Rough Stock (Lost Creek Rodeo #3) - Heather B. Moore Page 0,5
keeping his jaw locked, gaze straight ahead, but then his eyes shifted to his rearview mirror. She nearly stumbled.
Oh, had he mentioned she was wearing high heels with those short shorts of hers?
Definitely trouble.
With a sigh and another regret to add to his list, Westin turned his truck around.
Silvia had never been so humiliated in her life.
At least that she could remember.
Her brother, who should have her back, and one of his best friends, Grizz—the guy who’d stopped her from faceplanting at the charity gala the other night—had thought it a good idea to send her to the middle of nowhere—a.k.a. Lost Creek, Texas—to a women’s recovery ranch.
“Recovery from what?” she’d asked Axel.
They’d been at a meeting at her mom’s, and four serious pairs of eyes had stared her down. Brighton, Axel, Grizz, and her mom.
Apparently, Grizz’s cousin had gone to this women’s recovery center to heal from the loss of her child. Right. The loss of a child was a hard thing, a traumatic event. Silvia wasn’t dealing with anything even close to that. Just an overprotective brother and difficulty finding her passion in life. If everyone wasn’t always comparing her to her brother, maybe she’d find it. And maybe the panic attacks would stop.
Silvia was chalking up her agreement to this whole fiasco to her guilt. Guilt for lying to her brother about dropping her classes, guilt for lying to her mom about dating yet another loser, and guilt for lying to Brighton—who’d become her closest friend—and not keeping her in the loop about how her stress levels had skyrocketed.
Thus, the panic attack at that gala.
No, it hadn’t made her pass out. Dehydration and standing up too fast had done that. Oh, and maybe the racing heart and pulse from her hatred of speaking in front of people.
Which Axel had sprung on her, so it was his fault, right?
And it was currently his fault she was hitchhiking straight out of the small town of Lost Creek. She wasn’t going to any “recovery” center. It wasn’t like she was on any substances or needed an intervention. She just needed her own life—away from her brother.
So when they’d stopped to fill up gas, and Axel went in to buy who knew what, Silvia had simply climbed out of his rental car. Grabbed her suitcase. And started walking.
She was regretting her choice of footwear. But she hadn’t planned on walking so far when they’d boarded the plane that morning—first class, of course. Nothing but the best for her brother.
To be fair, he was a decent guy. Just too involved in her life.
No more, she’d decided. Even if she had to find some menial job to support herself, she’d do it. She couldn’t go back to that college—wouldn’t. And she was pretty sure she’d fail at hair school, too. So why even set herself up for that?
Somehow, her brother succeeded at everything in life. At college, at baseball, at relationships . . . while Silvia just existed. Took up space.
Her eyes burned with tears. Now wasn’t the time to feel sorry for herself. Especially when a truck had just turned around and was slowing down. Who in their right mind would pick up a sobbing hitchhiker?
She was at an all-time low, that she knew, but that didn’t mean she needed to be shipped off to a recovery center with women who had serious problems they were working through. Yet, maybe she was out of her mind, too—hitchhiking. With all the news stories out there on staying safe and being smart, well, Silvia Diaz was at it again. Making another dumb decision.
Well, she was already this far . . .
She turned as the truck came to a rumbling stop. It was in need of a paint job and general maintenance altogether. In fact, she was surprised the thing was running. This was obviously one of those cowpokes who had nothing better to do with his time than drive twenty miles per hour on a back country road. Yet, the truck had come from the direction of the highway. Maybe it had gotten up to thirty-five miles per hour there.
The person inside the truck was indistinguishable for now, and Silvia headed toward the driver’s side as stubbornness battled against her racing pulse, while her brain screamed: This isn’t a good idea. You’re alone. A single woman. The driver could be anyone.
Well, if the driver looked like a creep, she’d keep walking.