Chapter 8
eight
. . .
SIENNA
Colt talked the entire two-hour ride back to the ranch, blasting the radio, cracking sunflower seeds, and oblivious to the heavy quiet in the cab. Wren was always complaining about how fast he drove, but with Brock’s truck hooked up behind us, even Colt had taken the turns slower than usual.
Brock didn’t say much, he’d just stared out the passenger window, leaving me in the backseat wrapped in his oversized jacket, my stomach tied in a knot I couldn't untangle.
The next morning, that knot was still there.
I stood in my bedroom, staring at his jacket draped over the back of the chair. I tried to tell myself I should be relieved. We had reached a breakthrough. He had opened up in the dark. He’d let me sleep on his shoulder. It was a professional victory.
I pulled on my jeans, followed the smell of fresh coffee downstairs, and walked into Brock standing by the stove, already dressed for the day. His eyes flicked to me before dropping back to his mug.
"Morning," I said, offering a tentative smile.
"Mornin'." He dumped the rest of his coffee down the sink, rinsed the mug, and snatched his hat off the peg.
"Wait," I said, stepping forward. "Outlaw sent a package and—"
"Busy today," he cut in. Then he turned his broad back to me and shoved the back door open.
"It’ll take five minutes—"
"I said I'm busy, Sienna."
The door banged shut, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen.
The cold shoulder lasted six days. Brock treated me like a piece of furniture he occasionally had to walk around. The teasing was gone. The easy silences we’d shared in the truck were gone.
And worse, he flat-out refused to wear the sponsor's shirt.
By Saturday morning, I was running on caffeine, dread, and a deadline I had ignored for too long. That was how I ended up wedged into a sticky vinyl booth at the Wagon Wheel Diner, nursing a stress headache while the Wilder family chaos unfolded around me.
Across the table, Wyatt tried to wrestle a bottle away from his daughter.
"Maisie, not that one, baby. That's hot sauce."
"But Daddy, it's sticky like syrup."
"It's Cholula, bug. Give it to Uncle Colt before you—"
"Too late." Colt inspected the bright red smear across the tabletop. "That's gonna stain."
"Everything stains in here," Wren said, already wiping it up with a napkin. "That's part of the charm."
She wasn't wrong. The Wagon Wheel Diner had twelve tables, a counter with eight stools, and faded wallpaper patterned with wildflowers. Every surface was some shade of brown, and from the way the waitress had set this corner booth without asking, it was obvious this was their regular spot.
Sitting against the window, isolated from the noise, Brock drank his black coffee and stared out at the parking lot.
Of course, his grumpy streak had not passed, and Avery had been leaving voicemails for two days.
I needed to film a clip for Outlaw, but asking him to put on a neon-green shirt while he was still in this mood was guaranteed to fail.
I peeled the backs of my thighs off the sticky seat and decided to wait him out.
"So." Colt leaned back, stretching his arm along the top of the booth. "Brock. Quick question, and don't get mad."
"Already mad."
"The folks putting on Redbow Days called the house yesterday."
Brock's mug stopped halfway to his mouth.
"And they need someone to run the roping demo for the kids again," Colt rushed out. "And I might've told Linda you'd do it."
"You told Linda."
"She caught me off guard! I panicked. You know how she is."
"So un-volunteer me."
"Can’t. She already put your name on the flyer."
"I saw it at the post office," Silas said without looking up from his menu. "Looked real nice."
"Uncle Brock, what’s a roping demo?" Maisie asked.
"It's where he teaches kids how to throw a lasso," Wren said. "And pretends he's not having fun."
"Can I come?"
The tension left Brock’s shoulders as he looked at his niece. It was irritating, honestly, how kind he could be when he wasn’t being impossible.
"You can come, bug. I’ll teach you first, before anyone else."
Then he turned his attention back to Colt. "And you’re holding the dummy they throw at."
"That’s not a thing," Colt said.
"It is now."
Poor Colt. Apparently, Brock’s softer side had a very limited guest list.
Brock reached across the table, stole a strip of bacon off Colt’s plate, and ate it in one bite without breaking eye contact.
"Hey!" Colt threw up his hands. "See? This is what I’m talking about, anger issues. Sienna, are you getting this on film? This is the real content right here."
"I’m off the clock," I said. "But if he takes your eggs next, I’m hitting record."
Donna, the owner of the diner, appeared at the end of our table. Balancing a heavy coffee pot in one hand, her broad shoulders shifted under a bright sunflower blouse. She looked exactly like the kind of woman who was used to wrangling cowboys before seven in the morning.
"How’s everything, hon? You surviving out here with these animals?" She patted Wren’s shoulder. "Not you, sweetheart."
"Hey," Wyatt and Silas protested together.
Maisie's head popped up from her pancakes. "What animal am I?"
