Page 120 of Sunrise & Serenity

He studies the wall, then me.

I hold my breath, silently willing him to agree.

Eventually, he gives a curt nod. “Okay, as long as it doesn’t eat into your other work.”

I grin, a little curl of excitement twisting through me. “It won’t, I promise. I’ve already started putting together the first branding gallery for you. But I will need access to old photos.”

Fifteen minutes later, River leads me up the stairs at the top of the ranch house, carrying a plastic tub. “I should warn you,” he says over his shoulder, “the attic’s a disaster.”

“I’m not sure I’d trust anyone who has a minimalist attic.”

He snorts a laugh, pushing open a narrow door at the end of the hallway. The staircase beyond is steep and narrow, disappearing into dimness above. Warm, dusty air drifts down immediately.

“Wow,” I murmur when we make it to the top of the steps.

“Mom liked to keep things,” he says, switching on the light.

The attic is wider than I expected beneath the sloped roofline. Not finished, but floored enough for storage. Dust motes hang suspended in the slanted shafts of afternoon sunlight cutting through a small side window, and the floor creaks beneath us as we move deeper.

Sheets draped over old furniture create ghostly shapes near the far wall, while a wooden crib leans crookedly against one beam. Nearby, an old saddle sits on a stand beside several empty picture frames.

And boxes. So many boxes.

River places the tub on the floor and scans the dark space. “Are you going to be okay up here on your own?”

“Of course. Go do your thing.”

He nods. “I think the photos are in the boxes near the old Christmas decorations.”

That information would be a lot more helpful if there weren’t approximately four hundred boxes up here. “Thanks, River.”

Once he’s gone, I lift one of the boxes down from the top of a stack and crouch, squinting at the label.

McBride Rodeo

That’s a start.

I open the box, finding loose ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, and old programs. I gently sort through the keepsakes until my fingers land on a photo.

When I pull it out, teenage Holden stares back at me, all long legs and tanned skin and an absolutely horrific attempt at facial hair drawn onto his face in black pen.

I laugh out loud. “That’s coming downstairs.”

“You’re a menace, you know that?”

I jerk upright and spin around, sending dust flying. Holden stands near the attic stairs with one shoulder braced against a beam.

I press my hand to my chest to calm my pounding heart. “How long have you been standing there?”

One side of his mouth tips up. “Long enough.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“And miss that reaction?”

He ducks beneath another beam and crosses toward me. The attic feels much smaller with him in it.

I hold up the picture, my lips twitching. “Explain this, please.”