Colt’s eyes went to the denim jacket on the couch. “Do I get to keep the coat?”
“Only if you keep Moose away from the boots,” Brock grumbled.
We pulled the truck onto the dusty shoulder about an hour north of Douglas. The late afternoon sun was dropping low, turning the dry Wyoming scrub into a blaze of harsh gold light.
Colt jumped onto the lowered tailgate, showing off his new denim jacket. He dropped his voice into an over-the-top radio announcer’s voice. Wren grabbed a handful of gravel and chucked it at his legs. The wind was whipping across the plains, but my phone still caught her loud, bright laugh cutting through it.
After that, Wren snatched Brock’s coat. It swallowed her up, but she strutted around like a model anyway, chin high and hand on her hip. Brock just rubbed his temples and let her do it. I hit record right as she flipped her brother the double middle finger with a big grin.
“Get in the shot,” Colt said, hopping down and grabbing the phone from me. He shoved my shoulder, pushing me right into Brock. “Come on, stand together. Pretend you can stand each other.”
Brock's arm slid around my waist and settled on my hip, way too low. The heat from his palm burned straight through my dress. I kept my face still, trying to ignore how fast my heart was suddenly beating.
“Get closer,” Colt ordered. “You two look like you’re at a funeral.”
“We’re standing next to a muddy tire on the side of the road, Colt,” I said, glaring at the camera. “This isn’t prom.”
“Just fake it. Brock, smile. Sienna, act like you don’t hate him.”
Wren snorted from the ditch. Next to me, Brock’s thumb slowly traced a tiny circle on my hip bone. I bit the inside of my cheek hard so I wouldn’t smile.
The camera clicked. Colt flipped the phone around and shoved it at me. “Done. You’re welcome.”
Dusk settled over the plains, turning the sky a muted purple. I climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the heavy door. Behind us, Colt's headlights flicked on.
The empty highway stretched out dark ahead of us. I lit up my phone in the dim cab and scrolled through the photos and videos. Colt’s stupid voice, Wren goofing around in the coat, and then the last picture—me and Brock.
His arm was locked tight around my waist, but he wasn’t looking at the camera. He was staring down at me, smiling.
My breath caught. My thumb hovered over the screen.
Up front, Brock drove in silence, his right hand resting on the wheel. Those same rough fingers that had been on my hip.
I thought about the hospital bills, the loans against the land, and the way he’d gone still when Wren brought it up.
I turned the phone off, pulled out my laptop, and opened it.
They needed more than just videos. I was looking for every possible way to bring money in: affiliate deals, brand partnerships, anything that could help.
I wanted them to stop drowning. I wanted Brock to stop carrying all of it alone.
The truck rolled down the empty road while I typed on my laptop, the keys clicking steadily over the rumble of the engine.
twenty-one
. . .
SIENNA
Twenty-four hours after our sunset photoshoot on the highway, the mood had tanked. Brock hunched over the tailgate of Colt’s truck, glaring at the gravel as if the rocks themselves were responsible for his low score at the rodeo.
The Wyoming State Fair in Douglas was massive. Neon lights, carnival rides, and packed arenas lit up the night. Brock looked like a stranger in dark canvas shorts and a gray T-shirt. The soft cotton lacked the grit of his usual denim, a perfect mirror for the flat, defeated air hanging over the truck.
“It was a trash draw, man,” Colt said, leaning against the side of the truck bed. “That bronc had a weird fuckin’ rhythm right out of the chute. Nobody was staying on that.”
“I could’ve,” Brock said. “I lost my seat.”
“You’ve been resting,” Wren pointed out gently from his other side. “Doctor’s orders, remember? You’re allowed to be a little rusty.”
