Chapter 28
twenty-eight
. . .
SIENNA
"Your replacement flies into Sheridan tomorrow morning. I need you back in the Chicago office first thing Monday so we can figure out your next placement."
My brain stalled. Outside the kitchen window, frost silvered the paddock rails. Brock was in the far ring working a horse on a lunge line, his breath pluming white in the cold.
I set my coffee mug beside the sink. "Avery… the standings posted last night. I’m right in the middle of drafting his sponsor posts—"
"And you did a great job getting him there," she cut in smoothly. "But we want a senior rep on this going forward."
My mouth went dry. I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to find a way through it. She wanted me on a plane tomorrow. I couldn’t leave now.
“I have two weeks of PTO saved up,” I blurted out. “You said I could use it once this assignment wrapped. It just did, so I’d like to take one week starting tomorrow.”
There was a heavy pause.
"Sienna." Her tone went ice-cold. "You’re really going to do this right now?"
"I'm not trying to cause problems," I said quickly. "This summer's been nonstop—driving from rodeo to rodeo, twelve-hour days… I’m burned out. I just need a few days. I’ll fly back next week instead."
Another long pause.
"Interesting," she said. "I really didn’t want to think there was anything inappropriate going on. I thought you were smarter than that. But asking for time off the second I pull you off this assignment… to do what, vacation in the middle of nowhere? You can see why that raises questions."
I gripped the edge of the porcelain sink until my fingers ached, suddenly feeling exposed despite the miles between us.
“It’s not what you think,” I said. “I—”
"Take the week. But when you get back to Chicago, we’re going to have a serious conversation about your future here."
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone and set it on the counter. I looked out the window, but Brock wasn’t anywhere in sight. My eyes fixed on the scarred wood of the fence as I tried to pull myself back together.
The mudroom latch clicked. Brock stepped inside, pushing open the front of his barn coat. Dust coated the thighs of his jeans. He pulled off his hat, but the second his eyes landed on me, his easy movements stopped.
"Hey," he said, brow furrowing as he crossed the room. "What happened?"
I opened my mouth, but it took a second for the words to get past the knot in my throat. "Avery just called."
"What did she say?"
"She pulled me off the account." My voice wobbled. "She’s flying a replacement into Sheridan tomorrow."
"The hell she is."
"I managed to buy a week with PTO, but… I think she knows we’re together. Or at least she suspects. She basically threatened me. If I don’t get back to Chicago soon, she’ll fire me. I won’t get any bonus, nothing. And I won’t be able to cover Mara’s—"
He cut me off by stepping in close, taking my hands and uncurling my clenched fingers.
“I don’t want to do this with anyone but you,” he said. “I don’t want somebody else out here."
My heart twisted. "It’s not that simple."
"I’ll call Outlaw myself. Tell them I’m done if they try to replace you. Or hell—I’ll hire you directly. I’ll figure it out."
God, he made it sound so easy. Like he could just bulldoze through contracts and responsibilities. For one second, I let myself picture it: staying here on the ranch with him. No more hiding. No more Avery breathing down my neck.
I shook my head, gripping his hands tighter.
“Brock, no. You can’t lose Outlaw. They’re covering all your travel expenses… you’ve told me how much that matters with Vegas coming up. I’m not letting you blow it all up for me.”
I swallowed, my voice dropping. “And if you hire me directly? It’ll just prove Avery right. Everyone will think I slept with my client and turned it into a private payday. No agency would ever touch me again.”
“I’d rather lose the sponsorship than lose you.”
I pushed my hands flat against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath my palms. "We didn’t fight for months to get you this far just to watch you risk it all."
He stayed quiet for a long moment, the muscle beneath his stubble ticking. Then he exhaled and pulled me flush against him, one hand cradling the back of my head as he tucked my face into his shoulder. He smelled like cedarwood, horse, and cold air.
“Chicago isn’t the moon, Starlin’,” he murmured into my hair, voice low and warm. “You handle your shit in the city, and I’ll come to you as soon as I can. Once Vegas is done, we’ll figure out the rest.” His arms tightened around me. “I’m not letting them take you from me.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him how complicated this could get. But he was so warm and solid, and his low drawl had a way of making the impossible feel possible. So I stayed there in his arms, breathing him in, until the coffee on the counter went cold.
Eventually, Brock had to get back to the horses, and I had a few hours to pretend to pack.
