He drove the first three hours one-handed, right wrist hooked loosely over the top of the steering wheel, left arm held a little too still against his side.
At a gas station outside Casper, he walked out of the convenience store and paused by the pump. He rolled his injured shoulder in a slow circle, jaw tight—the same thing he did when he thought I wasn’t looking.
But I was looking.
When he climbed back into the driver’s seat, I slid my hand over his and gently took the keys. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not hurting. Slide over. I’ll drive.”
“I’m fine,” he said stubbornly, but his fingers tangled with mine instead of taking the keys back.
“You rode Cheyenne on that shoulder yesterday, and then…” I trailed off, my face heating. “You didn’t exactly rest it last night.”
His mouth curved into a slow smile. “No. I didn’t.”
The keys dropped into my palm just as his other hand clamped around my thigh, fingers curling tight against the sensitive skin under the hem of my shorts. Heat radiated off him.
He leaned across the console, teeth grazing just below my ear. The clean smell of soap clung to his skin.
“Two hours,” he murmured. “Then I’m taking it back.”
He gave my thigh one last squeeze, then got out and walked around the hood. He opened the passenger door for me.
As I stepped into the baking heat, he caught my hand and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles, blue eyes holding mine for a long moment before he let go.
In a daze, I walked around the front of the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. The door slammed shut with a solid thunk that jolted me back to reality.
Brock folded himself into the passenger seat.
“The AC works best if you crank it all the way to four,” he said.
He tipped his hat down over his eyes, leaned his head back against the window, and reached over without looking. His calloused hand settled back on my thigh, heavy and warm.
I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling too wide.
He was out cold about twenty minutes later, but his hand never moved. I kept glancing over on the long straightaways—at the dark scruff along his jaw, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the way his shoulder was finally getting a chance to rest.
On the drive back from Cody, he’d let me sleep on him until his arm went numb. So when we hit the two-hour mark, I didn’t wake him. I just laced my fingers with his and drove.
He finally stirred when the pavement turned to gravel outside Redbow. He blinked slowly, checked the clock on the dash, and looked over at me.
“I told you two hours,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“I decided we’re even for Cody.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, failing to hide a smile. “Pull over, Starlin’. I’ll drive the rest of the way.”
We swapped seats. A few minutes after the cattle guard rattled under the tires, the wooden house came into view, glowing gold in the setting sun. It didn’t feel like just a place I was working anymore. Now, it just felt like home.
I left my suitcase by the truck, too wrung out to deal with it, but when I came back from saying hello to Moose, it was gone.
I found it upstairs in the guest bedroom, tucked against the wall next to the closet.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the scuffed black canvas for a long time. For the past month, I’d lived out of it, keeping everything zipped because I knew I was leaving. Now, I finally needed to unpack.
The terrifying, wonderful thought I’d pushed away all day finally settled in my chest.
This could actually work.
The quiet stretch of peace didn’t last long. The next morning, Silas dragged Brock to the doctor in Sheridan. He came back with a two-week light-duty order and a foul mood.
