Page 27 of Saddle Storm

“We were literally in the same building for three years, Silas. Sometimes the same class and you acted like I didn’t exist. In fact, I vaguely remember you changing your schedule the two times we did end up in the same class. And fine—maybe you felt uncomfortable being around me.”

Just when I thought she couldn’t slice me any deeper, she raises her arms in exaggeration. “Poor little golden boy had to deal with the horse-girl’s sad crush.”

My lips part but I’m still struggling too much with the tight knot in my stomach to speak.

Not because something tells me that isn’t the half of it. But because I doubt she knows why.

In fact, now I know she doesn’t.

And I can’t tell her.

She runs her hand across her forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt. I fight the urge to swipe my thumb across it. It doesn’t bother me—it’s adorable and reminds me of the Storm I remember. It’s just this pull to touch her . . . It’s so strong I’m almost sure I’m not going to make it through this conversation without doing so.

“You completely ghosted me, Silas. And now that I’ve said it, you have no words. Well, I hope your pride and your constant need to win got you what you wanted, because I’m done.” She turns, reaching for the gate and I catch her arm with my left hand. She stills and looks down at where we’re connected, then meets my eyes.

“I still have three minutes,” I tell her, buying time.

She scoffs. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You couldn’t get away from me fast enough when we were in high school, now you want to stick around for more?”

I lick my lips. “Yes.”

Her eyes mist as she chuckles bitterly. “Of course you do. Get over yourself, Silas, I was fourteen. A fourteen-year-old’s crush counts about as much as it does on a Backstreet Boy.”

My eyes flick to the side with a genuine question. “Out of curiosity, how long do those last?”

Another chuckle, but this one’s real. She shakes her head before meeting my eyes. Hers are more watery than before and I start to wonder how much of it is pure exhaustion. “Not forever. It fades and eventually you realize just how silly it was.”

I nod, kicking a few pebbles with my shoe. “I’m sorry, Storm.”

She huffs a laugh like she’s surprised it’s all I have to say—or that I’m still standing here—who knows with her. “It’s fine.” She shrugs. “You had a reputation to protect. I was a threat to that.”

“That’s not it,” I say, my jaw set, holding her gaze like nothing’s ever mattered more.

Something softens in her eyes—just enough. Her guard falls for a heartbeat, before she shutters it. “Then why?” She backtracks with a breath. “No. You know what? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know.”

I know she does. And I know from Dad that Tom Dalton is at a facility in Denver now, too ill for Storm to care for by herself anymore.

“You know, I met a kid yesterday.” I glance back toward the hill and smirk. “We were uh . . . well, we were talking about leprechauns and wishes.” I meet her eyes; they’re surprisingly focused with genuine interest. “And he asked me what I’d wish for if . . . well, if we caught one.” I shake my arms like it doesn’t matter, because she probably doesn’t care to hear where this came from. “Anyway, I didn’t have a wish to share with him at the time, but . . . right now . . .” I swallow, gazing down at her like she might be able to pull it out of me. “I wish I could tell you why.”

She nods and it’s laced with disappointment. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking.” She turns again.

“Bee.” I catch her, twisting her back and pulling her to me. It’s an awkward pull—not as slick as I’d hoped given it’s with my left arm and there’s a sling between us. Before she can fight it, I swipe my thumb across her forehead. Her skin is smooth, warm, lightly laced with a rough texture, dust probably.

She’s still under my touch, even as I swipe again, then remember my hands aren’t much cleaner.

Reaching in my back pocket, I take out a single, travel-size wet wipe and tear it open with my teeth before removing the towel and wiping the dirt off her face.

To my surprise, she doesn’t move. Instead, she deadpans me through her lashes. “You carry wet wipes?”

I keep my eyes on her skin. “Yes.”

“Why?”

I glance at her. “I don’t want to say.”

She fights a grin. “All right. Can I go now?”

I release her and step back. “Yeah, I think I got it.”