Page 11 of Saddle Storm

And I know exactly what this look means as I pass him to go inside—you didn’t take care of it and now look at ya.

The house smells like cookies when I walk in. “Aw, you baked for me,” I say, settling myself on the couch, careful not to groan from the shooting pain when my right arm brushes against the cushion.

Jesus Christ that can’t be good.

Wilder walks in and shuts the door. “Make yourself at home. We’ll get you settled into Dallas’s old room upstairs.”

I’m about to tell them no need for it, but Dad steps out of the kitchen. Ginger behind him with a tray of cookies and a mug. My eyes sweep past the measuring look on Dad’s face. Like he’s appraising cattle instead of his son.

Instead, I focus on the ray of sunshine in his life—Ginger. The godsend to the Thorne family. Been the ranch manager practically since Dad opened thirty years ago. And with the loves of their lives both long gone, Dad and Ginger became close, keeping each other company, and a few months ago, finally moved in together. She wasn’t just a ranch manager, she’s been a huge part of our lives—practically family. Which is why none of us understood why they’d keep their relationship a secret.

“Where’s his suitcase?” Dallas asks Wilder.

“I’m right here,” I call out.

Dallas snaps his head to me. “Fine. Where’s your stuff?” He points a finger at me. “Don’t think you’re leaving anytime soon.”

“What is your deal?”

“My deal is last fall, you told me you’d have that shoulder looked at and like a damn idiot, I believed you—now look at you!” He shakes his head.

I laugh.

“What’s so funny? You never listen to me. It’s how you ended up here.”

“Thought I was here because I needed a hand.” I smile and glance at Wilder. Dallas sighs and flips around like he might punch something.

“Son, go blow off steam someplace else and give your brother a break.” Dad’s voice is low with a subtle edge that’s enough to put even the oldest in his place.

Dallas steps aside while Ginger rests the platter next to me on the coffee table. “Tea is hot so give it a minute, dear.”

I flash her a bright smile and reach for a cookie. “Thanks, Ginger. Hey, can I stay with you?”

Dad scowls in my direction because he knows I’m messing with him.

“What?” I complain. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Dad, but there’s nothing but new relationships across the board here.” I run my good arm around the room. “No one needs a third wheel in the house right now.”

Dad takes a seat on the chair across the couch. “Wilder told us what the doctor said. Knowing you, you’re blowing it off and just thinking about getting back on the ice.”

I roll my eyes.

“Now I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on taking care of yourself or denying you need anyone, but we’re going to help you heal properly.”

I shift uncomfortably and his eyes drop to my sling. “I know it can feel limiting, for someone who’s always on the move. Someone with your . . . competitive nature. But we’re not just anyone. We’re your family. Now if I understand correctly, it’s at least ten days before the stitches come out. Physical therapy after that. And the sling off in six weeks.”

“Four,” I correct.

“Four minimum. Six recommended,” Wilder adds. That almost-smile twitches across his mouth again.

Six weeks of stationary life in a world built for motion and speed. At least my world.

The hell am I supposed to do? Watch the season start without me in it? “I feel so accommodated,” I mutter dryly.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Dallas says. “Once your sling’s off, we’re putting you to work on the field.”

Dad glares at his oldest.

“What? It’s physical therapy.” Dallas nudges Wilder and winks. “Teach him to toss a lasso or something with that right arm. That’s almost like swinging a hockey stick, right?” My brothers laugh and I’m a young teen all over again. Feeling like the odd duck. The one without the cowboy gene. The jock. The joke.