Chapter 8
Eight
Sierra’s heart stopped as the question hung in the kitchen air. Her hands stilled on the dish towel, her mind scrambling. The careful way he was watching her, the controlled tension in his posture—it all clicked into place with sickening clarity.
Oh no. He knew. Or suspected.
“What do you mean?” Way to dodge, Sierra. But…
She wasn’t ready. Her pulse hammered in her throat.
Rowan stepped closer, his blue eyes never leaving her face. “You know what I mean.”
Sierra’s throat went dry. She turned off the water. Turned to him. Took a breath, her hands still wet.
“Night, Mom! Night, Mr. R!” Huck’s voice called down from upstairs, followed by the sound of his bedroom door closing.
The interruption shattered the charged moment between them. Sierra seized on it like a lifeline. “I should check on him,” she said, not meeting Rowan’s eyes. “Make sure he’s settled.”
She practically sprinted from the kitchen, felt his gaze burning into her back as she took the stairs two at a time. Her hands shook as she quietly opened Huck’s door to find him already burrowed under his covers.
Huck’s bedroom was every ten-year-old boy’s dream—navy blue walls lined with string lights that cast a warm glow across framed rodeo stars. His ancient bed—the same one she’d slept in as a child—was covered in a denim comforter.
“Mom?” Huck’s voice was drowsy as she pulled his covers up. “Mr. R’s really smart about security stuff.”
“He is.”
“’Cause he was a soldier, like Dad was.”
She couldn’t breathe. So much lying, and her world was sand between her fingers. “Yes.”
“I’m glad he’s here.” Huck’s eyes drifted closed. “It feels…safer. I like him.”
And how was she supposed to hold it together now? Sierra kissed his forehead, her throat tight with unshed tears. “Sweet dreams, baby.”
For a second she stood at the top of the stairs, painfully aware that Rowan stood at the bottom.
And then, like a coward, she fled to her own room.
Tomorrow. She’d figure it out tomorrow, in the light of day.
After Huck had gone to school. And after coffee.
Maybe after a night of rehearsing the conversation, again, in her head.
Her bedroom was a sanctuary with its white shiplap walls and exposed wooden beams that her grandfather had restored himself.
The antique iron bed frame held layers of soft white linens and a faded green quilt that had belonged to her grandmother.
Simple botanical prints in weathered frames hung on the walls, and a small reading chair sat beside the window with its cream curtains drawn back to let in moonlight.
Maybe she could lock herself in, never leave.
She went through the motions of her nightly routine. Brushing her teeth, washing her face, changing into soft pajama pants and an old T-shirt. All the while, her mind churned.
Do you have something to tell me?
No, no—yes! Oh…
What would Rowan do when he found out? Would he hate her for keeping Huck from him? Would he try to take her son away? Would he disappear again, unable to handle the responsibility?
Or worse—would he stay out of duty but resent them both for “trapping” him?
Sierra pulled back her covers and slipped into bed, but sleep laughed at her.
She stared at the exposed beams overhead, moonlight painting silver rectangles across the hardwood floor through her bedroom windows.
The house creaked around her, settling into night sounds, but her mind refused to quiet.
Ten years of secrets. Ten years of lying by omission. Ten years of watching Huck grow up without his father because she’d been too proud and too scared to tell Rowan the truth.
But I was protecting him, she told her ceiling fan. He had dreams. He wanted to serve his country, see the world, be something bigger than the life he was living. A baby would have ruined everything.
Yeah, the words just felt hollow tonight. Especially after watching Rowan with Huck. They were two peas.
Maybe she’d been protecting herself more than anyone else.
Exhaustion finally claimed her somewhere around midnight, dragging her into restless dreams.
She was eighteen again, standing at her kitchen sink, when she heard the truck pull up outside…
Through the window, she watched Rowan climb out, moving stiffly, his shirt torn and bloody. Even in the twilight, she could see the bruises on his face.
Her heart lurched, then, guessing. She flew to the door, yanking it open before he could knock.
“Rowan! What happened?”
“He doesn’t get to…he doesn’t…” His jaw tightened and he shrugged away from her when she touched him, his voice hoarse. Blood trickled from a split lip, and his left eye was already swelling shut. “He’s going to call the cops.”
“We need to get you cleaned up. Come on.”
She led him through the dark house to the barn, not wanting to wake her grandfather. Oh, he’d be furious. Maybe even get in his truck and drive over to the Jenkins household and have it out with Alden.
And maybe get hurt too.
No, it needed to be an official visit, with Rowan the one filing charges.
