She waved and disappeared out the back.
After a quick breakfast and scheduling Brock’s annoyingly photogenic video, I grabbed my Kindle and slipped out the front door.
I followed the porch around to the other side of the house and found a flat rock at the edge. The dew had dried, and the stone was warm when I sat down.
The mountains stretched out in front of me, blue-gray ridges stacked into the distance, snow still holding on in the highest cuts. The only sounds were the wind and the occasional thud of a horse shifting in the paddock.
Maybe four weeks of this wouldn't be so bad. I opened my Kindle and?—
"The Highlander's Midnightwhat?" asked a deep voice beside me.
I nearly threw the thing into the dirt.
Brock was standing there, leaning against the wooden porch, a sandwich in his hand. I had no idea how someone that big could move so quietly. His eyes flicked down to the screen, then back to me.
A smug grin spread across his face. "Was that a man wearing a skirt?"
My heart was beating fast. Of all the books and all of the covers, of course this would be the one he saw.
“That's none of your business."
He laughed and pushed off the porch. "Didn't say it was. Enjoy your book, darlin’."
I sat there, clutching the Kindle to my chest with my face burning, and listened to his boots crunch all the way back toward the house.
five
. . .
BROCK
Three days. That's how long it took me to figure out I couldn't shake her.
After the second morning, she quit showing up at five. I figured that was the end of it. Then Wednesday at 7:30, I heard boots crunching gravel. By Friday, she knew my whole damn route. So I switched it up and started at the north ridge, where the cell signal's dead and the only company is antelope that spook if you breathe wrong.
I didn't ask how she found me. She showed up anyway, her phone in one hand, a thermos in the other, and a pair of boots Wren must've talked her into.
Those two had gotten tight fast. Going on trips to town, coming back with bags, and now they had some silent agreement to gang up on me.
Two days before the Cody rodeo, I was in the tack room fixing a busted cinch when she walked in. She had a neon pink can tucked under her arm.
"What's that?" I asked.
She held it up. It was an Outlaw energy drink.
"Your sponsor sent a case. Wren said you'd throw them out, so I grabbed one. You don't like them?"
I pulled the strap through the buckle. "It tastes like cough syrup with bubbles."
"That's the old flavor. This is cherry-lime. They want a fifteen-second clip of you drinking one at Cody. Figured you might want to know what it tastes like before you have to pretend to love it on camera."
She popped the tab and held the can out to me. “Try it.”
“You first.”
She raised an eyebrow, but she took a long sip.
“See?” She pushed it toward me. “Not dead yet.”
