Chapter 6 Ryder Marsh
Before either of them could speak, the screen door of the main house creaked open. A tall, rugged figure emerged, stepping from the deep shadows of the porch into the blinding afternoon sun. He moved with an easy, confident grace that spoke of a life in sync with the land. He wore worn denim, scuffed boots, and a low-brimmed hat that shadowed his eyes. As he drew closer, he pushed the hat back, revealing a face that was both familiar and startlingly new.
The lanky, annoying boy who used to follow her around, tripping over his own feet, was gone. In his place stood a man. Ryder Marsh. His shoulders were broader, his jawline stronger, and the sun had carved fine lines around eyes that were a startling shade of blue against his tanned skin. Those eyes locked onto hers, in them was a flicker of amusement, a challenge, or maybe sympathy.
He stopped a few feet away, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. A slow, knowing smile touched the corner of his mouth as he took in her pristine city clothes and the expensive rental car coated in a film of Arizona’s red dust.
“Sierra Quinn,” he drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to rise from the very earth beneath his boots. He nodded toward her, then toward the dilapidated ranch around them. “Looks like we’ll be workin’ together for a while.”
The silence stretched tight as a wire, in the oppressive heat. Ryder’s words hung in the air, a declaration of fact she had no intention of accepting. Sierra’s mind, usually a seamless engine of logic and strategy, sputtered. For a disorienting second, all she could process was the man in front of her.
The lanky, awkward teenager who’d been all elbows and Adam’s apple was gone. This Ryder Marsh was carved from the landscape itself, solid, sun-drenched, and rugged. The way he stood, feet planted firmly on the dusty earth, spoke of permanence. His shoulders, broad under the worn chambray shirt, seemed capable of carrying a heavy load. His eyes, the color of a high desert sky, were piercing and direct, and for a heartbeat, they seemed to see right through the expensive silk blouse and tailored slacks to the scared, angry girl she’d been when she left. Her heart gave a startling, traitorous thump in her chest.
However, as quickly as it had come, the brief spell was shattered, replaced by the bitter residue of memory. The attraction curdled into pure, unadulterated irritation. This was the same Ryder Marsh who’d made her teenage years a low-grade misery. She remembered his relentless, clumsy pursuit, the way he’d cornered her at dances. A hot flush of humiliation rose in her cheeks as she recalled the rumor he’d started about her being his secret lover, just because she wouldn’t give him the time of day. The memory of him trapping her in the hayloft, his hands fumbling over her breasts and trying to rub between her thighs, was still sharp and unpleasant. But the worst, the absolute worst, was the time he’d tried to kiss her behind the bleachers after a football game, his mouth full of chewing tobacco. The sour, acrid smell of it still made her stomach clench after more than ten years.
Her posture shifted. Her momentary vulnerability vanished, replaced by her rigid corporate spine. She crossed her arms over her chest, a shield of Dolce & Gabbana against the dust and the past.
“I think you’re mistaken,” she said, her voice clipped and cold, every syllable a sharp icicle in the sweltering air. “Cody and I will be handling things, thank you very much.”
Ryder’s knowing smile didn’t falter, but it didn’t reach his eyes either. Those blue eyes held a hint of something she couldn’t quite decipher. “Your dad asked me to help out a couple of weeks back, when he first started gettin’ bad. I’m tryin’ to keep the place from fallin’ in on itself since. Someone has to.”
The implication landed like a slap. Someone had to, because you weren’t here.
“My father had my number,” she retorted, the words sharper than she intended. “If he needed help, he could have called.”
“Maybe he tried,” Ryder drawled, his gaze flicking from her pristine car back to her face. “Or maybe he’s too proud to ask his city-girl daughter, who hasn’t set foot on this ranch in more than ten years, for a handout.”
Every word was a calculated jab, and every one found its mark. The blood pounded in her ears. He had no right. He knew nothing about her life, about the calls she made every Sunday that her father would cut short, about the money she’d sent that was always stubbornly returned. However, the fact that she had become frustrated and stopped trying to reach out five years before was a lingering truth she didn’t want to face.
“What I do and don’t do for my family is none of your concern,” she snapped. “I’m here now. We appreciate your… charity. But your services are no longer required.”
“Is that so?” He countered, taking a slow step closer. He smelled of leather, hay, and dry earth, the very odor of the life she’d fled. “You gonna mend that fence line by the north pasture? You gonna haul water now that the well pump is shot? You even know how to start the generator?” He gestured around at the crumbling ranch. “This isn’t a spreadsheet you can fix with a few clicks, Sierra. This is real work.”
The condescension in his tone was infuriating. He was painting her as a fragile, useless doll, an outsider on her own land. She felt Cody shifting uncomfortably nearby, a silent bystander to a battle that had started fifteen years before.
“I’ll manage,” she said through gritted teeth. Bristling with a fury that felt both old and new, she turned on her heel and marched toward the dilapidated porch, her expensive heels sinking into the gravel. “We’ll see what my father has to say about this.”
She stomped up the steps, across the porch, pulled the groaning screen door open, and stepped into the familiar gloom of the house she had done her best to escape. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust, and something vaguely medicinal. Her mother’s decorating, faded floral curtains, hand-stitched quilts draped over worn furniture, was still everywhere, a museum of a happier time. In the corner, slumped in his favorite worn leather armchair, was her father.