Page 23 of Saddle Storm

I chuckle. “No. But I’m not exactly broken, either.”

He smiles and reaches for a slightly bigger rock. Standing beside me, he swings his arm back and throws it over, missing the distance. But he doesn’t seem too disappointed when he looks up at me. It’s a look that squeezes my stomach. Especially after ten days of feeling like my career is fried after this.

“See that,” I wink. “Just need learn to swing with this arm and I’m set. Here. Try again.” I bend to pick up another rock and hand it to him. “But this time before you swing, hold it for a moment and find where you want it to land. Keep your eyes on it the whole time. It’s like bowling. You bowl?”

“No.” He narrows his eyes at a spot on the river and grins, keeping his gaze pinned as he swings back.

“Wait.” I stop him and he freezes.

“Swing it back and forth a few times, try to picture a line—like a beam going from your hand to the spot on the river.”

He nods and grins, staying focused. “Okay. Here it goes.” On the third swing, the rock goes flying, his throw sharp, straight and solid.

“Whoa,” I call, watching it fly. “Now I know I can’t beat that. Not with my left hand anyway.”

“Thanks, Silas.” His eyes are a bright hazel looking back at me.

The skies darken and Max is on alert. “Oh no. I better go. Mom’s going to pick me up from the office soon.”

I look up to see the distance to the ranch office. It’s safe enough, but I’d feel better seeing him there. “Yeah, I better get back too. Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

8

“And then he walked me back to the office. Ginger was already outside waiting for me since it looked like it was going to rain. But it never did. Isn’t that cool, Mom? See that’s why I need a phone. Now no one will know I met him. No one. Mom?”

I blink out of my daze. My mind hanging on every word to see if Max told Silas who his mother is. It doesn’t sound like it.

Seriously, how hard can it be to keep a nine-year-old from wandering around and bumping into the one person I don’t want him to?

The idea makes me sick to my stomach. Having a child with a man who not only left and meant absolutely nothing to me—but was best friends with the only boy I’ve ever wanted.

I’ve worked too hard to build a life that’s small and steady for Max, and I’m not about to let one unexpected collision turn it into something that could open up a can of worms.

Not just questions that Silas will ask that I’ll never answer. Like, The reason Max exists is because I went looking for you that night. The reason I let his father abandon us and his responsibilities is because of the public shame that would come with going after him.

But back then, I had another reason to keep quiet. That if Silas found out—I’d lose any chance with him indefinitely.

Of course that was before he joined the NHL and baby or no baby, that boy was gone for good.

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m listening.”

“Well, will you get me a phone?”

Hmm . . . must have missed that part.

“No. Why, again?” I ask because I know my kid and when he asks for something, he’s prepared with his pitch. And it’s always so damn good. Even if I’m the only one who thinks so.

“Because no one’s going to believe I met Silas Thooorne.” He stretches the last name as if I need the reminder of who he is. “I mean, yes my mom works on his family’s ranch, but what are the chances I’d hang out with him—for like twenty minutes!”

I chuckle because I can’t help it. I love how happy it made him.

“I believe you,” I say with a smirk. I’m stalling, but I’m pretty set on my decision in not getting him a phone. I like that he spends his time on the ranch exploring and falling for the views, using his imagination. He’s too young for a phone and regardless of what he says, I know he’s not the only one without.

He sighs and I scrunch my nose. “But isn’t it better that you talked to him about leprechauns and rainbows than asking for a picture?”

His eyes grow wide. “Oh my God.” Then I hear a smack against his forehead that makes me wince. “I talked to him about leprechauns and rainbows! What’s wrong with me? I should have talked to him about hockey and, like, what his pre-game ritual is or something.” He lowers his hand and looks to the side. “Maybe it’s better there’s no proof,” he mutters.

“Problem solved!” I push his dinner plate to him. “Now eat your chicken or I’ll feed it to you.”