Chapter 33 Retreat
Frank Quinn was sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wide and glistening, fixed on a distant point above the dresser. He was breathing heavily, his hands trembling violently.
“Daddy,” she said softly, moving to the side of the bed. She eased herself onto the mattress and covered one of his shaking hands with hers. “I’m here.”
He blinked slowly, dragging his gaze toward her face. For a moment, the recognition wasn't there. His eyes were milky and unfocused, searching for the ghost he had called.
“Claire?” he whispered again, the sound laced with fifteen years of longing.
“No, Daddy. It’s Sierra.” She kept her voice steady, low, a calming balm. She held the tremor in his hand, grounding him with her touch.
He studied her, and then, a spark of recognition flared behind the confusion. His brow furrowed in concentration.
“Si,” he finally said, his voice stronger. He swallowed hard. “Did we get that fire put out?”
“Yep. We’re getting everything fixed back up again. Nothing to worry about. You hungry?”
“Now that you mentioned it, I could use a bite.”
“I’ll bring you some stew.”
When she returned to the kitchen, Ryder was gone. She sighed and dished some stew into a bowl.
The next few days blurred into an exhausting loop of caregiving. Sierra became a creature of routine, driven by the hourly demands of medication schedules, muscle rigidity, and palliative care. She was an expert scheduler, a ruthless negotiator, and a masterful organizer in the world of high finance; she applied the same relentless efficiency to her father’s needs.
Though she was doing her best to maintain her focus, Sierra kept replaying the scene in the kitchen, dissecting her own dangerous vulnerability. She had laid bare the most protected part of herself. She felt exposed, chilled by the raw honesty she had offered to the one man who represented everything she had tried to leave behind.
It was just the stress, she rationalized, slamming the lid down on her feelings. When people are under duress, they lean on whoever is solid. Ryder is solid. That’s all it was.
The idea of falling for him was absurd. She didn't need the complication of a doomed romance. She was here for a finite amount of time, with an impossible mission: save the ranch, sell it, and get back to New York before her life imploded.
Her priorities were clear: Frank’s care and the ranch finances.
Sierra noticed a shift in Ryder. He was reserved and formal. Their brief slide into shared intimacy was gone. And in a perverse twist of logic, his retreat only infuriated her more.
Her frustration became unbearable. She felt trapped on all sides: by the ranch debt, by her father’s deterioration, and by the suffocating proximity of Ryder Marsh, who now treated her with a polite, infuriating indifference.
She needed to breathe.
“I’m heading into Kingman,” she told Cody, who was already engrossed in a video game in his room. “I need to pick up Daddy’s prescriptions and talk to the bank. Don’t leave the house.”
Cody grunted an acknowledgement, his eyes never leaving the screen.
The drive was exactly what she needed. Though a temporary reprieve, she felt the knots in her shoulders loosen slightly. The meeting at the bank was an uncomfortable affair, but she was able to provide enough assurances to get the loan officer to defer foreclosure, pointing out that the process would cost the bank more money in the long run and demonstrating that the ranch was getting back on its feet by presenting a payment for two of the delinquent months, the money coming out of her own accounts.
Thinking of Cody, Sierra pulled into the gravel parking lot of The Dusty Spoon. The diner was a local institution, a place smelling perpetually of deep fryer oil. It was the last place she wanted to be seen, but she felt like she owed Cody a little something for taking her place with Dad.
She slipped quickly inside, hoping to grab the carry-out order at the counter and flee.
After placing her order, she found an empty booth near the back, pulling out her phone while she waited for it to be filled. She focused on her phone, typing out a quick check-in email to Chloe.
“Well, look at what blew in with the tumble weeds,” a voice drawled, thick with familiarity and a hint of slick condescension.
Sierra looked up sharply and saw Garrett Talbot. He was wearing an expensive cowboy shirt and a wide, smug grin. Garrett had been in her same graduating class. He was a rich kid, captain of the football and basketball teams, voted the most likely to succeed and every girl at Kingman High School was doing their best to get noticed by him. Evidently, the class had voted wrong, because he was still hanging around Kingman and playing like he was a cowboy. He was still handsome, but a bit too polished, and notoriously predatory.
“Sierra Quinn,” breathed. “You look even hotter than you did in high school.”
Before Sierra could formulate a polite dismissal and slide out, Garrett smoothly lowered himself into the booth, pressing against her. She slid away from him, pinning herself against the wall of the diner in order to get away from him.
“Trying to run away again, Sierra?” he asked, his voice dropping slightly. He leaned in, his breath smelling faintly of whiskey and mint. “You come back here looking for what you left behind?”
She used her most professional voice to respond, hoping its polite but cool tone would be enough to push him away. “I just came to tend to my father’s health,” she responded, “I’ll be going back soon.”
He gave her a slow, suggestive once-over, letting his eyes linger on the curve of her throat. “You know,” he said in a low tone, “We never finished what we started.”
Sierra recalled how he had tried to lure her into the back seat of his Shelby. She’d resisted, eventually escaping the car and walking back to town. She ignored his comment. “I really need to get back to the ranch. My father is waiting on his medication.”
“I hear Ryder Marsh is back at the ranch,” Garrett chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re hurrying back for a roll in the hay with him. Must be just like old times between the two of you, huh?”
“There were no old times,” she said in a sharp tone. There was a threatening hiss in her voice as she reached the limit of her patience. “Now, let me out of this booth.”
He reached out a hand, his intention clear.
“Why don’t we catch up properly, Sierra? For old times’ sake.”
Sierra slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”
Garrett laughed. “You’re just as feisty as you used to be.”
“Feisty this,” she said, bringing the heel of her Ariat boot down hard on his instep.
“Hey now, damn that hurt!” he howled. He reached out and clamped his hand on her jaws, forcing her face toward his, and then he froze.