I realized what I’d said.
Her mouth curved.
I pointed at the engine. “This is worse than I thought.”
“Smooth recovery.”
“Wasn’t recovering.”
“Obviously.”
I stared at her. She stared back. The whole damn desert felt like it leaned in.
Then the front door banged open.
Regan’s voice cut through the morning. “Do I need to supervise?”
Sienna stepped back instantly.
I looked over my shoulder. “No.”
Regan stood on the porch with a coffee mug, wearing the expression of a woman who absolutely did need to supervise because she already knew something had happened.
Amber appeared behind her, sunglasses on top of her head. “Why is Mason shirtless?”
“Grease,” I said.
Sienna coughed into her coffee.
Amber’s grin spread. “Sure.”
Regan’s eyes slid from me to Sienna’s damp shirt to the open hood and back again. “How’s the truck?”
That killed the heat fast.
I wiped my hands on the rag and looked down into the engine. No point dressing it up. I could patch some things. I could get it to cough itself forward maybe a few miles. But five hours to Santa Fe? Across desert roads with heat climbing?
No.
Not unless Sienna had a death wish and Dolores had a miracle hidden under her rust.
I reached for the key through the open window. “Try it one more time.”
Sienna set her coffee down and climbed into the driver’s seat. The movement pulled her shirt tighter across her back, and I made myself look at the battery because apparently I still possessed one working scrap of discipline.
“Pump it twice,” I said.
She did.
“Again.”
She did.
“Now turn it.”
The engine coughed. Caught for half a breath. Shuddered so hard the whole truck trembled. The knock came deep and ugly, a metal-on-metal sound that made my jaw tighten.
Then it died.
