"I'm not being difficult," Sienna argued. "I understand. I'll handle the content for this week. Goodbye."
She ended the call and let out a slow breath.
I pushed off the stall door and walked over. "What do they want me to do?"
"Nothing we can't handle. They want higher engagement for Outlaw this week."
I stopped right in front of her. "Don't lie to me. What did she ask for?"
"She was just fishing." She waved a hand. "She's annoyed the Ryder posts are doing better than the energy drink ones. She wants an action shot. I told her no, that we’re getting good engagement with our usual content. It's handled."
Outlaw didn’t want me walking down a barn aisle with her on my back. They wanted adrenaline.
"You don't have to protect me," I said.
"Brock, it's my job to handle the content. If they want you on a bucking horse while you're hurting, they can fight me on it."
"I'm not talking about the sponsors."
I took the phone from her hand and set it on the rail. Then, I wrapped my good arm around her and pulled her in. She held out for about half a second before she let go. Her forehead hit my chest, arms going tight around my ribs.
"I've got you, Starlin’," I said against her hair.
She didn’t answer. Just stood there, shoulders tense, breathing against my shirt.
Riding hurt was part of the job. I’d done it a hundred times, but she’d told them no. She picked a fight with the woman who controlled her paycheck, just to keep me out of the dirt.
I pressed a kiss to her forehead and didn’t say another word.
I’d already made up my mind. I wasn’t going to let her lose her job. And I damn sure wasn’t going to let her pack for Chicago in October.
twenty-three
. . .
BROCK
"Ten dollars for a pumpkin is steep, son."
Dad tapped a slow rhythm against the warm tailgate of the truck. We were parked in the center of Redbow’s town square, where the morning breeze had died out hours ago. By noon, the sun had turned the farmer's market into a slow-cooker, and the asphalt radiated heat through the soles of my boots.
Wyatt did not look up from the metal cashbox. He straightened a stack of wrinkled singles, his thumb flicking the corners. "These are pie pumpkins. It’s only the first week of September, and, if people want the porch-ready look today, they will pay the premium for it."
"They're the same ones from the patch behind the barn," Dad said.
Wyatt snapped the cashbox shut. “And they make a better pie than anything at the grocery store. Besides, Maisie picked this one herself. She spent twenty minutes runnin’ her hands over the entire patch and said this one had a stem like a twisted rope. It’s premium."
Colt was back at the ranch, face-down on the living room sofa with a tequila hangover, claiming he was 'guarding the perimeter.' That left the rest of us on pumpkin duty. It mostlymeant standing in the humidity while Dad and Wyatt argued over price points.
I leaned against the truck fender and nursed a cup of iced black coffee. The ice had melted, leaving a watery sludge that tasted like burnt dirt. It was a miserable substitute for the scent of sugar cookies drifting from the Wagon Wheel Diner across the street. Getting back into the chute meant a clean diet, so the cookies were out of the question.
I pressed the cool plastic cup against my forehead, trying to steal a second of chill.
Sienna sat on the dropped tailgate, wearing a thin tank top with lace edging the straps. She kept twisting the lace between her fingers, rolling it into a tight spiral and letting it unspool again. The sun had brushed her nose and cheeks a soft pink.
She watched Dad and Wyatt bicker like she was front-row at a show. Every few seconds, her boot kicked the bumper, the vibration humming through the metal and into my hip.
The urge to pull her off that metal and into the cab clawed at me. I wanted to roll the windows up and bury my face in the crook of her neck to smell that perfume of hers.
