Chapter 21
twenty-one
. . .
SIENNA
Twenty-four hours after our sunset photoshoot on the highway, the mood had tanked. Brock hunched over the tailgate of Colt’s truck, glaring at the gravel as if the rocks themselves were responsible for his low score at the rodeo.
The Wyoming State Fair in Douglas was massive.
Neon lights, carnival rides, and packed arenas lit up the night.
Brock looked like a stranger in dark canvas shorts and a gray T-shirt.
The soft cotton lacked the grit of his usual denim, a perfect mirror for the flat, defeated air hanging over the truck.
“It was a trash draw, man,” Colt said, leaning against the side of the truck bed. “That bronc had a weird fuckin’ rhythm right out of the chute. Nobody was staying on that.”
“I could’ve,” Brock said. “I lost my seat.”
“You’ve been resting,” Wren pointed out gently from his other side. “Doctor’s orders, remember? You’re allowed to be a little rusty.”
Brock rolled his left shoulder and winced.
“Dawson wasn’t rusty. He rode an eighty-nine.
Took first and the buckle.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I skipped two rodeos this week to rest this damn shoulder. Needed those points bad. I drop any further on the leaderboard, I won’t make the NFR this year. ”
“You’ll make up the points,” Colt said. “Don’t let it eat at you.”
Brock grunted but didn’t loosen up. His left arm pressed tight against his side. He wouldn’t say it in front of Wren and Colt, but he’d let it slip to me. Getting thrown off had made his injury worse. I could tell he was hurting more than he wanted anyone to know.
Ignoring the siblings' watchful eyes, I stepped into his space and fished the orange bottle and my water from my bag.
"Here," I said, pressing the water into his hand. I shook two large white pills into my palm and held them out. "Extra-strength. Eight-hundred milligram ones. Take these."
Brock studied the pills, then met my eyes. The hard lines around his mouth softened.
"Bossing me around off the clock, Starlin’?"
“Just take them,” I said, smiling softly.
He took the pills from my palm, his rough fingers dragging across my skin. He tossed them back and drained half the water bottle in one go.
"Alright, drugs are in," Wren said. "Now we're hauling your ass back to the motel. Ice pack and bed. No arguments."
Brock stood up, shaking his head. "We’re not going to the motel."
"But your shoulder—" I started.
“My shoulder’s fine.” He grabbed his brown felt hat off the truck bed and settled it low on his head. “You told me yesterday you’ve never been to a real state fair. I’m not ruining your night by acting like a lame horse that needs to be put in the barn.”
"I don't mind," I insisted.
"I do." He pushed off the tailgate and gestured toward the glow of the midway. "We're going. Colt wants a funnel cake anyway."
"I actually want a deep-fried Oreo," Colt corrected, rushing to fall into step beside us. "But I'll settle for both."
We left the contestant lot and let the crowd pull us into the midway.
The fair was thick with the smell of diesel, fried dough, and the heavy, electric air that promised rain.
Bright lights flashed in every direction.
Laughter and excited screams echoed through the air as the rides spun.
Balloons popped, and the clang of carnival games blended into the lively chaos.
Despite his bad mood, Brock couldn’t keep his eyes off my bare legs. I was wearing a denim skirt and the honey-colored ostrich boots from Ryder’s sponsor box.
Up ahead, squeezed between a deep-fried butter stand and a psychic reading tent, sat an old photo booth with a black curtain.
Colt stopped in his tracks. "Yes. Mandatory family photo. Right now."
“It’s ninety degrees out here,” Wren said, fanning herself. “I look like a swamp monster.”
“You look beautiful. Get in the booth,” Colt said, steering her by the back of her shirt. “Come on. Brock, Sienna. Let’s go.”
“Oh, you guys go ahead. Get a sibling one."
Wren grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the booth. “Stop it and get in here.”
I stumbled in after her, laughing in surprise as she hauled me past the curtain into the tiny, claustrophobic box.
I dug my wallet out of my purse. “At least let me pay.”
Colt squeezed in behind me and swatted my hand away. “Put that down.” He fished a crumpled five out of his jeans and fed it into the slot.
“Move over,” Brock grunted.
He ducked inside after us. The booth was built for maybe three people, if they didn’t mind getting cozy. It was definitely not designed for four adults, including two men over six feet tall, one of them a bronc rider with shoulders that took up half the space.
Colt shoved Wren. Wren bumped into me, and suddenly I was pinned against the back wall. Brock squeezed in beside me, his thigh pressed against my bare leg, his shoulder brushing mine. He was solid, warm, and smelled of cedarwood soap.
