“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to talk to that detective from yesterday.”
Saxon picked up his coffee. “Good. It’ll give me a chance to look into the legalities of getting a PI license.”
This was what he got for thinking with his emotions instead of his brain. Because if Sierra had cattle stolen, of course she’d show up at the police station.
Now, Sierra’s scream still echoed in his ears as she stared at him, her dark eyes wide, her hand over her mouth.
And all he could think was—oh, she looked good. Sure, he’d seen her yesterday, but today, up close…he couldn’t breathe.
The years had transformed her from the beautiful girl he’d left behind into a full-bodied woman. Her dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the office light with subtle highlights that spoke of hours spent in mountain sun. Those eyes—the same warm brown that he’d held in his dreams—were deeper now, framed by long lashes and holding new depths, new layers.
She’d clearly lived a little life too.
She wore a plaid flannel shirt, the fabric hugging her curves, and a pair of jeans over cowboy boots that looked scuffed and work-worn. Of course.
“Oh my,” she said softly.
Yep, Oh. My.
Ten years had only made her more stunning, more perfectly herself, and the realization that he’d lost all those years, all that time watching her become this incredible person, carved a knife into his chest.
He should have come home. Maybe never left.
“Sierra—” His voice emerged rough, unfamiliar. Ten years of being Hammer, and suddenly he was Rowan again, eighteen and desperate and completely undone by the girl next door.
“No.” She shook her head. “No, this isn’t happening. You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead! I got the flag. I got the flag!”
The flag. Yes, right. He’d forgotten about the flag.
He should have told her then, that night his team had picked up Mack. That would have been the right thing to do.
Instead, she’d gotten the flag.
He deserved the betrayal in her eyes.
“Sierra, let me explain?—”
“Three years!” The words seemed ripped from her throat. “I buried you, Rowan!”
Detective Martinelli had gotten up, morphed into a sort of—friend? Concern in his eyes. “Sierra, maybe you should sit down.”
“Sit down?” She stared at him. Then her mouth opened. “Wait. You…how long—did you…” She glanced at Rowan, back to the detective. “How long have you known, Mike?”
Mike?
And the man seemed suddenly weirdly apologetic. “Just yesterday, but—it wasn’t my news to tell—C’mon, Sierra, don’t look at me like that…” He reached out for her.
No wonder the guy had given him the runaround. He had something going with her—or maybe wanted to.
Except, she wasn’t in any place for complications, Bub, and he sort of wanted to step between her and Mike.
Rowan stood up.
She stepped back, as if…what? Was she afraid of him?
Maybe. Maybe not, because she drew in a steadying breath and her beautiful eyes hardened, and she shook her head. “You jerk.”
