Chapter 28 Duty Calls
Her desperate question hung in the air unanswered. Fifteen years of rigorous control had been shredded in just a few hours, first by the fire, then by Ryder’s kiss, and finally by the tidal wave of grief that had begun to wash over her. Vulnerability felt like a physical wound. She wanted nothing more than to curl up beneath the covers and deny the existence of the scorched earth outside and the chaotic turmoil within.
But duty, a cold and insistent master, would not permit isolation.
A sharp, familiar rap sounded on the bathroom door.
“Si? Are you okay in there?” It was Cody. His voice, usually buzzing with nervous energy, was subdued.
Sierra’s breath hitched. Her default response to her directionless younger brother was usually a clipped, demeaning dismissal, a quick way to assert her dominant position and maintain distance between them. The old Sierra would have snapped, telling him to leave her alone, that she was handling things fine.
But that Sierra was currently submerged under a flood of unwanted emotion and what felt like a new beginning.
She straightened beneath the spray, forcing her voice steady. “Just trying to get all the smoke and soot out of my hair, Cody. Give me a minute.”
She listened intently. He didn’t leave immediately. There was a pause filled only by the rush of the shower before he spoke again, quieter this time.
“How’s Daddy?” she asked, the question escaping before she could filter it. A sudden, deep concern for her father washed over her. She realized how little she had truly looked at him since arriving home, always focused on the ranch’s ledger, not so much on his well-being.
“He’s not saying anything,” Cody admitted, his voice sounding small. “He just walked into the living room and sat down and turned on the TV like nothing happened.”
Sierra squeezed her eyes shut. The man who had been her personal definition of strength and permanence, reduced to… The image of him just sitting there when he ought to be out surveying the damage and throwing himself into getting things back on track twisted the knot in her stomach even tighter.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she promised, infusing her tone with a softness that surprised even herself.
She heard Cody’s footsteps retreat down the hall.
With practical efficiency that felt alien after her emotional breakdown, Sierra finished her shower and turned off the tap. The sudden silence was jarring. She toweled off quickly, wrapping one thick cotton towel tightly around her body and twisting another into a turban for her hair.
Crossing the hall to her bedroom, she felt the immediate weight of her surroundings. Her room still felt like a museum exhibit dedicated to a former life she had systematically rejected. She navigated around the garment bags and suitcases containing the wardrobe of a high-powered Manhattan executive. The designer clothes she had so meticulously chosen felt like costumes. They were utterly useless and absurdly inappropriate for Sage Ranch.
She opened the closet doors. Most of the hanging space was dominated by the clothes she’d brought from New York. But pushed far to the back, exiled artifacts from a life she’d tried to forget were the few remaining items of her past. Faded denim, soft from years of washing and sun exposure, and thick cotton shirts.
She pulled out a pair of worn Wrangler jeans, not the stylized, tailored denim, but true, practical work jeans, stained with past grease and earth. They were snug, but she managed to squeeze into them. Finding a shirt proved more difficult since her bust had increased significantly since her teen years. She eventually found a long-sleeved gray shirt that fit. “I need to do some shopping,” she muttered to herself as she stuffed her feet back into the ash-smudged Ariat boots she’d slipped off before taking her shower.
The rough denim felt grounding on her skin, a heavy counterpoint to the chaotic lightness of her emotions. She was shedding the illusion of the city and attempting to embody the necessity of the ranch.
She brushed her hair out quickly, leaving it slightly damp, and descended the staircase. The house was quiet, except for the mumbled words of some TV sitcom, absorbing the shock of the fire like a sponge.
Sierra found her father exactly as Cody had described him. Frank’s hands rested on the armrests of his recliner. The sight was a punch to the gut. She realized she was dealing with much more than a burden of spreadsheets and debt as she looked at him, diminished and vulnerable.
Her footsteps were silenced by the rug as she approached him.
“How you doing, Daddy?” she asked softly, kneeling beside his chair.
Frank turned his head, his blue eyes taking a minute to focus on her. There was no terror, no exhaustion, no residual anger from the catastrophic events of the last few hours in his gaze. There was just a quiet, almost childlike simplicity.
“You look… clean,” he observed, his voice slightly gravelly. “Smell clean too.”
“Amazing what soap can do to get rid of smoke and soot,” she said, forcing a small smile.
Frank nodded vaguely, his gaze drifting back to the TV screen. His response was a complete detachment from the near disaster they had just faced.
“I’m a little bit hungry,” he confessed, the statement devoid of any preamble or context, as if the only important reality in the world was the current state of his stomach.
She stood and leaned down, kissing him gently on the forehead, the gesture a silent promise she had been too afraid to make until this moment. It was an acceptance of the role she had fought so hard to deny. She was here, and she would take care of him.
“I can fix that, Daddy,” she murmured. “I’ll go throw something together, okay?”
He gave a satisfied grunt in response.
Sierra walked to the kitchen, her body moving on instinct. She needed to focus on the tangible: food, immediate needs, the mechanics of survival. She needed to be functional, practical, anything but the terrified, tearful mess she had been in the shower. She reached the kitchen door frame and paused, bracing herself for the task of building a meal out of the chaotic contents of the pantry.
But she wasn't alone.
Cody was standing by the counter, nursing a bottle of beer. He glanced up as she entered, his usually anxious features softening into a wide, knowing grin. He took a long sip of his beer, placed the bottle down, and tilted his head, his eyes bright with poorly concealed curiosity.
“Well,” he said, the word dripping with implication as he surveyed her slightly disheveled, distinctly un-Manhattan appearance. “I guess you and Ryder worked out your differences.”