by Joanne Rock
The mare responded with a brisk pace and soft snort. Brock straightened in the saddle, the pain in his head receding for the first time in hours as the scent of meadow grasses and wildflowers drifted on the night breeze. He could hear the babble of the creek as they neared the shallow water, and some of the tightness in his chest eased.
As they reached the turnoff that would lead to the cabin where he knew Hannah must be staying, Brock leaned back in the saddle, slowing Aurora to a walk. He hadn’t texted her, so she wouldn’t be expecting him.
But he could ride past to see if her lights were on. He owed her a thank-you at the very least. Their parting had been strained after he’d been blindsided by the news of his stepmother’s identity. He hadn’t been at his best.
Now, veering away from the water, Brock guided Aurora through a dense thicket. Big box elders gave way to elm trees and then a few scrubby pines before the land flattened and grazing meadows appeared in the moonlight. Lamps glowed from within the cabin and a hurricane lantern flickered on the patio table of the narrow porch.
Anticipation fired through him. The remnants of the day’s headache dissipated at the thought of seeing Hannah.
“Hello?” she called out through the dark as he discerned the figure seated in one of the Adirondack chairs. “Who’s there?”
He could hear the tension in her voice. Worry.
“It’s Brock.” He regretted surprising her, and lifted a hand in greeting as Aurora neared the cabin. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just on my way home.”
To see the house he’d built himself, but for the most part couldn’t remember building.
Hannah gave a soft laugh as she rose to her feet and stepped down onto the grass. “I’m not used to hearing big animals heading toward me in the dark.”
She stopped short of the horse. Hannah wore a pale, hooded sweatshirt that said I Read Past My Bedtime in bright pink letters. She reached up to stroke the animal’s nose as Brock swung down to the ground.
With her face scrubbed clean and her hair pulled back in a low ponytail that rested on her shoulder, she looked relaxed. Maybe ready for bed. His brain ran wild, his thoughts unchecked for a moment before he reined himself in. He stood close to her in the tall grass, the clean scent of her hair close enough for him to breathe in.
He forgot what he’d come here to say. His attention was focused solely on her. Being here felt right. Familiar.
Being with her would feel even better.
She glanced up at him suddenly, gray eyes zeroing in on his. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again today.”
* * *
How come the most ordinary interactions with Brock McNeill felt hotter—sexier—than blatant kisses she’d shared with other men?
Hannah tried to get ahold of her wayward libido by reminding herself why she’d lied to Brock about being with him the night before. She could not afford to be in a relationship with a man whose family had a kinship with her enemy.
It wasn’t easy to keep that in mind given how different the two men seemed. But she wasn’t in Cheyenne to indulge herself. She was only here to save her sister Hope from falling any further into a dark pit of unhappiness.
Brock sidestepped her, taking the horse’s reins and dropping them to the ground.
“I realized I didn’t thank you for all you did for me.” He was still in the same clothes he’d worn earlier that day at the hospital. He had to be exhausted after the time in the emergency room and the scandal breaking with his family.
“You’re welcome. It was no trouble since they canceled shooting to work on the lights.” She knew the filming in Cheyenne was going to run over budget and over schedule. Which was just as well since it gave her more time to speak privately with members of the cast to find other victims of Antonio Ventura’s predatory behavior. “I don’t know how you’re still functioning after the day you’ve had.”
Brock lifted a hand to touch the back of his head, muscles flexing in a way that stirred something in the pit of her belly.
“I feel better,” he admitted. “Actually, getting out of my father’s house and away from the drama helped air out some of the cobwebs in my brain.”
A sliver of panic froze her.
“Are you—” Her voice cracked. “I mean, is your memory returning?” What would she say if he asked her why she lied to him about what happened the night before?
A McNeill was a powerful enemy to make. A word in the director’s ear could get her fired.
He studied her for a long moment before shaking his head. “I’m struggling to remember anything that’s happened after January.”
Relieved, she all but sagged onto the porch’s wooden stair railing. Still, she couldn’t deny a pang of empathy for him. She couldn’t imagine losing a whole chunk of your life that way.
“I’m sorry.” She hugged her arms around herself; the wind off the mountains was surprisingly cold once the sun went down. “And I’m sure your family couldn’t be much help tonight with all the news about your stepmom.”
“Are you cold?” he asked, his gaze dipping to her body as she shivered. “There’s gas in the fire pit, you know.” He pointed to the small stone ring with a slate mantel. “Unless you’d be more comfortable indoors.”
Ever since she’d practically dragged him over the threshold into the cabin last night, the place was full of memories starring him. So indoors was not a good idea.
“A fire sounds great,” she told him. “But the remote for it might be inside. I didn’t read any of the instructions on operating things like that.”
Brock was up the stairs and beside the fire pit a moment later. “You can switch it on manually.” He reached under the slate mantel and must have found the button because there was a whoosh of orange-and-blue flame from the center of the ring.
