Chapter 119 The Nightmare
She went about getting ready for bed and was just settling in when her phone buzzed again, a new notification flashing: Sylvia.
She hesitated. Talking to her hadn’t been as easy as it had been before Sylvia and Ryder had become an item, but Sierra couldn’t ignore her. She pressed “answer.”
“Hey, Syl! I was just thinking about you,” Sierra said, trying to push the anxiety down.
“Si! You won’t believe it, my catering business has just landed the Vanderbilt gala in Flagstaff. It’s huge! And, oh my God, you’re going to love this, Ryder finally hired a photographer to promote his new direct-to-consumer campaign.”
Sierra felt a stabbing pain surge through her. Ryder had helped her establish the same thing for Sage Ranch when it was about to go under.
“He’s being all romantic. We’re going to have a rooftop dinner in Phoenix tomorrow to celebrate my new contract. Oh, and last Sunday we went to that little bistro on the square for brunch. He ordered a vintage bottle of Chianti. The same one you love so much!”
Sierra felt a stab of pain, sharp as a snapped twig. A piece of her heart fluttered, remembering the moments they had spent together. Especially the first time he took her to that same little bistro on the square. She pushed down the urge to feel betrayed because the words on the other end were innocent, exuberant, and filled with the kind of joy that made her want to smile for him… for both of them.
She forced a laugh. “That’s wonderful, Sylvia. I’m really happy for you. And… I’m glad Ryder’s getting serious. You deserve that.”
“Yes! I’m sorry to interrupt your night. I’m sure you’re getting ready for bed. Also, I heard you were promoted to Senior Partner. We have to celebrate as soon as you’re back in Arizona.”
Sierra swallowed, feeling the swell of tears threatening to spill over her composure. “I’d love that. It’s a date. I’ll let you know as soon as I book my next flight out.”
“I can hardly wait. I miss you sooooo much, Si.”
“I miss you too,” she replied before disconnecting the call.
She set the phone on the nightstand, the room suddenly feeling too small. The free feeling she’d cultivated after the coffee with Edwin, confident, in control, had shifted to a murkier shade. Her thoughts were a tangle of obligations: the board waiting for her decision, William’s frail figure looming over a possible succession, the photo of the ranch porch with its ominous warning, the foal she had just heard about, and her lingering, unresolved ache for Ryder.
She looked toward the window at the rain slicking the glass, tiny rivers flowing down the pane, and thought of the text: “You’re running out of time.” Was it a warning? A threat? Or a manipulation meant to stall her? The unknown sender’s motives were an unsettling puzzle piece slotted into a life already crowded with responsibilities.
The clock on the wall ticked, each second a reminder that time, no matter whether it was measured in minutes or in the ember of a burned-out brush fire, kept marching forward. She slipped out of bed and stood at the window, watching the rain smear the neon signs into a watercolor of light and darkness. In that moment, a decision loomed ahead like the horizon of a desert storm: she could stay in Manhattan, cement her place at Sterling, and perhaps eventually bring the ranch’s soul into her campaigns, or she could answer the call of the land, return to Sage Ranch, and let the ember of the past blaze anew.
Sierra slipped back into bed, fighting to go to sleep. She has far too much on her plate tomorrow for a night without sleep.
Despite her determination to sleep, her pulse is a metronome in her ears, as the city’s hum seeped through the windows, distant sirens, the whir of traffic, the occasional laugh from an adjacent apartment, sounds she never heard except when she was fighting sleep.
Her sheets, cool and unyielding, felt foreign against her skin. When silence came, it was a taunt, heavy with the absence of wind, of sagebrush, of the ranch’s familiar hush. She forced her eyes shut, but sleep did not come. Instead, her mind tangled in the day’s fragments: Cody’s exuberant voice, the photo of the foal, Sylvia’s words like a shard of glass, William’s announcement, and the text’s cryptic warning.
When sleep finally came, it was not rest but a pit opening beneath her.
The ranch was burning. A brush fire had swept down the slope of the ridge, sweeping through the small private cemetery where her mother and father had been laid to rest.
Sierra found herself in the ranchyard facing the porch of the ranch house, her boots sinking into scorched earth as flames licked at the walls of the house. The air reeked of charred wood. “Cody!” she screamed, her voice swallowed by the roar of the fire. Through the haze, she saw him, trapped inside his upstairs bedroom, his silhouette cradling a box of momentos from her mother and father. “Cody, get out!”
A shadow moved, a figure in boots, jeans, and a denim jacket, familiar and implacable, rushed past her. Ryder. He barreled across the front porch, crashing through the front door, his silhouette a stark contrast against the inferno. “Ryder, no!” She lunged forward, but the ground hardened into concrete. He didn’t hear her. He reached Cody, grabbed his arm, and yanked him away from the window.
The roof collapsed around them, the flames leaping into an angry inferno.
Sierra’s breath hitched. She jolted awake, her chest heaving, the scent of smoke clinging to her. The clock on the nightstand brought her back to reality… 4:03 a.m. Her hands trembled as she flicked on the lamp, its light a poor substitute for morning light. Cold sweat clung to her skin.
She slipped from her bed, shivering, and made it with robotic precision, her reflection in the full-length mirror catching her eye. Control, she told herself. Control is your armor.
The steam from the shower was too hot, scalding her shoulders as she scrubbed the dream from her skin. By 5:30, she was dressed, tailored blazer, cigarette pants, her bob dried to a sharp blonde edge. Her Prada heels clicked a staccato rhythm to the elevator and into the city’s pulse.
By 6:15, she was at her desk, sipping black coffee from the machine in the break room, her laptop screen glowing with campaign spreads. Chloe’s voice buzzed through the intercom: “Morning, Partner. You’re sure up early this morning.”
“The early bird catches the worm,” Sierra chirped.
The city’s chaos became her canvas, and she, the painter, would not let the fire take her. Not yet.
She was in a deep state of concentration all morning, forcing the nightmare from her mind, looking up only when her assistant asked if she wanted her to order out for lunch. Sierra was considering what she wanted to eat when her phone buzzed on her desk.
A thrill rushed through her. Ryder.
Cody’s been hurt. Call me ASAP.