Chapter 36 Rethinking Her Life
“Dad needs me,” Sierra managed, her voice huskier than she intended, a pathetic, breathy sound that betrayed the seismic event that had just occurred.
Ryder didn’t budge immediately. His eyes, now dark and utterly unreadable, held hers. The raw, demanding intensity hadn't faded; it had merely been filed down into a low, simmering concentration.
“Go on, then,” he instructed, his voice still low, now roughened by the kiss.
Sierra pivoted sharply, avoiding Cody, and practically sprinted toward the house, her cheeks burning and her lungs aching. The heat outside was nothing compared to the fire radiating inside her.
She reached for the handle on the screen door, and there was her father, one hand braced against the door frame, his shoulders slightly hunched, his strong frame fighting the tremors of his advancing illness.
“Dad! What are you doing out of bed?” The sight of him, weakened and unsteady, was a fresh dose of cold reality that helped slam the door shut on what had just happened with Ryder.
Frank grumbled, swatting the air weakly with his free hand. “Do you think I intend to spend the rest of my life layin’ on my back an’ bein’ useless? I need to know what’s going on around here, Si.”
His voice was weak, but his determination remained stubbornly intact. His eyes, the same shade of blue as hers, were sharp enough to cut through her professional façade.
“You’re supposed to conserve your energy,” she chastised gently, slipping her hand under his arm. His elbow was bony, and the muscles that had once felt like steel cables under her childhood grasp now felt fragile. “The ranch is fine. Ryder has things under control.”
She winced internally at the mention of Ryder. The word itself conjured the intense pressure of his mouth on hers, the feeling of soaring and falling simultaneously.
“I wanted some fresh air. Help me out to the gazebo, will you? Before this shaking gets the better of me.”
The gazebo. The small, white-painted structure was tucked behind the house under the shade of a sprawling mesquite tree. It was the only place on the property that felt completely separate, a retreat. It was where her mother, Claire, used to set up her easel, spending long afternoons painting the severe beauty of the Arizona landscape.
She ushered her father outside, the sun warm on her shoulders. The movement was slow and cautious. Every step Frank took was a small victory against the increasing rigidity of his muscles.
Once seated on the painted wooden bench, the world felt quieter. Cicadas hummed all around them, and the scent of wild sage drifted on the faint breeze.
Frank sighed, relaxing slightly against the lattice railing. “This is a good spot. Your mother loved this spot.”
Sierra sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap, trying to focus on the conversation rather than the insistent, throbbing memory of Ryder’s lips. She could still taste the heat of it on her tongue.
“I remember,” Sierra said softly. Her mother was a ghost in this unforgiving landscape. She was the softness that balanced Frank’s grit, the reason the ranch house felt like a home… used to feel like a home. It didn’t feel that way anymore.
“She used to sit right here, painting those damned red rocks,” Frank chuckled, a raspy sound.
Sierra swallowed, the old, familiar knot of pain tightening in her chest. She was gone, too soon, too suddenly, and the beauty had been replaced by a vacant ache. That pain had driven Sierra to the rigid, predictable order of New York.
“She used to sit here and tell me stories while she painted,” Sierra said, her gaze drifting toward the hazy outline of the distant mesas.
If Mom were here, a desperate, childish part of her whispered, she would know what to do about Ryder.
The thought caused a violent internal lurch. Her mother would have looked at Ryder Marsh and seen the man who loved the land, the man who was honorable and kind. She would have encouraged the connection.
Kind and honorable meant staying. It meant giving up the meticulously constructed life she had built, the one where every risk was calculated and every emotion was controlled. The kiss with Ryder had ripped through her control like a wildfire.
“She said these views remind you that you are small, and that’s alright,” Frank continued, oblivious to Sierra’s inner wrestling match. “Says it stops you from taking yourself too seriously.”
I need to take myself seriously, Sierra thought, fiercely defending herself. I am the Junior Partner at Sterling & Quinn. I am a success story. My life is not meant to be determined by some cowboy’s raw, unplanned kiss.
“I think I’ll head back inside, Si,” Frank said, interrupting her frantic mental self-justification.
Sierra helped him into the house and settled him into his armchair, making sure he was comfortable.
“I’m going to go get cleaned up,” she told him. “Then I need to look over those expense reports.”
Frank only nodded, already drifting into a light, exhausted sleep.
Sierra ascended the steps and moved down the short hallway to her childhood bedroom. It was still the room of a teenager who had left for college and never truly returned. She closed the door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood, letting out a long, shaky breath.
She walked over to the full-length mirror attached to the back of the closet door. She raised a trembling hand and touched her lips. They were still tingling fiercely.
She was shocked by what she saw. Expecting to see the sophisticated Sierra Quinn, the woman who commanded boardrooms and wore confidence like expensive perfume, but the woman staring back wasn’t the Sierra Quinn of Sterling and Quinn.
The woman in the mirror was flushed, her sandy blonde hair mussed and clinging to the back of her neck. Her eyes glittered with a dangerous mix of anger and arousal. And her clothes were faded, denim jeans and the thin, pale blue cotton work shirt.
She looked rough and real.
She looked like she belonged here. Like a ranch girl, not a Manhattan marketing executive.
A cold wave of panic hit her. If she wasn't the woman who wore Prada and calculated risk, who exactly was she becoming?