Hannah followed him onto the porch, which was just big enough for two chairs, a love seat and the fire pit. There was a ground level patio area where she did yoga in the mornings. The views were incredible.
“This is perfect.” She held her hands out to the open flame, warming them. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He stood on the opposite side of the fire pit, watching her. “And as for my family not being much help with my memories—you’re right. Today, the focus was very much on my stepmother.”
“How is she doing?” She wanted to know if the rest of his family had been surprised by the news, or if they’d been well aware of her relationship to the Ventura family.
“I’m honestly not sure how much I’m supposed to say outside the family.” He stepped around the fire pit to stand closer to her, the heat and strength of him near enough to touch. “My grandfather brought in a public relations consultant to help us figure out our next move.”
“That makes sense.” She shivered again, but this time it had nothing to do with the chill in the air and everything to do with his proximity. “The McNeill name is highly recognizable. You’ll want to protect the brand.”
He shrugged, his gaze moving over her. “It’s more of a worry for the resort business than the ranching operations, I would think. And for my part, I can’t imagine why anyone looking for a good horse would suddenly decide they shouldn’t buy from me because my stepmother is a runaway Hollywood heiress.”
“People want to know they’re dealing with someone honest. Forthright.” She wondered if he really believed his business would be unaffected or if he was trying to look at the bright side. There was no doubt in her mind the scandal would have an impact. “And an association with the Venturas is a dubious distinction. The family might carry industry clout, but they aren’t well liked.”
“You’re right, of course.” His lips curved in a humorless smile. “There’s bound to be a business impact. I had hoped my head had cleared with some fresh air, but I’m still not thinking straight.” He turned more fully toward her. “C
an I ask one more favor of you, Hannah?”
Hearing him speak her name tripped pleasantly over her nerve endings. Her throat dried up.
“Sure.” She peered up at him, keeping her body facing the fire and not him.
“Maybe it’s because we haven’t known each other long and we don’t have a history. But I find it easier to talk to you than anyone in my family right now.”
“You do?” His words shot arrows of guilt into her since they absolutely had a history. She tucked her hands into the pocket of her hoodie, afraid he’d see them shaking.
“Definitely.” His blue eyes simmered with the same fire that had scorched her the night before. “It’s less pressure to talk to you, and you don’t make my head hurt.”
“Oh.” She knew what was coming and wanted to cut him off, since the less time she spent with him, the better. But how could she tell him that? How could she say that being with him was a constant battle not to touch him? Kiss him? Think about the times he’d touched and kissed her?
“Have dinner with me this week. When you’re off, or else after you’re done working for the day.”
“I. Um—” She tried to think of a compelling reason why she couldn’t. But as he reached to graze a touch along her cheek, it was all she could do not to close her eyes and sway into him.
His eyes turned serious. “I know I wouldn’t have confided in you about someone blackmailing my family if I didn’t trust you. If I didn’t want...something more with you.”
She straightened, needing to do damage control. Fast.
“I didn’t get that impression at all,” she protested. “You were just being kind to bring me home last night.”
“Hannah.” His voice was softly chiding, his knuckle lingering on her cheek in the barest of touches. “Even now, I feel more than that between us. Having amnesia doesn’t keep me from knowing I would have been every bit as attracted to you yesterday, too.”
How could she argue with that logic? Denying it felt like swimming against a riptide. She didn’t have a chance.
“Attracted or not, I’m not sure it’s wise.” She wanted to follow that up with a compelling argument. She had none she could share with him.
“Don’t say yes to dinner with me because it’s wise. Say yes because you want to get to know me.” He leaned closer, his gaze falling to her mouth. “Or because you don’t want to go your whole life without kissing a cowboy.” For a moment, they breathed the same air. Her eyelids fluttered. “Or hell, say yes because we both need to eat, and I can promise you better food than you’ll get from the film’s dining services.”
He let his hand fall away from her, giving her space to decide.
And how could she refuse? He was right about the attraction, of course. But the main reason she wanted to see him again was to keep an eye on the situation. To know if he recovered his memories. To find out why his stepmother had run from the Ventura household at a young age.
It wasn’t about kissing a cowboy, damn it.
Because she already knew exactly how good that felt.
“You make a convincing argument,” she told him finally. “I’m done filming most days by seven.”
* * *
Hannah was still thinking about that impending date late the next morning as she walked the short distance from her cabin to the day’s filming location.
She wore a simple sundress and a hat wide enough to keep the freckles at bay in the intense Wyoming sun. Brock had told her he’d message her today once he’d made reservations for dinner. Considering his thoughtfulness, it was too bad her relationship with him was destined for an unhappy end. Most of the guys Hannah had dated in the past were content to go out with a pack of friends rather than make special plans for a one-on-one evening out.
So the fact that Brock wanted to do something nice for her slid right under her defenses. That, coupled with the way he’d put Antonio in his place that first day they’d met, set him apart from most men. In particular, men of wealth and privilege. In her experience, men born with that kind of advantage in life rarely saw past their own comfort.
