Chapter 142: Far Too Quiet
The morning light came too early, slipping through the curtains of the bed-and-breakfast like an unwelcome reminder that the world had not stopped turning just because Sierra Quinn had said yes.
She lay on her side, watching Ryder pull on his boots in the half-dark. He moved quietly, the way he always did, deliberate, unhurried, as though the universe would wait for him to finish what he was doing before it demanded anything else. His shirt was still unbuttoned, and she could see the hard line of his chest, the way the early light caught the edge of his jaw.
"You don't have to sneak out," she whispered.
He turned. The smile that broke across his face was the kind that made her chest ache. He crossed back to the bed in two strides, one knee pressing into the mattress as he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her; slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that made promises all on its own.
"I'm not sneaking," he said against her lips. "I'm being considerate."
"Of whom?"
"Of the fourteen head of cattle that need rotating to the north pasture before the afternoon heat hits." He pressed his forehead to hers.
Sierra traced her thumb along the ring on her left hand, her mother's ring. The band was warm from sleep, the small diamond catching even the dimmest light as though it had been waiting decades for this finger.
"Call me when you land," she said.
"I should be in Flagstaff by noon. I'll call you from the truck."
"Call me from the truck, then."
He kissed her once more, lingering just long enough for her to memorize the taste of him, and then he was gone. His boots on the old wooden stairs. The soft click of the front door. The low rumble of his rental pulling out of the gravel lot.
Sierra lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, her hand resting on her stomach, the ring catching the light every time she breathed.
An hour later, she found Sylvia in the breakfast room downstairs, already nursing a cup of coffee with both hands wrapped around it like a lifeline. Her dark hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, and she wore one of the oversized flannel shirts the bed-and-breakfast provided to guests who hadn't packed for the Northeast's unpredictable mornings.
"He's gone?" Sylvia asked.
"Before dawn. It seems that cattle don't care about engagements."
Sylvia smiled, warm, genuine, without a trace of the awkwardness that could have lived between them. "How does it feel?"
Sierra sat down across from her and poured herself coffee from the carafe on the table. She considered the question seriously. "Like I finally stopped holding my breath."
They spent the morning wandering Chloe's hometown with no agenda, no itinerary, no conference calls demanding their attention. The town had the kind of charm that revealed itself slowly, a converted mill turned into an artisan market, a stone bridge over a creek where locals fished with their children, a bakery where the woman behind the counter knew every customer's name and had opinions about all of them.
Sylvia bought a jar of local maple syrup and a hand-thrown ceramic mug. Sierra bought a worn copy of East of Eden from a secondhand bookshop because the spine was cracked in all the places hers had been cracked in college, and it felt like finding an old friend.
They talked about everything and nothing. Sylvia described the Vanderbilt gala she had catered in Phoenix; the chaos of it, the triumph of it, the moment she realized she had built something real with her own hands. Sierra listened with a pride that surprised her in its ferocity. The little girl who had helped her grandmother cater bar-b-cues for Sierra's mother, had returned to Sage Ranch as a woman, offering her grandmother's recipes had developed a first-rate catering business.
After a light lunch in a quaint deli, they loaded their bags into Sierra's rental and made the drive back to Manhattan. The highway unspooled before them, the landscape shifting from pastoral quiet to suburban sprawl to the jagged geometry of the skyline rising like a dare on the horizon.
She was concerned that Ryder hadn't called or sent a text. She supposed that he'd just gotten busy and forgot. It didn't seem reasonable that he would forget, but she couldn't think of a good reason for him to "ghost" her after his proposal.
"I'm not really going to miss this," Sierra confessed as they crossed the George Washington Bridge.
"Miss what? Traffic?"
"All of it. The noise. The arrogance of the buildings. The way everyone walks like they're late for something important."
Sylvia glanced at her. "You're really leaving all of this behind."
"I really am."
\---
Sierra took Sylvia to a small Italian place in the West Village that evening, not one of the exclusive establishments her senior partnership afforded her, but a candlelit room with checkered tablecloths and a waiter named Marco who called everyone bella and meant it. They shared a bottle of Montepulciano and plates of cacio e pepe, and Sierra told Sylvia about the equestrian therapy center she planned to build with the remnants of Julian's trust.
"For trauma survivors," Sierra said, twisting her pasta around her fork. "People who've been through things they can't talk about yet. Horses don't need you to talk. They just need you to be honest."
Sylvia reached across the table and squeezed Sierra's hand. "Your mom and dad would be proud."
Sierra's throat tightened. She nodded and took a sip of wine.
Sylvia stayed the night at Sierra's apartment, curling up in the bed beside her. Sierra attempted another call to Ryder, growing a little more concerned. There had been no news about any airline accidents. She didn't want to seem pesky, so after leaving a message, she settled into bed.
\---
The drive to JFK the next morning was quiet in the way that only pre-dawn drives can be — the city half-asleep, the streets holding their breath between the night owls stumbling home and the early risers heading out. Sierra pulled up to the departures terminal and shifted into park.
"See you at home," Sylvia said before.
"I will. A few more days. I just need to finish closing things out."
They hugged across the center console, an awkward, fierce embrace that said more than either of them could articulate. Then Sylvia was gone, swallowed by the revolving doors and the fluorescent glow of the terminal.
Sierra drove back to Manhattan with the windows cracked, the spring air threading through the car. She parked in the garage beneath her building and rode the elevator up to her apartment. The silence that greeted her was absolute. She set her keys on the counter, poured herself a glass of water, and checked her phone.
Nothing from Ryder.
She calculated the time. He should have been back in Arizona by noon the day before… back at Marsh Ranch, back in the saddle, back in the world that fit him like a second skin. She dialed his number for the tenth time since leaving Chloe's hometown.
Straight to voicemail.
"Hey, it's me. Just wanted to make sure you got back okay. Call me when you get a chance."
She set the phone down and busied herself with packing, sorting through odds and ends, making a list of the remaining tasks: finalize the apartment listing, arrange for the painters and carpet cleaners, and meet with the real estate agent one final time.
An hour passed. She called again.
Voicemail.
She texted: Everything okay? Call me.
Another hour. She tried once more, pacing in front of the living room windows, the skyline glittering in the late afternoon sun like a city made of broken glass.
Voicemail.
Sierra set the phone on the kitchen counter and stared at it. He was busy. Of course he was busy. The man had been away from his ranch for several days, and cattle did not tend themselves. He was probably out on the property where cell service dissolved into nothing, doing what Ryder Marsh always did; the hard, quiet work that kept the world turning beneath everyone else's feet.
She poured herself a cup of coffee she didn't want and sat at the kitchen island, the ring on her finger catching the overhead light. Her thumb found the band and turned it slowly, unconsciously.
He would call.
But the dread crept in anyway… soft, formless, settling into the spaces between her ribs like smoke under a door.