Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
brOCK
August burned out fast. The cottonwoods along the dirt drive were just starting to yellow, and the early mornings carried a cool edge that made you glad for a long-sleeve shirt.
The barn was quiet except for the creak of the rubber resistance band pulling tight. The air in the aisle was cool, smelling of old leather and sweet feed. I held the tension and let out a slow breath through my teeth.
"Hold it there," Sienna said.
She sat on an overturned feed bucket a few feet away, plastic stopwatch in one hand. Her brown, wavy hair was pulled back, but a few pieces had slipped loose around her face. She was swimming in one of my old flannels, sleeves rolled twice, and her cheeks were pink from a sunburn.
I needed to get back on a bronc. If I made the NFR in Vegas, Sienna’s contract would be extended to December. If I didn’t, she’d be packed up and headed back to Chicago in a matter of weeks. The thought of this place going back to empty made my jaw lock up worse than the band did.
"Okay, ease it back slow,” she said.
I let my arm drop. The ache ran deep down my shoulder blade, straight into the bone. I rolled the joint and heard it click.
"You're pushing it," she said.
She dropped the stopwatch onto the bucket and crossed the aisle. Then she stepped behind me, her thumbs finding the knots at the base of my neck and digging in. I dropped my chin and let out a low grunt.
"Doctor said range of motion," she said. "Not trying to pull a tractor with your bare hands."
We'd been at this most mornings, just the two of us before the house woke up. She'd bring coffee, and I’d pretend the exercises didn’t make me want to put my fist through an empty stall door. Then she'd work on my back, and for ten minutes I didn't have to pretend anything.
Before her, I would’ve wrapped the shoulder in tape and kept riding. Cracked ribs, blown knee, none of it mattered as long as the payout came through. But now, she was standing here in my flannel, and for the first time in years I actually gave a damn about healing right.
I caught her wrist and pulled her hand to my mouth to kiss her palm.
"Shoulder’s good," I said. "Thanks."
She stepped around to face me.
"Good. Because Ryder wants another post by tomorrow." She pulled out her phone. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "It’s an audio trend. ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.’"
"I’m not doing a line dance on the internet," I grumbled.
"You don't have to dance. You walk toward the camera and I jump on your back, piggyback style."
I raised an eyebrow. "Piggyback."
"Yes."
I hooked my good arm around her waist and pulled her tight against my chest.
"I don’t know," I murmured, voice low. "If we’re talking about ridin’ a cowboy, I’d rather have those pretty legs wrapped around my head."
Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink under the sunburn. She glanced toward the open barn doors.
"Brock. Behave. This is for the boots."
"Just offering better ideas."
She shoved at my chest, but she was fighting a smile. "We're doing the piggyback. Actually—" The smile flickered, and a frown took over. "No. You need to rest, and I'm too heavy. We'll figure out something else."
"You think you're too heavy for me?"
"Your shoulder isn't healed. I'm not risking it for views."
"Sienna."
I bent, hooked my right arm under her thighs, and lifted her straight off the ground. She yelped and grabbed my neck.
"Brock! Put me down!"
"You weigh about as much as a wet saddle." I bounced her once to prove it. My left shoulder didn’t even twinge. "Get your phone out. Let's shoot this before Colt walks in and ruins it."
She was laughing now, her face inches from mine. She pulled up the app one-handed and hit record, arm stretched out to catch us both.
I carried her down the center aisle, dust hanging in the early light, her laugh echoing off the rafters.
Then her phone rang, breaking the moment.
She went rigid against my chest. Pulled the phone back, looked at the screen, and the smile dropped clean off her face.
"It's my boss," she said.
I stopped walking. Loosened my grip so her boots could find the ground, but kept my hand on her waist.
"You want me to step out?"
She shook her head, took a breath, and answered.
"Avery. Morning."
I leaned against the stall door. Couldn’t make out the words, but the voice on the other end was fast and sharp.
"I'm not neglecting Outlaw. The Ryder posts are an affiliate deal I set up on the side to build his personal audience. It’s cross-promotion."
More rapid-fire from the other end.
"The numbers are stabilizing. You can't expect the Cheyenne bump to last forever."
She turned away from me, took a few slow steps down the aisle, then stopped.
"No. Absolutely not. I don't care what they want. He's on medical light duty."
I crossed my arms. It translated easy enough—Outlaw wanted me on a horse.
"I'm not being difficult," Sienna argued. "I understand. I'll handle the content for this week. Goodbye."
She ended the call and let out a slow breath.
I pushed off the stall door and walked over. "What do they want me to do?"
"Nothing we can't handle. They want higher engagement for Outlaw this week."
I stopped right in front of her. "Don't lie to me. What did she ask for?"
"She was just fishing." She waved a hand. "She's annoyed the Ryder posts are doing better than the energy drink ones. She wants an action shot. I told her no, that we’re getting good engagement with our usual content. It's handled."
Outlaw didn’t want me walking down a barn aisle with her on my back. They wanted adrenaline.
"You don't have to protect me," I said.
"Brock, it's my job to handle the content. If they want you on a bucking horse while you're hurting, they can fight me on it."
"I'm not talking about the sponsors."
I took the phone from her hand and set it on the rail. Then, I wrapped my good arm around her and pulled her in. She held out for about half a second before she let go. Her forehead hit my chest, arms going tight around my ribs.
"I've got you, Starlin’," I said against her hair.
She didn’t answer. Just stood there, shoulders tense, breathing against my shirt.
Riding hurt was part of the job. I’d done it a hundred times, but she’d told them no. She picked a fight with the woman who controlled her paycheck, just to keep me out of the dirt.
I pressed a kiss to her forehead and didn’t say another word.
I’d already made up my mind. I wasn’t going to let her lose her job. And I damn sure wasn’t going to let her pack for Chicago in October.