10. Silas
I don’t remember the last time I worked this hard for something that shouldn’t matter. There isn’t anyone else—not my brothers, not even Dad, I wouldn’t have laughed off and headed the other way if they asked me to do what she did.
My wounded bicep throbs, even though I didn’t use it, or at least I tried not to. My pride’s a little bruised because I know that took more effort than it should’ve. And that misfit of a pony—Winter—should be called Winter Storm because I never knew which direction she’d go.
But somehow none of that feels like the point.
I didn’t do it because she asked—I did it because for the last twenty-four hours, I’d gone through eleven scenarios of how that sentence she started ends.
And I’m dying for a winner. If she still thinks I abandoned her.
Or my family. Or if Tom ever came clean but she blames me anyway.
Hell, it might not even be that deep. Maybe she thinks I’m the one who started the “horse girl” name-calling in high school. I wasn’t, for the record.
I meet her just outside the gate, close enough that the space I leave between us feels deliberate.
I look down at her and almost lose the words I’ve replayed in my head—her words.
Not because I forgot them, but because seeing her this close twists something in me.
She doesn’t need confrontation right now.
She looks like she could use a good night’s sleep.
And maybe to let down her guard a little.
She’s tired, yes, but still solid, still strong as she grips the fence with a tight fist like she’s bracing for impact.
Eyes focused on something just beyond the river.
Sun-warmed freckles standing out against her skin.
She’s unbreakable in a way I never fully appreciated.
“When your dad stopped coming to the ranch, you didn’t think that meant what?”
Frowning, she finally lifts her gaze to mine. “Huh?”
“That’s where you left off,” I say softly, but firmly. “That summer—when you and your dad didn’t come back, you didn’t think that meant . . .”
She swallows and shakes her head. “Silas . . .”
“I held up my end, Storm, and it wasn’t as easy as I made it look.”
She laughs. Her eyes drop to her boots for a second before meeting mine again. “I didn’t think the rift between your dad and mine meant the end of our friendship.”
I swallow hard. And of course, our winner is scenario number one.
“And fine, it’s not like I thought you’d show up at my door and ask me to help you pull off the next prank—we were too old for that. But it’s a damn coincidence that was the year you introduced me to your friends before I started high school. Almost like you were testing the waters.”
“What?”
She tosses her arms up in the air. “Well, it’s clear they didn’t like me.”
I frown. I actually don’t remember what they thought of her because I didn’t care. I liked her.
“We were literally in the same building for three years, Silas. Sometimes the same class and you acted like I didn’t exist. In fact, I vaguely remember you changing your schedule the two times we did end up in the same class. And fine—maybe you felt uncomfortable being around me.”
Just when I thought she couldn’t slice me any deeper, she raises her arms in exaggeration. “Poor little golden boy had to deal with the horse-girl’s sad crush.”
My lips part but I’m still struggling too much with the tight knot in my stomach to speak.
Not because something tells me that isn’t the half of it. But because I doubt she knows why.
In fact, now I know she doesn’t.
And I can’t tell her.
She runs her hand across her forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt.
I fight the urge to swipe my thumb across it.
It doesn’t bother me—it’s adorable and reminds me of the Storm I remember.
It’s just this pull to touch her . . . It’s so strong I’m almost sure I’m not going to make it through this conversation without doing so.
“You completely ghosted me, Silas. And now that I’ve said it, you have no words.
Well, I hope your pride and your constant need to win got you what you wanted, because I’m done.
” She turns, reaching for the gate and I catch her arm with my left hand.
She stills and looks down at where we’re connected, then meets my eyes.
“I still have three minutes,” I tell her, buying time.
She scoffs. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You couldn’t get away from me fast enough when we were in high school, now you want to stick around for more?”
I lick my lips. “Yes.”
Her eyes mist as she chuckles bitterly. “Of course you do. Get over yourself, Silas, I was fourteen. A fourteen-year-old’s crush counts about as much as it does on a Backstreet Boy.”
My eyes flick to the side with a genuine question. “Out of curiosity, how long do those last?”
