My face heats. "Emma—"
"I think your Uncle Wade is just fine," Sierra says diplomatically, crouching down to Emma's level. "It's nice to meet you. I like your boots."
Emma looks down at her pink cowboy boots proudly. "Daddy got them for my birthday. They're real working boots, not just for show."
"I can tell. Those are serious boots."
Tucker catches up, slightly out of breath. "Sorry about that. Emma, what did we say about calling people Wade's girlfriend?"
"That I shouldn't because it makes him turn red and grumpy." Emma grins unrepentantly.
"Exactly." Tucker gives me an apologetic look. "Sierra, I see you've met our resident troublemaker. Emma, why don't you go help Boone with the horses? He said he could use an assistant."
"Okay!" Emma takes off running toward the stables.
"She's got energy to spare," Tucker says, watching her go. "How's the tour going?"
"Fine," I say at the same time Sierra says, "Educational."
Tucker looks between us, clearly reading the tension. "Well, don't let Wade scare you off. He's grumpier than he needs to be, but we keep him around anyway."
"I'm right here," I mutter.
"I know." Tucker claps my shoulder. "You two hungry?"
My stomach is, but I'm not ready to sit around a table making small talk with Sierra Vaughn. "We haven't finished the tour yet. Still need to check the cattle operation, the feed storage, the—"
"Wade." Tucker's voice carries that particular tone that means he's about to make a point I won't like. "It's noon. Take a break.Show Sierra the guest house, let her get settled if she wants. You can finish the tour this afternoon."
It's not really a suggestion. Tucker might be easy-going most of the time, but when he makes a decision as the leader of our group, we listen.
"Fine. Come on." I start toward the path that leads to the guest house, not waiting to see if Sierra follows.
She does, of course.
"Emma seems sweet," she offers.
"She is. Tucker's been raising her on his own since she was three. Her mom decided motherhood wasn't for her and took off."
"That's awful."
"Yeah, well. People leave. It's what they do." The bitterness in my voice is too obvious, too revealing. I clear my throat. "The guest house is this way."
We follow a worn path through a stand of trees. Frank built the guest house about fifteen years ago, thinking he might want somewhere for visitors to stay. But he rarely had visitors, and after he got sick, no one used it at all. We've kept it maintained. Cleaned it out after he died, made sure the pipes didn't freeze last winter, but it's been empty for two years.
The small cabin comes into view, nestled among the pines. It's simple: one bedroom, one bathroom, a combined kitchen and living area. But it's solid, well-built like everything Frank touched.
I unlock the door and push it open. The air inside is stale but not musty. Someone, probably Mason, has been checking on it.
"It's not much," I say, stepping inside. "But it's got what you need. Electricity, running water, heat. Internet's sketchy out here, but it works sometimes."
Sierra moves past me, setting her bag down and looking around. The furniture is basic but comfortable—a couch, a kitchen table, a bed visible through the open bedroom door. Windows look out toward the mountains.
"It's perfect," she says, and she sounds like she means it. "Way better than a hotel."
"There's one in Blackwater Falls, about thirty minutes from here. If you'd rather—"
"No. This is good. If I'm going to learn how the ranch operates, I should be here." She turns to face me. "That is, if we move forward. I know you haven't all decided yet."
