Page 5 of Saddle Storm

Silas has got his friends. His pretty-boy looks. Sports activities. No need to get his hands dirty here.

Things I imagine they thought to themselves.

And maybe they were right. I may have enjoyed the occasional horseback ride and light chores back in the day, but hockey’s always been my path.

Still, the ranch never felt like work when I was with Mom. She was the one who loved the land for what it was, not just for what it produced. She was obsessed with horses, the air, the fields, the quiet. Hell, even the late-night bonfires, so long as marshmallows were involved. Whole place felt like something we could all belong to as a family, instead of something that owned us. That we had to work to keep.

It was Mom who insisted that at the very least, I learn to ride. Gave me a horse and took me out almost every weekend with her.

Haven’t gotten back on Tucker since she died fourteen years ago.

My brothers, Dallas and Wilder, have built their lives around Blue River Ranch. They belong. Always have. Every time I set foot on it, I feel like the outsider.

The jokes around the dining room never bothered me. Not really. I was glad to be different. Chose to be, probably.

Bet any therapist would tell you I rejected the lifestyle before it rejected me.

“I get it,” Coach says after a beat, setting his hands in his pockets like he’s preparing another approach. “But staying in the city by yourself is going to drive you crazy. Breathe some fresh air, spend time with family. I’ve no doubt you’ll be back before the holidays.”

“Yeah, to watch from the sidelines,” I mutter like a child.

But I know Coach. He doesn’t do sympathy or compassion. If he thought I’d be back on the ice this season, he’d tell me to have the surgery, shake it off and get back out there. He’s being soft. Considerate. Angling to send me back home to be with people.

He wants me to get my mind off hockey.

That’s not the voice of someone who expects me back in a few weeks.

When he doesn’t respond to my comment, I stand and man the fuck up. “Thanks, Coach. Maybe home isn’t such a bad idea.”

The city is just going to remind me where I’m not going every day. And I suppose, an extra hand—or arm—wouldn’t hurt for a week or two after my surgery.

“I’ll stay at the ranch,” I tell him.

When I was first drafted, Dad offered to build me my own place near the main house. Nothing big, just about the size of a guest cottage, just a little more private—and off limits to anyone else. He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he wanted to give me a home to come back to off-season.

I turned it down. Respectfully, of course.

By that time, I knew when I was back—it would be no more than the occasional weekend or holiday, and crashing in a guest cottage, or even at Wilder’s, felt easier than pretending I still belonged there full time.

Blue River’s still open for business through the end of October. Which means they haven’t shut down the cottages for the winter. Close enough to family if I need them, but still alone.

At least that’s the plan.

Because I’ve got a sinking feeling that the second I set foot on that ranch with one working arm, they’ll decide I need babysitting.

And if that’s the case, I’ll stay with Wilder and his live-in girlfriend, Rose.

Because there’s no way I’m staying with Dallas. First off, he’s got a new baby, an eight-year-old who’s got more energy than I can handle right now, and a real wedding to plan. Or vow-renewal, whatever they’re calling it this time around. Since just about everyone in town knows that last year’s marriage to Willow—his nanny, slash temporary house guest—was nothing but a marriage of convenience to keep the daughter he never knew he had.

Coach nods like he had that answer before I did. “I like that plan, Silas. I’ll check in on you.” He meets my eyes. “Let that arm heal. You come back to me with good news in a few weeks, I’ll return the favor.”

It’s late when I finally step out of the arena. The parking lot nearly empty. My phone starts vibrating in my pocket, something it’s been doing since second period, but I haven’t looked. I knew what would be waiting for me when I did—messages from reporters, my agent, guys from other teams pretending to care.

And probably Ginger, the ranch manager who’s been like a second mother to me for as long as I can remember.

Though she won’t message. She’d call. And as her favorite—if I don’t pick up, it’ll bug me all night.

It’s a call all right, but not from Ginger. It’s my brother Wilder.