"You okay?" she asked.
"It's nothing."
She'd slept on me for an hour. I hadn't meant to let her, because my shoulder was already sore from the ride, and I didn't need another thing reminding me how beat up I was. But when her head dropped against my arm, I'd frozen. Then I saw the way her hand had gone slack in her lap. I couldn't make myself wake her.
And now she was sitting in my truck wearing my jacket. I could smell the perfume she'd made herself mixing with the hay and motor oil, and it made me want to lean over and?—
"Sorry," I said, cutting the thought off fast.
"For what?"
"For this."
"It's not your fault the truck died."
It was, though. I'd kept putting it off. Last month, Colt left the yard gate unlatched, and Moose got out, wandered down to the pond, and picked a fight with a porcupine. Between the emergency vet pulling two hundred quills out of his face and the farrier bill for the horses, the truck had to wait.
Sienna pulled out her phone and held it up toward the windshield like another inch would make a difference. After a few seconds, she let out a frustrated sigh and dropped her arm, finally giving up on a cell signal. A moment later, the soft, warm glow of her Kindle lit up her side of the cab.
I leaned back against the glass. The silence, the rodeo, and the long drive had finally taken their toll.
"Wake me if a serial killer taps on the glass," I muttered.
"Go to sleep, Brock. I’ll handle the glass-tapping murderers while you drool on the window."
I smiled and closed my eyes, just meaning to rest them for a few minutes.
When I woke up, my neck was stiff. I shifted, blinking against the dark. Sienna was still awake, bathed in the faint light of her screen. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips parted slightly as she read.
"Still reading about the guy in the skirt?" I asked, my voice gravelly with sleep.
She jumped a little, shooting me a glare. "For the last time, it's a kilt. And no, I finished that one."
She clicked the screen off, plunging the cab back into near-total darkness. She stretched her arms out in front of her, the oversized sleeves of my jacket bunching around her wrists.
"I need to stretch my legs,” she said.
Then she got out. I heard her boots crunch on gravel, then silence, then: "Oh my god."
I got out too. She was standing at the back of the truck, head tilted all the way back, mouth parted.
"Not like this in Chicago?" I asked.
"Not even close. You get maybe five stars on a good night. And two of them are airplanes."
I leaned against the tailgate. She came and stood next to me, still looking up. Her shoulder brushed against my arm, and I should've moved, but I didn't.
"You don’t miss home?"
She shrugged. "Some things. My sister. Good pizza. Being able to walk to a coffee shop."
"So what happens after?"
She turned her head. "After what?"
"Cheyenne. Your contract's up, and then what? Another guy who punched someone on camera?"
She chuckled. "Back to my job, yeah. Avery will probably have someone else lined up for me. Hopefully one with a working truck."