Donna blinked. "You? Oh, you’re a butterfly, honey. Obviously."
"Butterflies don't have teeth."
"Well..." Donna glanced at Wyatt for backup. "No, but they..."
Wyatt leaned back and took a sip of his coffee. "Don’t look at me. I’m just an animal."
"Daddy’s a hippo," Maisie said. "He makes the loudest farts in the bathtub."
Wren dropped her forehead onto my shoulder, cackling. The whole table broke apart, but Brock laughed the hardest.
The sound caught me off guard. It was rough and unguarded, nothing like the quiet, closed-off man I’d been watching all morning. I was still staring when he glanced over and our eyes met.
I immediately looked down and took a hurried bite of my last pancake. Warm butter and maple syrup flooded my tongue, almost painfully sweet.
"Donna," Brock said, nodding toward my plate, his voice slipping back into that low drawl. "Better bring her another round."
The corner of his mouth was doing that thing again.
"I'm eating for stress," I said. "My client's very difficult."
Wren raised her mug. "I'll drink to that."
Donna looked between us. "What’d he do?"
"He won’t wear his sponsor’s shirt for a video," I said.
Colt slapped the table. "I’ll do it. Give me the shirt."
"We could put him in Brock’s hat," Wren suggested. "Shoot it from behind."
"I’d look great from behind," Colt agreed.
"Over my dead body," Brock said. "Nobody is wearing my hat."
The banter died when two men stopped at the end of our booth. They wore crisp pearl-snap shirts and spotless Stetsons.
They looked like ranchers, but the polished version, the kind you’d see in a brochure.
"Silas." The older man nodded. "How’re things out at Wild Sage?"
"Can’t complain, Roy. Well, I can, but nobody listens."
Roy chuckled, then his eyes moved to me. "New face."
“That’s Sienna,” Silas said. “She’s helping Brock get some publicity for the season.”
"Welcome to Redbow,” the man said, tipping his hat to me. “I’m Roy, and this is my boy, Travis. We're up at the Double C."
"Nice to meet you," I said. "Double C?"
"We run a ranch," Travis explained. "Mostly cattle, but we’ve gotten into the guest side too. Trail rides, sunrise tours, that kind of thing. We’re having a crazy summer, actually. Booked every week through August."
"That’s real good to hear,” Silas said. “Glad it’s working out."
Roy nodded. “I keep telling you, Silas. You’ve got those springs, the Bighorns right behind you... folks would come from all over to spend a week out there.”
Silas smiled the way you smile when you’ve heard the same suggestion more than once. "Roy—"
"I'm just saying. You've got the land."
"It's a nice setup you’ve got," Silas said smoothly. "But that’s not us. Cabins, insurance, staff—it’s a bigger lift than people realize."
Roy nodded, catching the shift in the conversation. He tipped his hat, told me it was nice to meet me, and headed toward the door.
Travis lingered a second. "Good luck this season, Brock."
Brock looked up and gave him a small nod. "You too."
Then Travis followed his dad through the glass doors.
Nobody said much after they left. Brock picked up his fork and cut into his pancake.
"They mean well," Wren said quietly.
Wyatt rubbed the back of his neck. "Nothing wrong with what they’re doing. Just not us."
Maisie tugged on my sleeve. "Sienna?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you a tourist?"
Colt snorted into his coffee.
"No." I smiled. "Not really."
"Good. Tourists are loud, that’s what Daddy says."
"I said some tourists," Wyatt corrected quickly.
"You said all tourists, Daddy."
We piled into the trucks after breakfast. Colt drove too fast on the way back, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake that swallowed Brock and Silas’s truck behind us.
By three o’clock, the ranch had gone quiet. My panic hadn’t.
I set up at the kitchen table with my laptop, trying not to look at the clock. A tractor hummed somewhere in the distance. Warm air drifted through the open window, heavy with the smell of freshly cut grass and summer, but I couldn’t settle into any of it.
My phone buzzed against the wood, rattling loudly. It was Mara.
I answered and put her on speaker while dragging a video file into Adobe Premiere.
"Shouldn’t you be studying for your summer finals?"
"I’m currently staring at a diagram of the Krebs cycle and retaining nothing," Mara said. "Also, I miss you, so I stole your gray cashmere sweater from your old closet at Mom and Dad’s.”
I stopped dragging files. "It’s ninety degrees in Chicago, Mara."
“The library is freezing, which is the only interesting thing happening to me right now. So, cowboy update. Are you living your best Yellowstone life yet?”
"I’m working."
"Boring. Is Brock still doing the brooding, arrogant thing?"
I glanced toward the window. "Yes. But... it’s mostly an act. He plays like he doesn’t care, but he’s carrying this entire ranch on his back."
"Oh no."
"What?"
"You like him. You’re using your soft voice."