Witness her father, a prestigious attorney who’d gladly cut off his daughters from the family fortune when he’d walked out on their mother. Not that Hannah cared for herself. But for Hope’s sake? It still made her furious a decade after he’d left. Her father had made mincemeat of his ex-wife’s divorce lawyer, his precious money well protected from the family he no longer wanted.
Hannah’s phone chimed, and she dug in her bag for it, glad for the distraction from the dark thoughts. She glanced at the caller ID, feeling a charge of anticipation as she wondered if it would be Brock. Her sister’s number flashed on the screen instead. Instantly worried, she hurried to answer.
“Hi, Hope.” She injected a brightness into her voice she didn’t feel before carefully asking, “How are you doing?”
Her sister had moved in with her when she’d turned eighteen, after graduating high school, when their mother announced her plan to go “live her own life” and travel. But Hannah had loved having Hope around. She’d bought them matching rings and told Hope it was them against the world—the Ryder team. Hope attended community college for two years before switching to taking classes at UCLA—classes she’d once been so excited about. Lately, Hannah had to remind her to get out the door to attend them.
“Honestly? I’m not great, Hannah.” Hope sounded wound up. More upset than usual. The last few months she’d retreated into days of near-silence, so hearing her voice so animated now put Hannah on alert. “Winning the West is all over the news. His face—it’s everywhere.”
Hannah’s brain raced to fill in the blanks. She stopped in the middle of the grassy trail that led to the day’s shooting location—a rocky gully where a secret meeting was taking place among three of the film’s characters. She still had time before she needed to be in the makeup chair.
“Why? Because of the Eden Harris story?” She guessed it had something to do with the scandal. “I mean, has there been any more news today?”
“I don’t know!” Hope spoke in a loud whisper, as if she was trying to be quiet and failing. In the background, shrill pop music blared. She must be at the mall where she had a job in a teen clothing shop. “But all the girls at work keep showing me videos of the ranch where you’re shooting because they know you’re in the film. And his stupid face is always there.”
A new fear crawled up her spine. Tension pulled at her shoulders. Did Brock know about this?
“There’s footage of the ranch?” Hannah charged in the direction of the shoot, worried what she might find. “As in, the tabloids are up here now?”
She hadn’t checked her media feeds this morning. She’d been too busy enjoying the Zen-like atmosphere of waking up in a country cabin, sipping her coffee in the quiet as she watched the sun come up over the field.
“They keep showing clips of...him outside a cowboy bar. Someone asks him if he knew Mrs. McNeill was really Eden Harris when he decided to film in Cheyenne.” Hope lowered her voice more as she rushed on, “I don’t know why you had to do this, Hannah. I never wanted you to have anything to do with him.”
Hannah hated that she was hurting her sister more. But she had to believe she was doing the right thing in the long run.
“Honey, I would have been an extra in this movie to work with him. You know that.” She strained to see the film set in the distance, wondering if she should be looking for drone cameras or photographers in the bushes. “I’m going to find evidence of the kind of person he is. Once he’s publicly exposed as a predator, he won’t be able to hurt anyone else again.”
She thought about texting the wardrobe assistant, Callie, to see if there was any news about paparazzi near the ranch, but it was hard to see her screen in direct sun. And if she messaged anyone, maybe it should be Brock. His family would want to know about this if they weren’t
already aware.
Then again, Brock said they’d hired a public relations manager. So they must know. For that matter, maybe the McNeills were leveraging the notoriety for business reasons. The thought of Brock having a connection to Antonio Ventura—of possibly profiting from it—made her ill.
“And in the meantime, the man who hurt me is your boss. Whenever I think about you working for him—”
Hannah couldn’t hear the rest.
Because as the filming location came into view, so did a crowd outside the wardrobe tent. A ring of people standing and watching something in their midst. Something Hannah couldn’t see.
“Hope, I promise I’ll be careful.” She picked up her pace, jogging through the grass as the trail flattened out. “But I really need to go. I’m due on set right now, okay?”
Disconnecting the call, she raced toward the throng of people—production assistants, wardrobe and makeup staffers, writers, transportation crew, animal handlers. Everyone seemed to be gathered around something. A fight? A member of the media?
But as she skidded to a halt behind the pack, Hannah could hear a man speaking. It was Antonio Ventura.
“—and if that’s what it takes to get everyone on this production on the same page, I will do it,” he was saying, his voice taking on a vaguely threatening tone. “I’ve done it on other film sets.”
A murmur went through the group and Hannah wondered exactly what he was proposing to get them “on the same page.” She sidled closer to Callie and tried to get a better view of the man she despised.
Callie, seeing her, covered one side of her mouth to whisper, “Says he’s holding our cell phones hostage if we’re not good girls and boys.”
The director took his time glaring around at every member of the assembled group. “The added media attention is only a problem if we make it one. I will view anyone who posts updates from this set, or who publicly speculates about the Ventura family, as someone who has no interest in working with me—or this production company—again.”