Another chuckle, but this one’s real. She shakes her head before meeting my eyes. Hers are more watery than before and I start to wonder how much of it is pure exhaustion. “Not forever. It fades and eventually you realize just how silly it was.”
I nod, kicking a few pebbles with my shoe. “I’m sorry, Storm.”
She huffs a laugh like she’s surprised it’s all I have to say—or that I’m still standing here—who knows with her. “It’s fine.” She shrugs. “You had a reputation to protect. I was a threat to that.”
“That’s not it,” I say, my jaw set, holding her gaze like nothing’s ever mattered more.
Something softens in her eyes—just enough. Her guard falls for a heartbeat, before she shutters it. “Then why?” She backtracks with a breath. “No. You know what? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know.”
I know she does. And I know from Dad that Tom Dalton is at a facility in Denver now, too ill for Storm to care for by herself anymore.
“You know, I met a kid yesterday.” I glance back toward the hill and smirk.
“We were uh . . . well, we were talking about leprechauns and wishes.” I meet her eyes; they’re surprisingly focused with genuine interest. “And he asked me what I’d wish for if .
. . well, if we caught one.” I shake my arms like it doesn’t matter, because she probably doesn’t care to hear where this came from.
“Anyway, I didn’t have a wish to share with him at the time, but .
. . right now . . .” I swallow, gazing down at her like she might be able to pull it out of me. “I wish I could tell you why.”
She nods and it’s laced with disappointment. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking.” She turns again.
“Bee.” I catch her, twisting her back and pulling her to me.
It’s an awkward pull—not as slick as I’d hoped given it’s with my left arm and there’s a sling between us.
Before she can fight it, I swipe my thumb across her forehead.
Her skin is smooth, warm, lightly laced with a rough texture, dust probably.
She’s still under my touch, even as I swipe again, then remember my hands aren’t much cleaner.
Reaching in my back pocket, I take out a single, travel-size wet wipe and tear it open with my teeth before removing the towel and wiping the dirt off her face.
To my surprise, she doesn’t move. Instead, she deadpans me through her lashes. “You carry wet wipes?”
I keep my eyes on her skin. “Yes.”
“Why?”
I glance at her. “I don’t want to say.”
She fights a grin. “All right. Can I go now?”
I release her and step back. “Yeah, I think I got it.”
She lifts the latch and swings her head back. “It’s for your sneakers, isn’t it?”
I drop my head to them, licking my bottom lip and grinning.
“Figures,” she mutters with a grin and steps back into the ring.
How’s it possible to feel like you got somewhere and nowhere with someone at the same time?
I shake my head wondering what I could have done or said differently as I step inside Wilder’s house.
But the truth is, nothing. My options were lie—which I don’t do well, therefore not at all.
Or tell her that her dad made it very clear I was to stay away from her.
That I’d already got one foot out the door and was bound to confuse and hurt her along the way.
And because I was already struggling with belonging and self-worth—I didn’t fight him on it.
Did I believe I was capable of hurting Storm? Of course not. She was my best friend. But there are just some people you don’t take that risk with.
And that risk went both ways.
After the ranch stopped feeling like mine, and her dad reminding me I didn’t belong, I wasn’t about to hang around long enough to hear it from her too.
I find Rose sitting on the edge of the dining-room table like she’s playing a game of chess.
Place cards are spread out in front of her, each with ribbons and plastic gold rings tied to them.
That same seating chart she’d been staring at since last night, and four different types of ribbon tied to her wrist. And if I were to guess, the weather app pulled up on her phone that she checks every hour for changes.
She rubs at her temples like she’s holding the whole thing together by a force of will.
“Let me guess,” I say, leaning against the doorway. “You’ve totally got this.”
She doesn’t look up. “If one more person asks me what time the ceremony actually starts, I’m eloping for them.”
I step closer, pick up the schedule she’d redrafted fourteen times in the past week. “You know it’s not your wedding, right?”
That gets her to glance at me, tired eyes flashing. “Tell that to the best friend I’m regretting ever asking to come visit me here last year.”
I pull up a chair. “You don’t mean that. Everything’s set, right?”