I reached out, my rough hand cupping the back of her neck. My thumb slid into the soft hair there. She let out a long breath, the tension draining from her shoulders as she leaned into the touch.
A throat cleared loudly.
I dropped my hand like I had touched a hot branding iron.
Dad was standing by the truck, arms crossed over his chest, watching us. I hadn't even heard him get out.
"That was real smooth," Dad said. His voice was conversational. "What you did there."
Sienna’s face flooded with a bright, hot red.
"She is good under pressure,” I said. "Calming Maisie down with the pumpkin... it was a great idea."
Dad tilted his head. He looked at Sienna for a long beat, then shifted his blue eyes to mine.
"Wasn’t talking about the pumpkin," he said.
The silence stretched. He held my gaze until I felt the weight of the secret we’d been keeping. Then, without another word, he uncrossed his arms, turned, and climbed into the cab. The door shut with athud.
I stood there in the dead, still air, staring at the window. My heart was hammering, but the panic did not come. Only a strange, clean sense of relief.
I was damn tired of sneaking around anyway. It wasn't how I was built.
The secret was out, Dad knew, and I wasn't going to apologize for it. I wanted everyone to know she was mine.
twenty-four
. . .
SIENNA
I held my breath, flattening myself against the hallway wall beside the grandfather clock. The mirror across the hall offered just enough of an angle to spy on the kitchen without revealing my position. If my floorboard creaked, Brock would catch me eavesdropping and shut down, and I needed to find out how much pain he was really in.
"Don't start, Colt," Brock grumbled.
"Sit down. Dusty moves faster than you."
In the reflection, Brock gripped the edge of the sink. He grimaced, rolling his left arm, then tipped the coffee pot one-handed. His shoulder was healing, but between physical therapy and tossing hay bales all afternoon, he was stiff as a board.
Colt snatched the coffee pot from his grip to pour the mug himself. "I mean it. Sit."
Muttering under his breath, Brock dragged out a chair and dropped into it. Moose immediately claimed the space beneath the table, resting his massive head across Brock’s boots with a weary huff. Even the dog knew Brock needed pinning down.
Brock dragged a hand over his thick fur, and Moose melted into the touch, eyelids drifting shut.
For a moment, silence settled over the room.
Then the dog's ears snapped up. He sniffed the air, lifted his snout, and trotted straight into the hallway—right toward me.
I waved my hands, silently shooing him back. Unbothered, Moose pressed his wet nose against my thigh. I caught his muzzle in my palm and gripped his collar before the metal tags could jingle.
Frozen in place, I tuned back into the argument.
"I have two local draws this week to grab points before Pendleton," Brock argued. "I need to get on a bronc."
"Like hell you do. You're taking the rest of the week off, and if I catch you working, I'll hide your tools and lock up your saddle."
"Dad blew his back out, and Wyatt's working Sheridan. The ranch won't run itself."
