Before I could lift the suitcase, a blur of black and white fur shot past my legs. Moose, our Bernese Mountain Dog, scrambled up the wooden stairs, his nails clicking frantically. A second later, a sharp yelp rang out from the second floor.
I stiffened, thinking he’d knocked her over, but then a delighted laugh floated down the stairwell.
"You're a giant, aren't you? Who's a handsome boy?"
I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle and hauled it up, letting it slam and bump its way up every step. At the top, I dropped it and turned straight back toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was warm with the smell of roasting chicken. Colt was the only one there, leaning against the counter with a carrot in one hand, grinning.
After washing my hands, I set the table while my brother stood there with his arms crossed, watching me slam silverware down.
"Trying to break those?” he asked.
"Shut up."
"She seems nice."
"She's not here to be nice. She's here because Outlaw thinks I need a handler."
He snagged another carrot off the cutting board and bit into it with a loud crunch. "Might do you some good to have one."
I pointed a fork at him. "You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to."
The back door swung open. Dad filled the frame, his gray hair sticking up where his hat had been. He held his Stetson in one hand and an onion in the other—fresh from the garden, still smudged with dirt.
"What's all the arguing about?" he asked.
"Brock's new ball buster—" Colt caught the sharp look on Dad's face and cleared his throat. "His new trainer arrived."
I pictured shoving my brother headfirst into the nearest water trough.
Dad looked at me. I didn’t confirm it, which was confirmation enough.
"Huh." He set the onion on the counter, then hung his hat on the hook by the door. "Why didn't you introduce me?"
"She just got here," I said.
"So?"
"So she's upstairs with Wren."
He sat down at the head of the table like he always did. "Bring her down for dinner. Use your manners, son."
Before I could force myself to go get her, soft footsteps tapped down the stairs. Sienna walked into the kitchen in a white tank top and a pair of Wren's old jeans. They stopped above her ankles, because she was taller than my sister. She looked... different.
I looked away. Then I looked back. Mistake.
I didn’t want her here. Didn’t want her perfume lingering in my house or her shit scattered around. Sure as hell didn’t need her following me to every rodeo and event.
“Well,” Dad said, standing up, hand out. “I’m Silas. Nobody told me we had company, because my children have no manners. You eaten yet, sweetheart?”
"I haven't," she said, shaking his hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"Sit anywhere. Brock, get her a glass of water. She just flew in from—where?"
“Chicago,” Sienna said.
