over him.
And right then, he didn’t care if she’d loved another man. He was the man here, in front of her.
And he wanted her back.
Huck bounded up the porch steps and paused to remove his cowboy hat, running his fingers through hair that stuck up at odd angles. As he turned his head to address his mother, the evening light caught his profile, and Rowan’s breath stopped.
There, just visible above the curve of Huck’s ear, was a small bump in the cartilage structure—the same distinctive hitch that Rowan saw in the mirror every morning.
His Spock ear.
The same genetic quirk that his own father had carried.
The same one that had made Rowan self-conscious as a teenager until Sierra had kissed him right there and told him it was perfectly imperfect, just like the rest of him.
His vision tunneled. Everything else—the sound of Sierra and Huck talking, the evening breeze, the distant lowing of cattle—faded into background noise as his mind raced through calculations.
That night—their last night together. He’d been wounded, broken.
And she’d comforted him.
And then, then they’d lost themselves, maybe, in the emotion of the moment, and…
What?
He forced himself to breathe, to think, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Huck.
How could he have been so terribly blind? The stubborn cowlick. The way he tilted his head when concentrating. The natural ability with tools and animals. The natural talent with a rope.
His stubbornness and eagerness and…
“Earth to Rowan.” Sierra’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he managed, though his voice sounded strange in his own ears. “Just tired.”
“Well, come on inside. Food always helps with tired.”
Sierra headed back into the house, and Huck started to follow, but Rowan caught his arm gently.
“Huck? Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How old are you exactly? When’s your birthday?”
“I’m ten. My birthday’s June fifteenth.”
June fifteenth.
Rowan’s mind immediately calculated backward. Nine months before June would put conception around…September.
He’d left Renegade in early September, eleven years ago.
The math worked.
His legs wobbled. This boy—this bright, brave, patient, stubborn boy—was his son.
His son.
Sierra had been pregnant, and she’d never told him. She’d let him disappear from their lives, let him miss ten years of birthdays and Christmas mornings and first days of school and scraped knees and bedtime stories.
She’d let him miss everything.
The betrayal hit him like a physical blow, and he nearly stumbled. Caught the door frame. Then, the swell of it all swept through him and hollowed him out. Ten years of his son’s life, gone forever. Ten years of being a father…
“Mr. R?”
Huck’s voice snapped him back to the present. The boy was studying him, and Rowan realized he was staring.
“Sorry, buddy. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
About how your mother stole ten years of my life. About how I have a son and never knew it. About how everything I thought I understood about the past has just been turned upside down.
“Nothing important.”
They went inside, where Sierra had set the table for three. The kitchen smelled of rich gravy, tender meat, fresh bread—but as they ate, he tasted nothing.
Every time he looked at Huck, the resemblance seemed to shout at him. Every time he caught Sierra’s eye, he had to look away.
He needed answers. The questions simply coiled inside him, swelling.
But how did you ask a question like that? How did you say Did you keep my son from me for ten years?
Huck told his mother about the security installation and Bandit’s training progress, and Sierra asked about homework and chores.
This should have been his life. These dinners, these conversations, this family.
“Huck, go wash up and get ready for bed,” Sierra said finally, pressing a kiss to the top of her son’s head as she gathered up the plates. “School tomorrow.”
“Aw, Mom. Can’t I stay up a little longer? Mr. R was going to show me how the security cameras work.”
Mr. R. Not Dad. He desperately needed to put his fist through something.
“Tomorrow,” Sierra said firmly.
Huck sighed dramatically but hugged both his mother and Rowan good night before heading upstairs. As his footsteps faded, silence settled over the kitchen.
Sierra began washing dishes. Rowan watched her work, studying her profile, looking for signs of guilt or deception. But all he saw was the same Sierra he’d always known—strong, capable, beautiful.
A woman who’d apparently been lying to him for a decade.
“Sierra.”
She looked up from the sink, soap bubbles clinging to her hands. “Yes?”
The moment stretched between them, loaded with everything he wanted to say and couldn’t figure out how to voice. But the question had been building in his chest all evening, growing heavier with each passing moment until he couldn’t see past it, breathe, even, with the weight of it.
“Is there something you need to tell me?”