Chapter 29 Recovery
The aroma of burnt wood and sage had settled over Sage Ranch like an unwelcome shroud. In the days immediately following the fire, a fragile truce settled between Sierra and Ryder, dictated by necessity. They moved around each other like highly efficient, heavily armored satellites, orbiting the wreckage without ever colliding, each determined to put some distance between the uncomfortable memory of their moment of passion in the face of danger.
The recovery effort demanded a unique combination of skills. Sierra, with the same surgical efficiency she deployed managing multi-million-dollar ad campaigns, took command of the logistics. Huddled over her laptop at the dining table, she was coordinating insurance adjusters, disaster relief grants, and managing the endless flow of requests for supplies needed for repairs. Her skill set, organizing chaos, leveraging resources, and negotiating pricing for emergency materials, was ironically perfect for the recovery efforts.
She considered calling Chloe into the mix, but dismissed the idea. Chloe probably had plenty to deal with back at Sterling & Quinn. For a brief moment, she wondered how the firm was getting along without her, but her thoughts were interrupted by another phone call.
“We need five hundred feet of wire fencing and three dozen cedar posts delivered by 1600 hours,” she dictated into her phone, simultaneously highlighting entries on a spreadsheet. “And yes, I understand you’re short-staffed, but I need that delivery prioritized. This is an emergency recovery effort.”
She discovered that there was some hesitation with various suppliers because of the financial state of Sage Ranch, making it necessary for her to dip into her own accounts for some critical items.
While she was keeping a steady stream of supplies flowing into the ranch, Ryder was the living, breathing manifestation of physical labor, frantically running between Sage Ranch and Marsh Ranch. He was out in the heat, his face grimy, coordinating the labor between both ranches. He supervised the clearing of the burned pasture, directed where the remaining cattle needed to be moved, and worked alongside the men, wrestling heavy rolls of wire and wielding a post-hole digger with tireless dedication.
Their communication was limited to terse, factual updates.
“The south-eastern quadrant is secure. The adjusters will be out at nine in the morning; they need access roads cleared,” Sierra reported, pausing her typing only long enough to catch his eye.
“Got it. We’ll have the bulldozer out of the way by eight-thirty. So you have the receipt for the feed truck?” Ryder asked, his voice rough with dust and exhaustion.
The tension that had lingered between them before the fire, the closeness they’d shared in the face of impending death, and the kiss were never mentioned. It remained a powerful, suppressed electricity in the air, which was being channeled into productivity. The professional veneer was fragile, but it held, protecting them both from the inconvenient intimacy of their shared history and a mutual attraction that neither of them could explain.
Frank, remarkably, remained stable, seated in his recliner, requiring little beyond simple sustenance and the occasional cup of coffee. Cody had found a niche driving the Gator back and forth, fetching tools and water, but seemed relieved that the heavy lifting (both physical and organizational) was being handled by others.
By the end of the third day, Sierra realized her wardrobe was utterly inadequate. The few shirts and jeans she’d been able to pull out from the back of the closet were well-worn and didn’t really fit her well, and her designer clothes would be ruined in an instant if she wore them out into the brush. She needed proper tools for the job.
“I’m heading into Kingman,” she announced to the empty living room, leaving a note for Cody meant to guide him through his morning.
The drive was a welcome respite. The highway offered a clear view of the undamaged high desert—a contrast to the smoky, dark earth she’d been staring at for days.
She bypassed the small boutiques and headed straight for the largest farm and ranch supply store on the western edge of town. It was a cavernous warehouse filled with the smells of leather, rubber, and mixed feed.
Though it had once been a comfortable atmosphere, Sierra felt instantly out of place. She ran her hand over the stiff, forgotten material of work gloves. The jeans section was a kaleidoscope of cuts and washes that bore no resemblance to the precision-tailored denim she wore in New York. She selected a few pairs of heavy-duty, reinforced Ariat jeans and a stack of breathable cotton shirts, opting for durability and function over label prestige.
She was hovering over a rack of utility vests, considering the merits of various pocket configurations, when she heard the deep rumble of a familiar voice.
“They’ve got the galvanized sixteen-gauge rolled, but they want too damned much for it. We’ll have to stick to the twenty-gauge stuff for now.”
Sierra straightened quickly and moved toward the sound of Ryder’s voice, finding an adjacent aisle where she could watch him without being seen. He was talking on his phone, balancing a coil of fencing wire against his hip. He was wearing a fresh button-down shirt and Wranglers that were still their original indigo color. He’d exchanged is usual stained felt hat for a light, clean, straw cowboy hat.
As the call was wrapping up, Sierra panicked, not wanting him to catch her spying on him. She scrambled to the end of the aisle, losing sight of him.
He hung up, taking long, purposeful strides. He turned the corner and froze when he saw her. The easy flow of his movement halted.
“Sierra,” he acknowledged, the word clipped. He nodded at the items draped over her arm. “Stocking up?”
“I needed some clothes that were a little better suited to ranch work,” she answered, trying for levity, but her voice felt stiff. “The last of my teenage wardrobe is too snug or dying from neglect.”
He glanced at her choices, practical colors, heavy material, reinforced seams. The choice pleased him subtly, though his features remained guarded. “Smart. That stuff will hold up.” He gestured toward his cart, which was laden with heavy tools and hardware. “I came for some tools. Spent the morning wrestling with junk wire.”
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, punctuated only by the distant beeping of a forklift.
“You’ve done a hell of a job with the logistics, Sierra,” Ryder said, surprising her with the genuine compliment. “I know keeping the supply lines moving is half the battle. We wouldn’t have the posts delivered yet if you hadn’t cracked the whip.”
She felt a flicker of warmth, quickly banked. “It’s just project management, Ryder. You’re actually doing the work.”
“Work needs managing,” he countered. He pushed his cart forward a few feet. He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “Look, I’m done here. I haven’t eaten anything but a granola bar since five this morning. Let me buy you lunch. It’s the least I can do.”