"A mare went down colicking," Dad said. "He won't leave till she's standing."
"He's foreman at a ranch outside Sheridan," Wren explained, glancing at Sienna. "Last spring he spent his birthday in a frozenbarn nursing a sick foal back to health. We brought out a cake and everything, and he ate one slice and went back to it."
Sienna rested her chin in her hand. "Stubborn to the point of self-destruction—is that a family thing, or does Wyoming just do that to people?"
"Some worse than others," Wren said.
I looked up from the garlic bread. Wren and Sienna were watching me with the exact same expression. I ignored my sister, glancing sideways at Sienna as she reached for her water glass.
She hadn't worn a dress since the day she'd arrived, her heels sinking into the dirt, looking at me like I was something she wanted to scrape off her shoe. Back then I'd been half-hoping she'd quit and go home. Now, I couldn't get close enough.
Under the table, I shifted my leg until my knee pressed against hers.
She went perfectly still. She turned her head slow, her dark eyes sliding up to mine with that warning look already there.
"What are you doing?" she muttered under her breath.
seventeen
. . .
SIENNA
“Eating dinner,” he said, his volume infuriatingly normal.
Brock reached for his water glass and took a slow sip. Under the table, his knee slid away from mine.
I released a breath and picked up my fork. Good. He was going to behave.
The relief lasted about one second.
Instead of denim, his rough palm settled squarely on my bare thigh. My spine locked. My fork hovered halfway to my mouth. The sundress had ridden up, leaving a dangerous stretch of bare skin, and Brock’s hand took full advantage.
I lowered my fork. His calluses dragged over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. A sharp sound escaped my throat, which I disguised as a cough.
Wren glanced over. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I cleared my throat. “Eating too fast.”
Silas smiled. "Slow down and drink some water, sweetheart."
I reached for my glass. Brock’s fingers flexed and slid higher. I snapped my knees together, staring a hole through my plate, battling the reckless urge to open my legs for him.
He moved another inch. His fingertips slipped under the lace hem of my underwear and stopped.
I cut my eyes toward him. His jaw held no tension. He chewed his pasta with maddening calm while Colt and Silas argued across the table.
"Price per ton went up again," Colt said. "Third time this year."
"Then stop overfeeding," Silas said.
"I'm not overfeeding, the horses are just?—"
"You are,” Wren cut in. “Nova’s getting heavy.” She pointed her fork at her brother. “If my horse gets fat, I won’t be able to compete. Stop messing with her feed.”
His hand didn't move. The tips of two fingers rested inside the lace, warm against the skin of my hip.
The rigatoni and the garlic bread turned to ash in my mouth. Nothing existed except the weight of his palm and the stillness of his fingers. Every time he shifted in his chair, the lace pulled just slightly—a reminder of how close he was.
