Page 51 of Saddle Storm

“Why is that bad again?”

“Because it’s Silas. He’s not stickin’ around here.”

Willow hums. “Yeah. Bet he has heartbreaker written all over him too.”

I glance over at her. “You see it too?”

We laugh just as Dallas steps out smelling like soap. He’s wearing a fresh T-shirt and carrying a bottle of beer and one hot mug of tea. He sets down Willow’s tea and hands me the beer bottle. “I’d offer you wine, but we’re all out.”

I take it tentatively. “Thanks, boss, but I’ve still got an hour into my shift.”

“No, you’ve still got an hour before you got to pick up Max. Hang out for a bit.” He winks, then bends to pick up Emmit and steps back into the house.

“He’s a good one,” I assure Willow, taking a sip.

She lifts her tea carefully with two hands, settling into the pillows. “They all are.” She assures me right back, then looks off to the side. “Except maybe Wilder—I’ve seen grumpy CEOs smile more than that guy.”

I scrunch my nose. “Probably didn’t help that Rose was either late for work, stealing property, vandalizing it, or starting fights in bars.”

“Cut my girl some slack, ranch life takes getting used to.”

I take another swig of my beer. “That and a cranky cowboy, I suppose.”

17

The stove clicks continuously under my hand, but the damn burner refuses to catch. No matter how many times I turn the knob. I’m conscious of Max behind me doing homework by the kitchen counter and swallow the incessant cursing under my breath.

“Stupid thing worked yesterday,” I mutter. Finally, the fire ignites and I exhale, moving the pot of water over it. “Okay, pasta in fifteen minutes.” I twist toward the counter, shoving aside this month’s bills to think about after dinner.

“Mom, when are we seeing Silas again?”

“Shouldn’t we be thinking about math homework?”

“I need to get a picture. I told Danny and a few other kids and they think I’m lying.”

“Then they’re not your friends,” I tell him, wondering if I have fresh tomatoes for a salad.

“But you and Silas are friends, right? The kids at school said your mom wishes she was friends with Silas Thorne. And Cooper said his dad works at the ranch too so that doesn’t mean anything.”

Annoyance starts to build and I twist to face him. “I’m sorry, honey. I think you should make other friends. Or maybe stop talking about Silas altogether?”

“Mom,” he whines.

Shoot, forgot the protein.

I open the freezer. Stare at bags of frozen corn, ice packs, and steak that looks so frost-bitten it’ll take three days to thaw. I close it again.

A knock sounds at the door and my nostrils flare like I’m ready for a fight. The old man downstairs has been bitching about stomping feet and loud TVs since we moved in. Last time he was here—must be over a month ago—I cursed him out and threatened to press harassment charges.

I wipe my hands down my jeans. Hmm. This time, I think I’ll tell him I’m filing a complaint about unsafe living environments because my child and I are being threatened—I’m sure the landlord will be happy to get rid of the threat to avoid a lawsuit.

I open the door. And it’s not the crazy man from apartment 3C.

It’s Silas.

Standing in the dim hallway like he doesn’t quite fit in the space. Like it shrinks a little when he’s in it.

He’s in a baseball cap that barely covers his identity. Brown jacket over a black T-shirt and a takeout bag tucked under his good arm.