Rowan automatically cataloged potential threats—sight lines from the driveway, cover positions, escape routes. Old habits from a decade of dangerous work, but useful when someone might be targeting the woman he loved.
Because that’s what this was about, wasn’t it? Not wanting to find reasons to stay, but needing reasons to keep Sierra safe.
Needing reasons to stay.
Because he was painfully and forever in love with the girl—woman—next door.
He simply hadn’t left the kid who wanted her to be impressed with him behind—that much he’d figured out after spending the day showing off his old skills. Her smile lit a sort of fire in him and did nothing to douse the old memories.
Caught myself something pretty.
Yeah, he was in trouble.
They went inside, and he set the bag of security equipment on the kitchen table. Maybe this was overkill.
“You’re doing it again,” Sierra said, pulling ground beef from the refrigerator.
“Doing what?”
“You used to get really quiet when you were thinking about something. Sort of pulled into yourself.”
He glanced over at her. Shoot, she remembered him that well? Maybe he’d been the one who’d forgotten who he was. In fact, he’d felt more like himself today, with a rope in his hand, teaching Huck and the others rope tricks, than he had in a while. Or maybe a different side of himself, one he’d tucked away for too long.
She set the meat on the counter. “The fire investigator said it wasn’t arson.”
“She said inconclusive and probably not arson. There’s a difference.” Rowan moved to the kitchen window.
The barn’s charred skeleton cast long shadows across the yard, a reminder of how quickly things could turn dangerous.
“You think I’m in danger.” It wasn’t a question.
Rowan turned from the window, meeting her dark eyes. “I think someone wants you gone. The methods don’t matter as much as the results.”
Sierra’s hands stilled on the package of meat. “You’re scaring me.”
He met her eyes. “Good. Scared keeps you alive.”
The words seemed harsh, but fear was a tool he understood. Fear made people careful, made them check locks and avoid dark corners and call for help when they needed it.
“Mom, can I watch TV?” Huck appeared in the doorway, his face clean but his hair still bearing traces of arena dust.
“After dinner,” Sierra said. “Go get cleaned up properly. We have church tomorrow—so scrub.”
“But—”
“Go.” Sierra’s voice carried enough authority to send Huck trudging toward the stairs, muttering about unfair parental tyranny.
Rowan’s mouth quirked upward. “Some things never change.”
“What do you mean?”
“You still get that look when you’re not having any arguments. Same expression you used to give me when you tried to talk me out of doing something dangerous.”
“I was usually right.” Sierra began browning the meat.
“You were always right. Drove me crazy.” Rowan leaned against the counter, breathing in the scents of home cooking and Sierra’s shampoo. This—this ordinary moment of watching her cook dinner—this was what he’d been missing without even knowing it. “What are you making?”
“Goulash.” She kept her eyes on the skillet. “Not exactly gourmet, but it’s what we can afford.”
