Rough Stock (Lost Creek Rodeo #3) - Heather B. Moore Page 0,10

Axel said, clapping a hand on Westin’s shoulder.

And the crazy thing was, even though Axel Diaz was a hotshot pro-baseball player, he was more sincere than most of the people Westin had met in his life. “Thanks, man.”

Silvia turned and walked away, then stopped. Turned back.

Both men watched her.

“I’ll go for one week, then decide from there,” Silvia said, her voice so soft that Westin wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

But apparently he had, because Axel stepped toward his sister, scooped her into a big bear hug, and whooped. “Yes!”

She let a reluctant smile escape and hugged him back.

Westin might have gotten a speck of dust in his eye that made them watery. It seemed it was all’s well that ends well among the siblings.

Silvia had been hoodwinked.

That pretty talk from Mr. Cowboy-slash-bull-rider had somehow softened her heart, and now she was staring at a sparse room where the closet was no bigger than three feet across. And there was literally nothing but a bed, a rustic, worn-down night stand, a single lamp, and a braided rug on the floor. What was this, 1940?

Oh, and the bathroom was shared. Down the hall, and she’d already noticed the leaking faucet.

Now, Silvia didn’t believe she was a spoiled woman. No, she’d had her share of challenges in life. So what if her brother was fabulously wealthy, and she’d never really lacked for material things? That didn’t soothe any part of her emotional trauma or insecurities, that she knew. She had no memory of her father. She’d had a string of boyfriends who’d broken her heart more times than she could count. Darren the most recent. He hadn’t even come to see her in the hospital when the paramedics had taken her there from the gala—overkill in her mind. Then there was the utter reality of being unable to make something of herself. By herself. Independent of a successful brother.

So, here she was, staring at her battered suitcase sitting on a patriotic quilt, as sounds from the kitchen filtered down the hallway. They’d told her to wash up. Two of the women had given pointed looks at her footwear. And then she was expected to join these complete strangers who were all older than her and help with dinner. Probably do the dishes, too.

Silvia sank on the bed.

Great. It was hard as a rock. Well, maybe not that hard. An hour or two on this bed would give her sore muscles. Speaking of being sore, her feet were killing her. She kicked off her scuffed and dusty high heels, then with a sigh, unzipped her suitcase. She pulled out a pair of socks and name-brand running shoes. They’d have to do. They were comfortable, and she didn’t think her designer sandals would fare too well at the ranch.

All she’d seen driving up with Axel had been fields, dirt, and more dirt. The “town” part had passed by in a blip.

Axel hadn’t been too happy that she’d made him stay in the car while she went to check in. She didn’t want to watch a bunch of broken-hearted women ogling her superstar brother, getting their hopes up for a sugar daddy. Even if she told them he was happily married, that didn’t deter some females.

Kellie was nice enough, Silvia supposed.

Her blue eyes were friendly, inquisitive.

Once Silvia verified everything was in order for her to begin her stay, she went onto the front porch and waved off Axel. He’d called goodbye and told her he loved her from the rental car window. Silvia felt a twinge of regret mixed with gratitude for her brother as he drove away.

He’d always been there for her, in good times and bad. On one hand, she knew he wanted the best for her—always. But sometimes she needed to fall, then pick herself back up on her own.

So, was this the magic place to do it all? To stand on her own two feet? Set boundaries? Stop being co-dependent on her brother?

The whitewashed walls of the tiny room had no answers for her.

Something smelled good, and the scent grew stronger. Barbeque meat, if she were to guess.

Silvia’s stomach rumbled, and even though they’d sat in first class on the flight, she’d hardly touched her meal. Who could blame her? No one had an appetite while heading to their doom.

She tied her shoelaces, then rose to her feet, her stomach propelling her into action.

Her phone beeped before she could head to the bathroom, though. Taking it out of her bag, she