6. Silas
On Sunday morning, Wilder set me up on his back patio for physical therapy with its quiet mountain view.
Sounds peaceful until you factor in the part where someone is paid to torture my arm and shoulder for an hour.
But it’s hard to complain. Because it is quiet here.
Serene. Certainly smells better than any gym.
The river snakes below the ridge, sunlight catching on its surface. Mountains rise beyond it. Things I used to take for granted when I blew through town for Sunday dinners and holidays.
“Relax your neck,” Jenny, my therapist, says, tapping the tense muscle with the edge of her finger. She’s local apparently, does ranch calls for injured rodeo guys and, now, wayward hockey players avoiding civilization. “When you tense your neck, your shoulder locks up. Let it drop.”
“It is dropped,” I insist, because I really can’t tell a difference. Suddenly, I’m in yoga class in the tenth grade when Mr. Lewis kept telling me my shoulders are literally at my ears and to relax them, even though I swore I couldn’t bring them any lower.
“It is absolutely not,” she argues, gently swinging my arm back and forth. “You’re trying to hold your whole upper body together. Just breathe it out.”
“You breathe it out. You sound frustrated, Jen.”
She releases a breath and I see her shoulders drop a bit.
Huh. Maybe I should try that.
I blow out a breath and stare past her at the sunflowers lining the riverbank, stubborn and bright. Getting lost in it for a moment as Storm comes to mind. Picturing the way she’d go from running them along her face—to using one as a sword against me, challenging me to a duel.
“There you go,” Jenny says. “Now lift your fingers. Not the elbow.”
I do and immediately groan, pain stabbing sharply along my arm. Nothing compared to a slapshot to the ribs, but enough to humble me.
“Good,” she says, backing away then helping me with my sling. “Small progress is still progress.”
I frown. “Well then let’s keep going. I can do big progress.”
“Slow down. You don’t want to push that. I’ll be back in a few days and we can pick up from here,” she tells me, making me feel even more useless as my world continues to slow.
A few hours later, I’m restless and desperate to get my mind off the upcoming opening game.
The one without me in the lineup. My first instinct is to see if I can .
. . let’s call it “mend fences” with a certain freckled blonde.
Our encounter the other day’s been bothering me and I want to make things right.
I hadn’t intended to infuriate or intimidate her—but in less than five minutes in a room with her, I managed to do both.
But if I’m going to do that, I’ll need my afternoon caffeine fix first.
And there’s only one person in town who always makes it just right.
I head over to The Shack to see Wesley, head chef and Wilder’s best friend.
My brother hired him right out of college after he and Dallas first took over the ranch.
Dad hated the idea of a chef on the ranch, with their fancy menus and reservations.
It was all too official and modernized for his comfort.
But it wasn’t Dad’s ranch to run anymore and even though it wasn’t mine either since I—to no one’s surprise—gave up my share, I still supported my brother’s decision.
Wes’s menu and catered events brought a whole new crowd to Blue River.
And it’s not like Dad’s still grumpy about it.
Because this past week, I’ve been finding him getting cozy with Ginger on the front deck where they have outside seating through the end of October.
It gets cold but there are blankets on benches and oversized chairs, and scattered heat lamps surrounding the deck railing.
It’s all Wes’s doing. My brothers tend to focus more on the cattle’s comfort than the guests’.
“Hey, Dad,” I greet him as I step onto the deck. He’s sitting alone on the bench along the wall, watching the fields.
“Oh, hey, son.” He glances at my sling. “How was physical therapy?”
“Where’d you find this woman? She won’t let me do much.”
“Jenny’s good at what she does. Her goal’s to heal, not send you back to the bullpen as quickly as possible.”
I take a breath and rub the back of my neck. “You alone?”
He meets me with warm, calm eyes. And I almost smirk, because retirement suits him. Or maybe it’s Ginger. “Just waiting on takeout.” He motions beside him. “Have a seat.”
I choose to stand instead, facing him. But I lean against a bare wooden table. He doesn’t seem surprised and refocuses on the fields. “Yeah, I get it. Been sittin’ around enough. Heard you went to see Tucker yesterday.”
I scoff. “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to rile up your horses. Won’t be going back there anytime soon.”
“Tucker is your horse. Just need to remind him.”
“Dad, I haven’t ridden since—”
“I know. Since your mother was right beside you.”
The words hit hard. Like I’m right back there, reins in my hands and her voice in my ear, telling me to feel the ground, trust the horse, trust myself.
