Page 10 of Saddle Storm

I ruffle his hair. “Did you make any friends?”

He nods. “This kid Michael is cool. And one girl kept hugging me all day.”

“Oh yeah, that was me.” Ginger winks.

“Besides you,” Max says bashfully.

Ginger looks up at me. “There was a little girl named Maddie who took a liking.”

“Really?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. Max is a cool fun kid when you get to know him. He’s just sensitive and shy.

Maybe it’s the lack of a male figure in his life that makes him the odd duck. Personally, I always thought I could be both for him. But that’s hypocritical of me knowing I’m raising him in a bubble.

“By the way, you free to work tomorrow? Wilder sold two horses being picked up Monday morning and we need to get them prepped.”

I sigh. Sundays are my only day off and I really need them. To rest, I lie to myself, but mostly—because Sundays are for Dad. I stop by the care facility for a few hours every week. Usually. If the nurses tell me it’s a good day. If not, I try and sneak in a visit on a weekday when Max is at school, so that our visit doesn’t confuse or scare him. He’s been the only father figure my kid’s ever known.

Some days Dad’s steady enough to talk, bark, bicker—those are the good days believe it or not. Other days I just sit with him while he sleeps or stares at the TV. It’s not easy for me to see him like this either. I was never “daddy’s little girl” by any means. We weren’t built that way. It was always more practical between us. He made sure I knew how to take care of myself. And it’s that exact skill that’s kept me going.

Something shifted after Max was born, though—not just the giant teddy bear he’d been hiding all these years under the tough exterior, but the way he sees me. Still hovers a bit, still pays attention, just not as quick to step in. Which I choose to take as trust to know what I’m doing.

“I can, but not for the whole day, need to see Dad tomorrow morning.” I don’t add that I also need to rest my bones. Because Ginger will quickly change her mind and ask someone else to do it.

And—it’s a sign of weakness that my bank account and my kid can’t afford.

“Oh, you’re just an angel. I owe you an extra day once the wedding’s over and all the fall chaos settles down. And don’t you worry, dear, I’ll make sure Max has fun tomorrow.”

I hum because I’m too weak to do anything else. “See you tomorrow, then.”

3

The tires crunch over familiar gravel as Wilder drives my Maserati through the open gates. The sound louder than usual. I told him I wasn’t coming unless my car came with me. So he drove down to Denver with a ranch hand who followed us back in his truck.

I’ve driven this road a hundred times. Thanksgiving. Short summer breaks. The quick weekend resets I used to sneak in when the season schedule lined up just right. Usually, I come blazing in late and leave early, never staying long enough for the dust to settle over my sports car.

This time, there’s no getaway clock ticking. No checking my watch noting to self “three hours tops.” This is home for the next six weeks.

Minimum, apparently. Thankfully—which feels odd to say right now—it was the biceps. Tear in the tendon. Cleaner surgery, the surgeon had said. Apparently, the resurfaced injury wasn’t my shoulder. But it wasn’t stable either. The biceps tendon was compensating—and that’s what finally gave out.

Still have to wear this sling for four to six weeks, with PT starting next week.

My eyes wash over the same view. Same fence line. Same mountains cutting the horizon.

I’m on a different timeline now. One set for me—not by me.

“I’m not staying with you and Rose,” I mutter as he pulls to a stop in front of his house.

Wilder kills the engine and steps out. “Come on, pretty boy. You can wash the dirt off your sneakers later.” He comes around to open my door and I kick it against him for even trying.

“Sorry,” he wheezes like I’d just knocked out a lung. “Thought you could use a hand.” He coughs a laugh.

“That got old an hour ago,” I deadpan, then walk around him and up the porch steps, where Dallas lingers by the door frame, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place.

Fucking Christ.

Judging by the accusing look on his face, I almost prefer Wilder’s hand jokes.

Dallas is the only one who knew about my shoulder pain resurfacing last fall. Made me promise I’d take care of it. He doesn’t realize—or care—that there’s zero chance I can have someone examine me without word getting out and putting my career on the line.