The machine beeped. “Get ready. Three. Two. One.”
FLASH.
“Ow! Wren, your elbow’s in my kidney,” Colt yelled.
FLASH.
I blinked the spots from my eyes. Wren leaned over Brock and planted a big kiss on my cheek.
“Brock, do something other than scowl!” Colt demanded.
FLASH.
Colt tried to throw bunny ears behind Brock’s head. I lifted my hand without thinking, trying to protect the injured shoulder. Brock chose that moment to grab Colt’s face and shove it toward the camera.
FLASH.
"Printing," the robotic voice chimed.
We spilled out of the booth into the muggy night, laughing and untangling ourselves. The machine whirred and dropped a glossy strip of photos into the tray.
Colt snatched it up. “Masterpieces.” He looked over at the guy running the deep-fried butter stand. “Hey, buddy. You got scissors?”
The vendor handed over a pair of greasy shears. Colt snipped the strip in half and pressed one into my palm.
“There,” he said, already turning toward the glowing Ferris wheel. “For your fridge back in Chicago. So you don’t forget your favorite siblings.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, just headed off to argue with Wren about which ride to hit next.
I stood under the neon lights, looking down at the photos. My eyes skipped over the first three frames of cramped smiles and flying elbows before settling on the last one.
Colt was throwing bunny ears behind Brock. My hand was half-raised, and my face was buried in the crook of Brock's neck as I laughed.
For a split second, I saw my apartment back home overlooking the busy city. Then the image dissolved into mornings on the porch with coffee and the mountains, shopping with Wren, sneaking into Brock's room late at night, and the way Colt had just called himself my sibling.
I didn’t want to put this strip on my fridge. I didn’t really want to go back at all.
Wren caught my eye. She glanced between me and Brock, then grabbed Colt by the sleeve of his pearl-snap shirt.
“Hey! Watch the fabric!” Colt yelped.
“I want a hot dog,” she said, dragging him toward the food stalls. “The line’s long, so you’re keeping me company.”
“What? No, I want to go on the Zipper!”
She hauled him into the crowd and threw a wink over her shoulder at me. “You two go ahead. Meet us at the trucks when the park closes!”
They disappeared.
Brock stepped up beside me. “You okay?”
I tucked the photo strip into my pocket. "Yeah."
I looked past him toward the Ferris wheel, its gondolas glowing white against the darkening sky. "Can we go on that?"
He followed my gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You sure? It’s a thirty-minute ride. Moves pretty slow.”
“Thirty minutes?”
“Yeah. You can see the whole valley from up there.”
“Good,” I said. “The last Ferris wheel I rode at some sketchy carnival in Illinois did three terrifying spins in five minutes. I thought the thing was gonna fall apart.”
He chuckled. “I think these bolts will hold. Come on.”
He rested a hand on the small of my back and guided me through the crowd. A few minutes later, the operator opened the glass door of a white gondola. We stepped inside, and the door clicked shut.
The padded bench curved around the inside, and Brock sat right beside me. The gondola lurched gently, and we started to rise.
The ground fell away, the carnival lights shrinking under us. Then a heavy drop of rain hit the glass, followed by another.
Suddenly, the sky opened up.
Rain hammered the roof. The temperature dropped fast, and the windows fogged over, blurring the neon lights into streaks of pink and gold.
"You gonna tell me what happened down there?" Brock asked.
I turned toward him. His arm was stretched along the back of the bench, watching me quietly.
"What do you mean?"
“You looked sad.” His voice was low and easy over the sound of the rain. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I hesitated, my thumb rubbing the edge of the photo strip in my pocket. “It’s just… it’s been a really nice night.”
He shifted closer. “That’s a good thing, right?”
I looked down at my hands and gave a shaky laugh. “Yeah. But when Colt handed me those pictures and said they were for my fridge in Chicago…”
I trailed off. The rain filled the silence. He didn’t push, just reached over and covered my hands with his.
“I realized I don’t want to go back,” I finished.
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"It could be."
I opened my mouth, ready to list all the reasons why it wasn’t, but he slid his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck and kissed me.
It wasn’t rushed like it usually was with us lately. This one was slow and gentle. I closed my eyes and leaned into him, my hands resting against his chest.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His thumb brushed slowly along my neck. The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the gondola, which swayed gently.
His other hand slid under the hem of my shirt, palm warm against my bare lower back, fingers spreading across my skin.
“Brock,” I murmured, glancing toward the fogged glass. “Anyone in the cars next to us…”
“They can’t see a damn thing through this fog. And I don’t care if they can.”