I haven’t felt or trusted either since she died.
I swallow it down. “Yeah. Well . . . that was a long time ago.”
She was the only one who gave me the chance to be close to what my brothers were growing up to be.
Taught me to ride. To tend to the younger cattle and other light chores.
And after she passed, I didn’t bother. It wasn’t on anyone’s mind—least of all mine—to keep living as though she were still with us.
“Take it Storm told you she . . .” I raise my fingers to air quote, “rescued me.”
He chuckles. “Tucker wouldn’t have hurt you. Or a fly for that matter. Well, maybe a fly if one landed on his nose.” He waves a hand. “What I’m saying is, you should give it another chance. With supervision, preferably.”
Just not yours, right?
“I’m good, thanks.”
He smiles up at me like he knows something. “But I like that you made it over to him.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “You might be the only one.” I don’t have to mention Storm again for him to know who I’m talking about.
His eyes drift and he half grins. “Remember a time when we’d find the two of you riling up the cattle just to mess with your brothers when they were on duty.”
I huff a laugh. “Well, neither of us found it funny the other day.”
Wesley steps out, handing Dad a big to-go bag and me a mint tea lemonade. A new drink he added to the summer menu and surprisingly, it’s my favorite. “Here you go, Mr. Thorne, two orders of the lunch special and one chicken tenders. Oh, and I threw in a chocolate milkshake for Max.”
I frown as Dad pushes to his feet.
“Thanks, Wes.” Dad hands him a few bills. “We’ll be dining in tomorrow. Too nice out today, think we might have a picnic over by the lake.”
Who is this man?
Wes shoots me a finger and winks. “Got your usual coming up in a bit. Saw you through the window and got it going.” Then he disappears through the swinging doors.
“Who’s Max and why are you picking up his lunch?”
His lip twitches but he doesn’t quite grin. Then his eyes focus on the floor of the deck. “Might do you some good to take a walk around the fields later.” He narrows his gaze to the distance. “Head to the hill just past the south pasture around four.”
I try to remember what’s special up there. It’s just a hill by the river, isn’t it? That’s the kind of stuff I’d tell Mom when we’d ride around and she’d make me slow down, make me take it all in.
Somehow I never saw Dad as the poetic type. “Why?” I ask.
He glances sideways at me, narrowing his eyes toward the distant hill. “Sun hits the mountains just right, and the river gets that honey-colored shimmer like it’s settling in for the night.”
I briefly follow his gaze, then turn back to look at him like he’s been bit by some love bug.
He smirks and shrugs. “I mean it’s a nice spot if you’re tired of sittin’ around.” He gives me a nod then heads down the steps and into his truck.
I take a sip of my mint iced tea. Jesus. It’s like Cupid and his army dropped their bow and arrows on the ranch over the past year.
Hours later, I get off the phone with my agent who called to check on recovery and how my therapy session went. Unfortunately, until I had decent news for him, he had none for me.
Irritated, I toss my phone on the couch and step out. It seemed like everyone was against me and nothing was going my way.
I hop in a golf cart and take a ride down the familiar path to see an old friend. She won’t be interested but something about the way she’s been shutting me out since I got back has been bothering me. And right now, I don’t feel like pretending it doesn’t.
The golf cart was Rose’s idea. Said it was the best way to get around—even one-handed—when you’re feeling like a prisoner. Wilder tossed her a look across the table so I’m wondering if there’s a story there.
And if it has something to do with the hand-painted pink and blue golf cart parked in the driveway.
Hell, I’ll take it. Because there’s no way I can drive my stick without my right hand.
Yeah . . . I heard it too.
Storm’s not in the stables so I check the riding arena next. Sure enough, she’s there with a young horse, doing laps. I know she sees me when I step inside. But she doesn’t pause or look my way before she hops off the horse skillfully.
This time, I don’t wait to fully take her in. Back in high school, I kept my distance—as friendly as my intentions were. Now, no one’s here to stop me from staring. And friendly isn’t exactly how I’m seeing her anymore.
She’s in long brown leather boots, denim jeans tucked inside them.
A thick plaid long-sleeve shirt. A cowgirl hat shields the sun from her freckled face.
But does nothing to hide her beauty—full lips, flushed cheeks, narrow, untrusting hazel eyes.
There’s nothing delicate about her. She’s all sharp edges.
A quiet confidence that dares you to try and come close.
And I’m feeling dangerous.
She pets the horse and gently tugs on the reins as she walks toward me.