Wesley spots me leaving the shed and slows his pace.
We haven’t really talked since the rodeo—just a few texts about chores around the ranch. I’ve decided to chalk up all the weird feelings from that night to me being somewhere between buzzed and drunk, combined with Wesley surviving a near-death experience and a head injury, and the strong pain meds they gave him.
There’s no other explanation.
I’m assuming he’s reached the same conclusion, or he doesn’t even remember. Neither of us has brought it up, and at this point, bringing it up would be weird. The moment’s over.
Maybe if he had said something right after, I would’ve wanted to talk about it. But instead, he’s been even pissier than usual—especially since Heath banned him from riding for another week.
They argued about it at every meal for three days straight, until Heath finally snapped and reminded him he’s lucky it’s only two weeks, not the four to six the doctor recommended. I guess Wesley downplayed how bad the bruising was…and how much pain he’s actually been in.
Men are so stupid.
“I was coming to look for you,” Wesley says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Oh?”
“Emmett said you’d either be at the lodge or helping with the cabins.” He jerks his chin vaguely toward the lodge.
“Well, you found me. What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and neutral.
He exhales through his nose. “I’ve gotta head into town and pick something up.”
“Uh, okay.”
“My dad told me to bring you.”
My lips part. “Whyme?”
“Fuck if I know. I’m just the messenger.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Um, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not optional, Sadie.”
My spine stiffens. The drive to town is an hour and a half each way. That’s a lot of time alone.
In a truck. With Wesley.
“No. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
He meets my gaze. “I wasn’t asking.”
I scoff. “So then what, you’re ordering me?”
“Call it whatever you want, Princess.” He turns toward the truck. “We’ll be back before you go out with Lydia. I’m not interested in dealing with her bullshit wrath.”
That earns a reluctant smile I hate myself for.
“Let’s go,” he calls over his shoulder. “The train is leaving the station.”
I hesitate—just long enough to remind myself this doesn’t mean anything.
“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “I’m coming.”
Wesley’struckisamuted olive green color—an old pickup that looks like it’s been restored with quiet pride. A stark contrast to Emmett’s.
It’s only a two-door, with a wide bench seat that stretches across the cab, and aside from a modern touchscreen radio in place of the original, it’s clear Wesley likes to keep things as they were.
