My eyes drifted past the hanging bundles of dried herbs to a framed photo behind Silas. A woman with dark hair stood on the porch, a baby on her hip. She had the same green eyes as Wren and Wyatt. Brock and Colt had inherited Silas’s blue.
Next to it was another photo—five kids lined up on the same porch railing, squinting into the sun. I glanced around the table, then back at the picture.
I reached for my water and said nothing.
“Sienna, you ever been to a rodeo?” Wren asked, pulling me back in.
“Never.”
“You’re in for it, then. I compete too. Barrel racing.”
“She’s good,” Wyatt added.
She waved him off. “I’m okay. Brock’s the real deal.”
“Is barrel racing what it sounds like?” I asked.
“You ride around three barrels as fast as you can without knocking them over,” she explained. “It’s a timed event. Brock does the dangerous stuff.”
“I think I like the sound of yours more.”
“He’s been doing it since he was fourteen,” Wren continued. She had turned toward me fully now. “Dad put him on a horse before he could walk, but the rodeo was all him.”
“She doesn’t need my life story,” Brock said.
“She literally does. That’s her job.”
He gave her a flat look.
“We all grew up riding,” she went on, ignoring him. “Our brother Knox used to compete too, when we were kids. He wasn’t as good as Brock, but?—”
She stopped abruptly.
“But what?” I asked.
Wren glanced at Silas, quick and uneasy. “It’s kind of a complicated situation.”
Brock set his fork down and stared at it.
I looked around the table. “I’m sorry. Did I step in something I shouldn’t have?”
“No, honey,” Silas said quietly. “It’s just not something we talk about.”
“Old family stuff,” Colt said. “Every family’s got some, right?”
“Sure,” I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
Silas cleared his throat. “Anybody want more chicken?”
Nobody did. He stood and carried the serving dish to the counter.
Brock finished everything left on his plate in about forty-five seconds, then stood and rinsed his dish in the sink.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said.
He grabbed his hat from the peg by the door. The big wooden door swung open, letting in a rush of cool air before clicking shut behind him.
Maisie whispered, “Is Uncle Brock upset?”
