Page 17 of Saddle Storm

“Hm.” I set the veggies on the board and start chopping. “We’ll see just how cool they are when his grades start dropping.”

“Have you seen him around the ranch? Do you know where he’s staying? If you do, can you get a picture for me?”

My heart sinks a little. Not because there’s no way I’m getting a picture of Silas for him, but because he wants to feel a part of something. And right now, that something is the Silas Thorne being in town.

I consider it briefly because I’d do anything to keep my son happy. Then it hits me.

Silas doesn’t know about Max. He barely even knew I worked on his family’s ranch until he saw me last fall.

It’s not like it’s a giant secret. Jasper could have very well told him that he hooked up with Storm Dalton at the party and knocked her up.

Then again, Jasper was pretty adamant about me keeping the father’s identity hidden to avoid painting him as some deadbeat to the town he was quick to flee from after it happened. Or one of his brothers could have easily mentioned Max’s existence.

No. Silas being back in town means nothing and there’s no point in telling him something that’s none of his business. He didn’t care about me then and he’s not going to now.

I hate Band-Aids. Don’t need to keep ripping them off myself.

Because Silas will be gone as soon as he’s cleared to play. I can make it a few more weeks. Keeping myself and Max out of his sight.

“I don’t think so, sweetie. I think Silas is here to get away from all that. Best not to bother him.” I turn before his disappointment can sway me otherwise.

6

On Sunday morning, Wilder set me up on his back patio for physical therapy with its quiet mountain view. Sounds peaceful until you factor in the part where someone is paid to torture my arm and shoulder for an hour. But it’s hard to complain. Because it is quiet here. Serene. Certainly smells better than any gym.

The river snakes below the ridge, sunlight catching on its surface. Mountains rise beyond it. Things I used to take for granted when I blew through town for Sunday dinners and holidays.

“Relax your neck,” Jenny, my therapist, says, tapping the tense muscle with the edge of her finger. She’s local apparently, does ranch calls for injured rodeo guys and, now, wayward hockey players avoiding civilization. “When you tense your neck, your shoulder locks up. Let it drop.”

“It is dropped,” I insist, because I really can’t tell a difference. Suddenly, I’m in yoga class in the tenth grade when Mr. Lewis kept telling me my shoulders are literally at my ears and to relax them, even though I swore I couldn’t bring them any lower.

“It is absolutely not,” she argues, gently swinging my arm back and forth. “You’re trying to hold your whole upper body together. Just breathe it out.”

“You breathe it out. You sound frustrated, Jen.”

She releases a breath and I see her shoulders drop a bit.

Huh. Maybe I should try that.

I blow out a breath and stare past her at the sunflowers lining the riverbank, stubborn and bright. Getting lost in it for a moment as Storm comes to mind. Picturing the way she’d go from running them along her face—to using one as a sword against me, challenging me to a duel.

“There you go,” Jenny says. “Now lift your fingers. Not the elbow.”

I do and immediately groan, pain stabbing sharply along my arm. Nothing compared to a slapshot to the ribs, but enough to humble me.

“Good,” she says, backing away then helping me with my sling. “Small progress is still progress.”

I frown. “Well then let’s keep going. I can do big progress.”

“Slow down. You don’t want to push that. I’ll be back in a few days and we can pick up from here,” she tells me, making me feel even more useless as my world continues to slow.

A few hours later, I’m restless and desperate to get my mind off the upcoming opening game. The one without me in the lineup. My first instinct is to see if I can . . . let’s call it “mend fences” with a certain freckled blonde. Our encounter the other day’s been bothering me and I want to make things right. I hadn’t intended to infuriate or intimidate her—but in less than five minutes in a room with her, I managed to do both. But if I’m going to do that, I’ll need my afternoon caffeine fix first.

And there’s only one person in town who always makes it just right.

I head over to The Shack to see Wesley, head chef and Wilder’s best friend. My brother hired him right out of college after he and Dallas first took over the ranch. Dad hated the idea of a chef on the ranch, with their fancy menus and reservations. It was all too official and modernized for his comfort.

But it wasn’t Dad’s ranch to run anymore and even though it wasn’t mine either since I—to no one’s surprise—gave up my share, I still supported my brother’s decision. Wes’s menu and catered events brought a whole new crowd to Blue River. And it’s not like Dad’s still grumpy about it. Because this past week, I’ve been finding him getting cozy with Ginger on the front deck where they have outside seating through the end of October. It gets cold but there are blankets on benches and oversized chairs, and scattered heat lamps surrounding the deck railing. It’s all Wes’s doing. My brothers tend to focus more on the cattle’s comfort than the guests’.