Page 20 of Saddle Storm

“And I think you need to take your insecurities someplace else, hotshot, because I have work to do.”

“Hotshot?”

She rolls her eyes and steps around me.

“Hey,” I call after her.

She turns back. “What?”

“What’s my name?”

Another eye-roll. “For the love of God, get over yourself and go away.”

“I will, after you say my name.”

She mutters something under her breath, before stretching her arms out like she’s making some announcement. “You’re Silas Thorne. Blue River’s golden boy. Three-time champion—aka Mr. Hotshot. Now if you’ll excuse—”

“No.” I close the distance. “I’m just Silas.” She used to say my name like it was something special to her, but not anyone else. There was always an unspoken undertone in it. Just a look or a nod. “Silas.” meet me behind the clubhouse later so we can set up that booby trap we planned. Or, “Silas.” not a word to you-know-who about where that bucket of frogs on Ginger’s desk came from.

And I always read her loud and clear.

“What happened to you?” I ask low, but it’s barely a question. Because I know what happened to her. To us. But I’ve always been curious to hear her version.

“What happened to me?” Her voice rises. She shakes her head like she might have lost control and is regaining composure. “Your own horse barely recognizes you.”

The way she looks at me now makes my chest twist.

I should let it go. Walk away like I did from everything else around here. Consider it a problem I don’t need to deal with.

But it’s Storm.

I had to walk away from her once before and I can’t bring myself to do it again.

If I’m being honest—selfishly, I’m reaching to hear if it tore her up the way it did me.

Even if it does go against everything I wanted not to happen.

I made a lot of hard decisions when I was younger so that she wouldn’t end up hating me. So that we wouldn’t get to this point of our lives where she can’t even say my fucking name.

I let my gaze drift from her eyes down to her mouth and back up again. Stepping in front of her when she tries to move past me.

She scoffs, exhaling an exasperated breath. “You know your dad always said you hated sitting still—even as a kid.”

“Still do.”

“Then don’t bother waiting for answers, Silas.” She steps back and shrugs. “I didn’t.”

Shit. I sigh internally. I open my mouth with no words to offer her.

She reaches up to run her fingers along the horse’s neck, calm and steady. “When my dad stopped coming to the ranch, I thought maybe—I didn’t think that meant . . .”

I step closer, a piece finally coming together, breathing out the nickname I missed calling her. “Bee.”

“Heeey,” a cheery female voice calls from outside the ring. Storm swings her head back and my eyes follow.

A middle-aged woman stands with a little girl dressed for riding. She almost looks like a young Storm, only with darker hair.

Storm checks her watch. “That’s my four o’clock.”