My suitcase sat open on the bed, half-empty, like I was hoping the universe would intervene. We’d agreed to break the news to the family at dinner. The thought sat like a lead weight in my stomach all afternoon.
Needing a distraction, I went looking for Maisie.
I found her in the living room at the coffee table, her small hands busy rolling and shaping a lump of modeling clay.
That morning, Wren had crossed into Montana and driven all the way to Billings.
She came back with a beginner’s perfume-making kit, just so I could keep my promise to help Maisie make Wyatt a perfume.
"Okay, May," I said, unscrewing a tiny amber vial from the kit. "Smell this one. Tell me what it makes you think of."
Maisie leaned in, taking a deep sniff. Her nose wrinkled. "The leather stuff Daddy puts on his saddle."
"Perfect. That’s going to be our heart note."
She paused, tilting her head toward me. "You smell different today. Not like your flowers. Like Uncle Brock's soap."
My face went hot. "I might have used the wrong one this morning."
She smiled. "It’s okay. He doesn’t smell too bad." Her fingers explored the kit. “I’m glad we’re making this for Daddy. He always gets me good presents. He promised he’s gonna buy me a braille tablet for Christmas.”
"Yeah? What’s that?"
"It’s like a computer, but for my fingers, like my teacher has. Then I can practice at home, and I won’t be the slowest reader anymore."
My hand stalled on the dropper bottle.
She felt around and grabbed another vial. "Daddy has a special jar on the fridge, and he puts money in it every Friday for my present. But Uncle Brock told him to stop. He said when he wins Vegas, he’s gonna buy it so Daddy doesn’t have to worry about it anymore."
A knot formed in the back of my throat. I rolled the tiny glass bottle over in my palms, blinking hard to clear the sudden burn in my eyes.
"That’s a really great promise," I managed.
She didn’t seem to notice the change in my voice. She just uncapped the vial, gave it a quick sniff, and made a dramatic yuck face before setting it aside.
I couldn't shake the sick, hollow feeling in my gut all afternoon, and it only got worse at dinner.
When Brock broke the news that I was leaving, Maisie started crying so hard Wyatt had to excuse them from the table. Wren blinked rapidly, staring a hole into her plate, while Colt’s attempt at a lighthearted joke only made things worse. I managed three bites of mac and cheese before giving up.
Once the kitchen was clean, I couldn’t take the heavy silence anymore. I grabbed a blanket and slipped outside.
Brock found me on the porch a little while later. I was huddled on the top step, the cold biting at my cheeks, watching the stars come out over the mountains.
He didn’t say anything. He simply dropped another wool blanket around my shoulders, sat beside me, and pulled me flush against his side. His warm arm wrapped around my back, hand settling on my hip.
We sat like that for a long time. The sky darkened, and somewhere beyond the tree line, a coyote called. Another answered.
Brock rested his chin on top of my head and let out a slow breath. The warmth of it against my cold skin finally broke the silence I’d been holding in.
"I don’t want to leave," I whispered.
"I know. Me too."
I tried to memorize all of it. The weight of his arm, the creak of the porch boards, the cold, clean smell of the air. I tried to pack it all away somewhere safe.
The night on the porch ended way too fast. By sunrise, I was running on black coffee and a heavy dose of dread.
I leaned against the paddock fence after lunch, watching Brock work Rio in the dirt ring. It was chilly, but the sun was blinding. I kept both hands wrapped around my hot tea, wearing one of Brock’s spare hats pulled low to block the glare.
An engine rumbled up the drive. A spotless black SUV rolled up, kicking up dust before parking right behind my muddy Outback.
Brock paused in the ring, looping his lunge line loosely over his hand. He frowned toward the SUV, and suddenly I was back on my first day here. The same flat look, the same guarded expression.
I set my tea on the fence post and slid off the rail, but Moose beat me to it. He bounded off the porch, tail wagging like a windmill, eager to greet the newcomer.
The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out in a crisp white button-down, sunglasses tucked into his styled brown hair. Moose planted two heavy, dusty paws on the guy’s pristine shirt.
The man yelped, stumbling back and swatting wildly. "Hey—down! Someone get this thing off me!"
My body recognized that irritated voice before my brain did.
Trent.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
Brock ducked through the rails and came up beside me. His eyes flicked to my clenched fists, then to the yard.
"What’s wrong?" he asked, low.
"That's the replacement Avery sent," I said, the words scraping past the sudden lump in my throat. "And my ex."
Brock's jaw tightened, and he took a step closer.