He shoved them back into his pocket anyway, then reached out with his right arm, wrapped it tight around me, and pulled me flush against his side.
I tucked my head under his chin and rested against his chest as the gondola slowly rotated the rest of the way down. It bumped to a halt.
The operator pulled the glass door open, and cool air rushed in, smelling of wet asphalt and sweet corn. The teenage kid running the ride looked drenched and miserable in his yellow poncho.
“Sorry about the delay, folks. Power surge tripped the brakes.”
Brock stepped out first. He reached back to help me down, then pulled a twenty from his pocket and pressed it into the kid’s hand.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Stay dry.”
Then he turned to me and slipped his fingers between mine. I looked down at our joined hands, my heart giving a hard thud. For a second, I almost pulled away.
But I didn't. When I looked up, his blue eyes were steady. There was no pretending anymore.
We walked out into the pouring rain together, soaking our clothes, his hand warm as I squeezed it.
twenty-two
. . .
BROCK
August burned out fast. The cottonwoods along the dirt drive were just starting to yellow, and the early mornings carried a cool edge that made you glad for a long-sleeve shirt.
The barn was quiet except for the creak of the rubber resistance band pulling tight. The air in the aisle was cool, smelling of old leather and sweet feed. I held the tension and let out a slow breath through my teeth.
"Hold it there," Sienna said.
She sat on an overturned feed bucket a few feet away, plastic stopwatch in one hand. Her brown, wavy hair was pulled back, but a few pieces had slipped loose around her face. She was swimming in one of my old flannels, sleeves rolled twice, and her cheeks were pink from a sunburn.
I needed to get back on a bronc. If I made the NFR in Vegas, Sienna’s contract would be extended to December. If I didn’t, she’d be packed up and headed back to Chicago in a matter of weeks. The thought of this place going back to empty made my jaw lock up worse than the band did.
"Okay, ease it back slow,” she said.
I let my arm drop. The ache ran deep down my shoulder blade, straight into the bone. I rolled the joint and heard it click.
"You're pushing it," she said.
She dropped the stopwatch onto the bucket and crossed the aisle. Then she stepped behind me, her thumbs finding the knots at the base of my neck and digging in. I dropped my chin and let out a low grunt.
"Doctor said range of motion," she said. "Not trying to pull a tractor with your bare hands."
We'd been at this most mornings, just the two of us before the house woke up. She'd bring coffee, and I’d pretend the exercises didn’t make me want to put my fist through an empty stall door. Then she'd work on my back, and for ten minutes I didn't have to pretend anything.
Before her, I would’ve wrapped the shoulder in tape and kept riding. Cracked ribs, blown knee, none of it mattered as long as the payout came through. But now, she was standing here in my flannel, and for the first time in years I actually gave a damn about healing right.
I caught her wrist and pulled her hand to my mouth to kiss her palm.
"Shoulder’s good," I said. "Thanks."
She stepped around to face me.
"Good. Because Ryder wants another post by tomorrow." She pulled out her phone. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "It’s an audio trend. ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.’"
"I’m not doing a line dance on the internet," I grumbled.
"You don't have to dance. You walk toward the camera and I jump on your back, piggyback style."
