"Shoulder’s at a hundred percent," I said, taking a sip of the hot black coffee. "I think I’m ready to start getting on practice broncs again."
She let out a breathless, relieved laugh and leaned her forehead against my chest. "Thank God."
After weeks of her worrying, it felt damn good to finally give her some good news.
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Come on. Put some real boots on and come with me.”
She pulled back, squinting up at me. “Iamwearing boots.”
“Not those. The ones you don’t mind getting muddy.” I set my mug on the chopping block and grabbed my flannel off the fence. “I want to show you something.”
Ten minutes later we were walking up the long dirt drive. The morning sun melted the frost, softening the ground. After a hundred yards I took a left, cutting across the pasture and leading her through the small stand of old apple trees. Most ofthe fruit had already been picked or dropped, but a few late ones still clung stubbornly to the branches.
Sienna stayed close to my side, hands buried deep in her pockets. “There’s nothing up here but overgrowth. Wren showed me the first week I was here.”
"Used to be," I corrected.
The moment we cleared the trees, Sienna stopped dead in her tracks.
Mom’s old glasshouse sat tucked in the clearing, protected from the wind by the apple trees. Sunlight bounced off the sloped glass roof and wide windows.
For years, the place had sat overgrown and forgotten, but over the last few weeks, I’d replaced the rotted boards with fresh cedar that still smelled clean and sweet. Now it gleamed again.
“Did you do all this?” she asked quietly.
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. “No rodeos for a while. Needed something to do.”
We walked up to it. The glasshouse stood tall in the clearing, close enough that I could see our reflections in the windows.
Her fingers moved over the new hinges and brass hardware on the door.
“This is your mom’s greenhouse, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Dad built it for her so she could keep gardening when the cold set in. Been sitting empty since she passed.”
"You brought it back."
"Just cleared the brush out." I stepped up to the door and pushed it open. "Come on."
The second the door clicked shut behind us, the cold disappeared. Warm air wrapped around us as if we’d stepped into another world. Sunlight poured through the glass roof, turning the whole place into a pocket of summer. The air smelled like cedar and damp soil.
“Must be seventy degrees in here,” she said.
“It’ll stay warm even when there’s snow covering the ground.”
I walked down the center aisle. She followed behind me, running her fingers over the scarred, weathered wood of the potting benches that lined the walls.
I reached under the main bench and pulled out the canvas cooler I’d hidden there earlier. I unzipped it and took out two cold bottles of local beer and a paper-wrapped bundle of sausage and egg sandwiches from the diner.
“Breakfast,” I said, popping the caps off against the edge of the wooden bench.
She laughed, looking from the bottle to me. “Beer? But it’s nine in the morning.”
"I just spent weeks eating spinach and egg whites," I said, handing her one. “I’m having a beer.”
She smiled and took it. We hopped up and sat side by side on the wide potting table, her boots dangling while mine rested on the floor. Sienna took a bite of her sandwich, squinting as the bright sun hit her face. She lifted a hand to block it.
I pulled the Stetson off my head and dropped it onto hers. It was a brand-new custom felt hat, one of the first perks from the deals Sienna had landed.
