“I wear a nine,” she says, considering. “There’s probably some of Gwen’s old boots you can wear.”
I try not to flinch at the name, but I feel my reactionbetray me. It’s the slightest stiffening of my shoulders and the twist in my stomach. Phern notices.
“There’s no point in being jealous of her,” she says flatly, still stirring the eggs. “She was a saint. No one will ever compare to her.”
My jaw tenses, and before I can stop myself, I snort. “No pressure there.”
She finally turns to face me, eyes sharp but unreadable. “Just telling you how it is.”
Her words hang in the air heavy like smoke. I meet her gaze, but the lump in my throat is harder to ignore now.
Saint. Untouchable. Unmatchable.
And I’m just the reporter who showed up during a storm and let her brother undress her with his hands and his voice and his mouth.
I try to keep my voice even. “Did you like her?”
“Still do.” Phern shrugs. “She’s kind. Soft-spoken. Always knows the right thing to say. But she wasn’t meant for this place.”
“Have you always lived here?” I ask, glancing over as Phern scrapes eggs across the pan.
“All my life.” She stares off for a second, her gaze distant, somewhere past the kitchen window and the snowy fields beyond. “I had big dreams once. But that all changed when Dad passed away.”
I nod, remembering what I’ve found from my research. Their mom died when Phern was born. A late-in-life surprise, the articles said. That’s why Phern is fourteen years younger than Sam. But info about their dad? The internet doesn’t offer much, other than he died when Phern was eighteen.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice softer.
She sets the spatula down, leaning her hip against thecounter. “He was helping our cousin haul some bulls to Cheyenne. Someone left a padlock unlocked and Dad got caught in the stampede.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry, Phern.”
She shrugs, but the motion is heavy. “After he was gone, I didn’t want to leave home anymore. So I signed up for online classes and that’s that.”
I watch her for a moment, the way her jaw sets, the way she won’t quite look at me. Suddenly, her tough shell makes a little more sense. This ranch is more than land and fences. It’s all she’s ever had.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “Sometimes the place you’re from pulls you back in, whether you want it to or not.”
Phern finally glances at me. For a second, her eyes are softer.
“Yeah,” she says. “Guess it does.”
I grip the edge of the counter, the warmth of the stove grounding me as I stare at the eggs, trying to work up the nerve.
“You’re not the only one whose dreams didn’t pan out the way they were supposed to.”
Phern lifts an eyebrow, her attention flicking to me but not saying anything.
“I had this whole plan,” I go on, voice steady but quieter now. “Back in Oklahoma, I thought I was going to be a serious journalist. You know, real stories. Politics, disasters, the kind of stuff that made people think.” I laugh under my breath, but it’s not really funny. “And I was good. I moved up. Fast. So fast that I moved to Denver. And then to LA.”
“What happened?” she asks, tone still cautious but not cold.
“My ex,” I say, the word sharp in my mouth. “He was aco-worker. Charming. Smart. Knew how to say all the right things. I trusted him too much.”
Her expression shifts. Slightly. Her arms aren’t crossed anymore.
“He stole a story from me. My story. Took it to our boss, claimed it as his own. Got promoted. Got the glory. And I got pushed out. Well, I assumed I’m being pushed out. I guess I’ll find out for sure when I go back.”
“Damn,” Phern mutters, not unkindly.
