Chapter 117 Cowboy Coffee
Sierra stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of her corner office at Sterling, Quinn & Spencer, the city spread beneath her like a living circuit board. Prada heels clicked softly against the polished Carrara marble as she stepped forward, her reflection a silhouette against the glittering expanse of Manhattan at dusk. The skyline pulsed with light, amber traffic streams, the blue-white glow of skyscrapers, the slow blink of planes tracing paths across the bruised horizon. She smoothed the lapels of her navy Armani blazer, fingers lingering on the subtle pinstripe, a habit from childhood after seeing how her father used to adjust his jacket before walking into meetings.
The fact that at thirty-three, she was officially a senior partner was still settling in for her.
The title had weight, more than the sleek gold plaque now hanging on her office door. It carried the echo of late nights, the sting of rejection letters, and the suffocating pressure of guiding the team through the mess Julian Rossi had created during his short time of manipulating the board.
The nightmares that used to wake her gasping in the dark had begun to fade, like storm clouds breaking after a violent thunderstorm. She was no longer under Julian’s thumb. She was no longer under anyone’s thumb.
She’d survived. She’d won. And she was able to write the rest of her own story.
And yet, as she stared out at the city that never slept, a quiet ache settled beneath her ribs, not sorrow, not anymore, but longing. A tug, not of regret, but of memory.
Arizona. Sage Ranch.
The wind through the sagebrush. Its scent mingled with that of pine after a rain. The way the sky over Sage Ranch turned molten at sunset, like fire spilled across the horizon. She thought of her brother, Cody, trying so hard to keep the ranch alive, to honor their father in the quiet, stubborn way he learned after grief cracked him open. She thought of Edwin.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A text message from Edwin:
Coffee? Tonight? I know a place with real cowboy coffee. Said to taste like Durango rain.
Only he would say something like that, poetic without trying, grounding without demanding. He wasn’t like the polished Manhattan men who spoke in acronyms and wore power like armor. Edwin was different. His hands were calloused from something other than keyboards, horses, fences, and hard earth. He’d grown up on a ranch in Durango, but didn’t wear it like a badge. He carried it like a heartbeat.
She typed back without hesitation.
I was just thinking about you.
Edwin: Great minds think alike. You up for cowboy coffee?
Sierra: I’ll bring my boots.
She thought of her boots. The Tony Lamas, brown, well-worn, the ones she wore the last time she was at Sage Ranch, were buried in the back of her closet like a secret confession. She hadn’t worn them in a long time. Not since before Flagstaff. Not since she and Ryder had gone their separate ways. The thought of Flagstaff tried to force its way into her mind, but she fought against it.
It was the first time she and Edwin were going somewhere outside the building. Their meetings in the Daily Grind had become a regular part of her workday, but this was more like a date. Was she ready for a date?
Inside her chest, something let loose, like a door being opened just a crack.
She would wear Tony Lamas tonight, intrigued by whatever might develop.
She grabbed her coat and left the office, the city lights rising around her as the elevators descended.
Later, in a dimly lit Brooklyn bistro tucked between an old bookstore and a jazz bar, she found herself sitting across the table from Edwin in a corner booth. The air smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon. A storm had rolled in, rain streaking the windows like liquid silver. Between them, two chipped mugs steamed, dark, strong, black as pitch.
“Cowboy coffee,” Edwin said, lifting his cup. “No filters, just gravel and grit. My dad used to say, ‘if you can’t chew it, you didn’t brew it right.’”
She laughed, the sound foreign and warm in her own ears. “Remind me never to let you near a French press.”
Sierra took a sip and shuddered. “This is nasty!”
It certainly wasn’t like the high-end gourmet coffee she typically drank in the Daily Grind.
They both broke into a fit of laughter.
“I know, right?” he snorted.
Each of them took another sip and broke into laughter again. Sierra dumped about three healthy tablespoons of sugar into the obsidian colored brew, laughing as she added each one. He mocked her playfully. “You might as well have some coffee with your sugar.”
Smiling broadly and watching him, for a moment, she saw the boy he must have been, sunburnt, shirtless, barefoot on a porch swing, whittling a stick into nothing.
Catching her studying him with such intensity, the conversation died for a moment.
“You know, you’ve got fire in you,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the low hum of music and rain. “Fire like the land gave it to you.”
She looked down, stirring her coffee absently. “I’m trying not to burn out.”
“That’s the thing about fire,” he said. “It doesn’t burn out. It burns through. Sometimes it lights the way. Sometimes it clears the ground.”
Her breath caught.
“We often get these terrible brush fires in Arizona. They burn up all the sage and mesquite. It is terrifying the way it rushes over the land, but when it is finally under control, it has provided a cleansing. The rains come, and grass that wouldn’t have been able to spring up because of the mesquite and sage begins to thrive. There is a renewal. New growth.”
He reached across the table, his hand rough but warm as it settled over hers. “Wow. Sounds like you’re talking about a lot more than just a brush fire.”
“Maybe,” she said in a small voice as she looked deep into his eyes.
Outside, the rain fell harder. Inside, Sierra felt something shift, like a door unlocking after years of rust.
Emotions that had lain dormant for months surged through her. She wanted to be with him. Not just to the coffee, not just for coffee, not just for conversation, but to feel his lips on hers, his hands on her body. To lie beside him in the quiet hours of early morning, comforted by the way his presence made her feel grounded instead of torn. The thought sparked something deep and tender, longing, instantly followed by fear. Desire stirred in her, quiet but insistent. The kind that had been buried under trauma, sealed away after Julian’s violation had turned intimacy into a minefield.
She wanted to go back to his apartment. She wanted to feel safe in someone’s arms again. She wanted to be touched without flinching.
But she wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
To his credit, Edwin didn’t press for anything more than a cup of cowboy coffee, conversation, and laughter.
When they parted, she kissed his cheek, soft, lingering, and whispered, “Thank you,” before stepping into the rain in front of her apartment building.
The following morning, still reveling in the delightful time they’d spent together the night before, she was in her office, sipping her favorite gourmet latte and reviewing quarterly campaign metrics when her phone buzzed. A text message.
Smiling broadly, she expected a charming message from Edwin, but froze when she looked at the screen.
Unknown Caller: You’re running out of time.
With the text was a photo. The front porch of Sage Ranch at dawn, empty, quiet, wreathed in morning mist. The rocking chair her father used to sit in. The chipped paint on the rail. The porch swing. The wild roses climbing the posts, just starting to bloom.
Her blood turned to ice.
When her pulse returned, it was roaring in her ears.
Who sent this?
Surely not the Scotsman.
Julian’s spy?
Why would Julian’s spy still have any interest in her?
It had to have come from whoever had sent that cryptic text just before the jet had crashed.
And what did they mean?
Why was she running out of time?
She considered the text from the jet: If you survive this, return to the ranch. I’ll meet you there.
She hadn’t gone to the ranch. Was something going to happen to her if she didn’t return to the ranch?
Suddenly, despite feeling like she’d regained control over her life, she felt like she’d been violently jerked back into bondage, like when a calf hits the end of the rope after it’s been caught.