I pulled back just enough to turn to them. I could only imagine how I looked—red eyes, blotchy cheeks, a total mess.
“I’m not leaving,” I said hoarsely. “I was trying to… I didn’t want to cause any more problems?—”
Silas walked over, his boots loud on the hardwood, and stopped in front of me. His weathered blue eyes studied my face for a long moment.
“The only thing that would break my boy’s heart,” he said quietly, “is if you walked out that door right now. So leave the bag where it is, sweetheart.”
A sob caught in my throat. I was trying hard not to start crying again, and that didn’t help.
Wren was there a second later, gently pulling me out of Brock’s arms and wrapping me in a tight hug. She smelled like fresh coffee and hay.
“You’re stuck with us,” she said into my shoulder, squeezing me harder. “I told you a long time ago. You didn’t believe me?”
A watery laugh escaped me as I hugged her back.
“Colt,” Silas said. “Grab her suitcase.”
“On it.”
Colt shoved the piece of toast he’d been holding into his mouth, crossed the room, and hoisted the suitcase onto his shoulder.
“This is going back upstairs,” he grumbled around the toast, crumbs falling onto his shirt. “And if you try to leave again, I’m hiding it in the barn and making you dig through hay bales for your shampoo.”
“Colt,” Wren warned, though her voice held a smile.
“What? I’m being supportive!”
Brock shrugged out of his coat and let it fall onto the entry table, then pressed his hand against my lower back, guiding me up the stairs. His palm was hot through my thin shirt.
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind us, the noise from downstairs faded, leaving only the quiet creak of the old floorboards under our feet and the distant low of cattle outside.
I sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. My body felt heavy, like I could barely hold myself up.
Brock knelt in front of me. He reached down and pulled off one of my socks, then the other, taking both of my bare feet into his rough hands.
"You're freezing," he murmured.
He lifted one foot just enough to press a slow kiss to the top before lowering it back down.
He shifted closer, easing off his jeans before settling onto the bed. We lay down together, and he guided my feet between his warm legs, letting his body heat chase away the cold.
I turned into his chest, curling against his side. He was solid and warm through his flannel shirt as he wrapped an arm around my back. He pressed a soft kiss to my temple, then another along the side of my neck, his lips lingering.
“We’ll handle the rest tomorrow,” he murmured against my skin. “Today, just let me take care of you.”
“Thank you,” I breathed.
His heartbeat thumped steadily under my ear. Downstairs, the house carried on around us—the sound of laughter, cabinets opening and closing, the dishwasher rumbling to life.
I closed my eyes and let myself be held.
thirty
. . .
BROCK
The hayloft in the green barn was the quietest place on the ranch, as long as you didn’t mind the dust and the wind trying to freeze your ears off. I sat on a stack of alfalfa bales, boots dangling over the edge. Below, the ranch was just starting to wake up. Sunlight cracked over the Bighorns, throwing long shadows across the ground.
