Rio stood at the fence, massive and still, his black coat catching the last of the light. Brock swung into the saddle, adjusted his hat, and looked down at me.
"Where do you want me?"
I lifted my phone. "Just ride along the fence line. Don’t look at the camera."
"I never look at the camera."
"I know. That’s why it works."
He rode, and I filmed.
Rio moved along the fence line, his hooves thudding softly against the dirt. Brock barely moved in the saddle, one hand loose on the reins, the mountains stretching behind him. The Outlaw logo caught the fading light at exactly the right angle.
It was the best content I'd shot since I got here.
I called him back and showed him the screen. He leaned down from the saddle to look, close enough that I noticed the sun catching on his skin, the blue of his eyes sharper up close.
"That'll work," he said.
"That'll more than work. It's perfect."
He looked down at me, and something in his expression shifted. Not a smile exactly, but something less guarded. His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second before finding mine again.
"Thank you," I said. "Seriously."
He straightened in the saddle, his gaze moving back toward the mountains.
"Yeah, well..." He paused. "I know I made this harder than it needed to be."
The admission caught me off guard.
He didn't say anything else. He just clicked his tongue, and Rio started toward the barn.
I watched him go, my phone still tight in my hand. The knot that had followed me since the highway hadn't loosened. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Somewhere along the way, Brock had stopped feeling like just another job. I couldn't let myself forget why I was here—or that I had to leave.
Cheyenne was seven days away.
nine
. . .
SIENNA
We’d been in Cheyenne for four days, but Championship Sunday felt different. The fairgrounds came alive before the sun was fully up. Fans crowded the fences for barrel racing, steer wrestling, and the other events I was finally starting to recognize.
“Next up, we’ve got a 78-point ride from Travis Moore!” the announcer boomed. The crowd erupted.
Brock didn’t speak. He just reached into the cooler, pulled out a bottle of water, and handed it to me. That was him before a ride, quiet and focused, like all his thoughts were somewhere I couldn’t reach. Or maybe he was just better at keeping them to himself.
My flight back to Chicago was tomorrow morning.
The thought had hovered over dinner the night before. Wren had barely touched her steak, pushing food around her plate while complaining she was losing her only ally in a house full of cavemen.
I’d laughed. Brock hadn’t. He’d just kept cutting his steak into smaller and smaller pieces, his eyes fixed on his plate.
I took a gulp of cold water and capped the bottle, my chest tight. A month ago I’d been counting down the days until I could go home. Now I was trying not to count the hours.
