Page 41 of Sunrise & Serenity

“Doc does most of it,” she says, “though I do attend calls with him here and there. It’s been a long time since I studied large-animal husbandry at college. I’m still relearning a lot of it.”

“Right, right. And you’ve met the whole family?”

She cocks her head. “Most of them. One of the brothers has been away. River, I think. But I’ve talked to the rest of them. They all seem nice.”

“They do.” I clear my throat. “And Holden used to compete on the rodeo circuit?”

She lets out a peal of laughter. “Oh my god, Sage. You really need to learn the art of subtlety. If you want to know more about your maybe-not-so-grumpy and very hot neighbor, you could have just asked. Believe me, I’d be the last one to judge you. That man is good-looking enough to turn anyone’s head.”

Should have known I couldn’t sneak the question past her. “He’s just intriguing, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” She tilts her head up, smug. “Well, all I know is that he was a big-deal bull rider. I think he was world champion for a couple of years in a row or something like that. But he got injured last year, and apparently it was bad enough to end his career. That’s why he’s back.”

Is that why Holden seems so much a part of this place, and yet, not fully part of it? He may have grown up here, but he built his adult life on the rodeo circuit. Coming back because of an injury couldn’t have been easy. If he had a choice, would he have come back at all? “I wonder if he’s going to stay,” I muse, half to myself.

Mia shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know.”

Strangely, the idea that Holden might up and leave any minute sends a pang through my chest. Sadness, not for me—I barely know him—but for his family. They seem close, yet there’s a distance between Holden and the rest of them. And from what I’ve witnessed, they aren’t the ones holding back; he is.

I open my mouth to ask another question, then close it again. I wasn’t intending to talk so much about Holden. And so far, our whole conversation has been about me.

Not cool.

“That’s enough about the McBride family,” I say, firmly shutting the door on my curiosity. “I want to talk about you. Any handsome cowboys turning your head?”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. The last thing I need is a man coming in and complicating my life when it’s finally settling down. Especially not a cocky cowboy.”

“I think you came to the wrong place if you’re trying to avoid cowboys.”

She sighs. “I’m trying to avoid men in general. I’m happy and Ruby’s happy. Why rock the boat?”

“I feel the same way. It’s time to focus on ourselves and what we need for a while.”

“Exactly.” She holds out her mug for a toast.

With a grin, I tap mine to it. “Ruby,” I call out to the little girl. “Come up here and give us cuddles. I want to hear all about your new house and what it’s like living with your Great-Aunt Greta.”

Ruby leaps up and throws herself onto the couch, and we spend the rest of their visit talking about catching frogs and chasing butterflies.

Later, after I’ve waved goodbye from my front porch and retreated to the couch, I think about what Mia said. With her comments replaying in my head, I pick up my phone and open my Instagram page. It’s been a while since I’ve checked it. I have a few thousand followers, but Graham curated most of my posts. He insisted my social media presence be professional, not just me “chatting about art.”

I snort. What was I thinking listening to him?

It’s been over a month since I last posted, and unsurprisingly, my follower count hasn’t increased much. I scroll through my previous posts. Most are photos of my work hanging in Graham’s gallery, though a few are images he took of me during photo shoots. Those always made me self-conscious, but he liked them. It was one reason he insisted I always be well dressed. Somewhere along the way, I stopped questioning his opinions because I mistook his control for support.

There isn’t a single photo analysis or explanation of why a composition is effective. No tips for aspiring photographers. It showcases my work but says next to nothing about the person behind it.

Scrolling down farther, I pause at a comment from Graham on one of my posts. I hesitate for a moment, then take a deep breath and tap his name. The moment I’m redirected to his profile, my stomach drops.

The first photo is from a showing at his gallery. The pretty woman standing at his side in front of a large black-and-white photo, all smiles, is the woman he started mentoring six months ago and sleeping with sometime between then and when I walked in on them together.

She looks over the moon.

The pose, the gallery wall, the proud hand at her back. It could have been one of dozens of photographs he’d posted of me over the years. Another young photographer standing beside the man everyone believed had discovered her.

I’m not even angry with her. How can I be, considering I trusted him too?

But I can choose what I do next. If I want to succeed, I can’t sit on my ass and expect people to stumble across my work.