In the tack room, she found the first aid kit they kept for horse injuries and guided Rowan to sit on a hay bale.
“This might sting.” She dabbed antiseptic on the cut above his eyebrow, her touch as gentle as possible.
“Doesn’t matter.” Rowan winced but didn’t pull away. “Nothing matters anymore. He’s going to press charges, and I’ll go to jail.”
“Don’t say that. We’ll fight him—”
“He’ll win. What I say won’t matter.” He looked away, so much wreckage on his face.
“You matter, Row. To me, you matter.”
He looked up at her then, eyes holding pain that went deeper than physical wounds. “Sierra…”
“I love you.” The words spilled out before she could stop them. “I’ve loved you since we were kids, and I can’t stand seeing you hurt like this.”
Something broke in his expression. He reached for her with shaking hands, pulling her down until she straddled his lap on the hay bale. “I love you too. Wow, Sierra, I love you so much it terrifies me.”
When he kissed her, she tasted blood and desperation and so much longing, it just spilled into her.
She lost herself, her hold on the right now. On anything but him.
Rowan’s hands tangled in her hair, and she poured everything into that kiss—all her love, all her faith that they could build something beautiful together despite the ugliness that he had to live with.
“I have to leave,” he whispered against her mouth. “After what happened tonight, I can’t stay in Renegade anymore.”
“Then take me with you.” She met his eyes, held his gaze. “I don’t want to be without you.”
He pulled back to study her face in the dim barn light. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
And at the moment, that night, she was. Sure of her choices, sure of the way she loved him, let him love her.
Rowan seemed as scared as she was, or maybe that was simply the trauma of the night shaking out of him, but he turned his attention to her in a way she’d never felt before. Spoke her name in whispers that embedded her soul.
He made her feel precious and powerful and completely loved. And gave her promises in the hay-scented darkness. Forever promises. Family promises.
“I’ll come back for you,” he said the next morning, right before he drove away.
Sierra jerked awake to the sound of crying. Her heart pounded as she oriented herself—her bedroom, not the barn. Present day, not ten years ago.
And not her tears.
The crying sounded from down the hall.
“Huck?” She leaped out of bed, down the hall to her son’s room.
He was thrashing in his sheets, trapped in a nightmare. His sandy-brown hair stuck up at odd angles, damp with sweat, and his face was flushed. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he fought invisible demons.
“No, no, no!” he sobbed. “Bandit! Bandit!”
“Huck, baby, wake up.” Sierra sat on the edge of his bed, gathering him into her arms. “It’s just a dream. You’re safe.”
His eyes flew open, wild and unfocused. “Mom?”
“I’m here. You’re okay.”
“The fire,” he gasped, clinging to her, choking on sudden, hot tears. “I was falling, and Bandit was so scared, and I couldn’t get to him. The smoke was so thick, and I could hear him crying, but I couldn’t…” He clung to her and wept.
Sierra’s heart shattered. She’d known the fire had traumatized him, but she hadn’t realized how deeply the images had burned into his mind.
“Shh, it’s over. Bandit is fine. See?” Indeed, the dog had put his head into Huck’s lap. “You saved him.”
“But I didn’t…I didn’t save him.”
“Hey.” Sierra cupped his face in her hands, making him look at her. “You know what I think?”
Huck shook his head, still hiccuping.
“I think God was there that night. And when you needed help, He sent Rowan. Mr. R.” Sierra smoothed his hair back from his sweaty forehead. “You didn’t have to save Bandit by yourself. Sometimes God sends people to help us when we can’t do it alone.”
His big blue eyes fixed on hers. “You really think so?”
“I know so. Rowan was exactly where you needed him to be, exactly when you needed him.”
Some of the tension left Huck’s small body. “He’s pretty cool.”
“He was. He is.” Sierra’s voice caught. “Do you think you can try to sleep now? I could get you some warm milk.”
“Don’t go.”
Sierra settled beside him on the narrow bed, humming softly until his breathing evened out and his grip on her hand relaxed. When she was sure he was deeply asleep, she whispered out of the bed and tiptoed toward the door.
A shadow in the hallway made her jump.
Rowan stood there in rumpled jeans and a T-shirt, his dark-blond hair mussed from sleep—or lack thereof.
Even disheveled at two in the morning, he was devastatingly handsome.
The stubble along his strong jaw had darkened, and his eyes held concern and something else she couldn’t name.
The dim hallway light caught the planes of his face, emphasizing the masculine beauty that had captured her heart in fourth grade and never let go.
“Is he okay?” he whispered.