Page 26 of The Cowboy's Best Friend

“What changed?” That was all he could seem to get out. It was that or that his temper was going to take control, and he really didn’t think she was ready for that.

“Nothing,” she said. He thought maybe she laughed. “I turned thirty-two. And just like that, I was done.”

They made it down the mountain and Boone sat with that—with all of that—as they drove into Marietta. He remembered her birthday vividly. He’d brought her cupcake, she’d looked like she might cry, and he’d known without having to ask that whatever it was Matty had done or hadn’t done, certainly hadn’t been abouther.

Not for the first time, he wondered if she’d put together what he finally had—to his own consternation—not so long ago.

That maybe if Sierra hadn’t had him in her life, she would have been done Matty sooner. That she hadn’t had to truly reckon with the fact that Matty gave her nothing, since Boone gave her everything. That the emptiness in her marriage that he thought was visible from space was something she could overlook, because she always had her best friend to fill in the gaps.

He wasn’t sure he was ever going to forgive himself for that.

She was breathing heavily beside him, so he reached over and put his hand on one of her shoulder blades. Not a kiss. Not a hug. Not anything that could be misconstrued.

Still, when it came to touching Sierra, Boone was pretty sure that there wasn’t a single bit of it that had ever been entirely innocent from his end. He’d worked very, very hard over the years to make sure that never came through, because that only seemed right.

“I’m okay,” she assured him, reaching up to squeeze his arm. “I just… I’ve never said that to anyone.”

Then they were pulling up in front of that ugly house that Matty, of course, thought was so modern and sophisticated. It was everything that Boone personally hated about what outsiders were doing to Montana. And he counted Matty as an outsider, no matter if he’d been born here or not. His famously snooty father sure hadn’t raised his only son to act like a local.

Matty’s pompous vehicle wasn’t in the driveway. Boone thought that was a pretty serious letdown, but he kept that to himself as he followed Sierra inside.

“Still looks like a morgue in here,” he muttered.

Sierra made a low sound, like she was trying to stifle a laugh. “It is a little stark, I grant you.”

But then there was no time for remarks, because they got to work.

All told, took him about an hour to take everything Sierra wanted from the house, which wasn’t much. Only about half of her clothes, which made him think that the other half were things Matty liked that she didn’t. He made a note of what they looked like, but he figured he was right about that. Matty had always liked her not to look like her.

He packed up her books. The framed photos she kept in a drawer. And all the rest were boxes of things she had to get from the attic, which told him even more about what this house was really like—in case he’d had any doubts about that over the years.

Truth was, he couldn’t wait to get her out of here.

Boone was outside, making sure everything was secured in the truck, when a slick Range Rover pulled into the driveway with music blaring.

“Terrific,” Sierra said beneath her breath. “I guess this is happening after all.”

“Bring it on,” Boone said, though he only realized that he’d said it out loud when Sierra slid a look his way.

“I knew I should have changed those locks,” Matty said with that smarmy smile of his that Boone very much wanted to rip off of his face and shove directly up his—

“I’m actually surprised that you didn’t.” Sierra sounded remarkably calm, Boone thought. Given everything she’d just told him. Plus everything he already knew. “Anyway, I won’t be back. Do what you like.”

Matty turned his attention to Boone. “Good job, buddy,” he said in that snide way of his, like every word hid seven knives. “Finally getting what you wanted all along. You must be proud of yourself.”

Beside him, Sierra stiffened.

But Boone laughed. “I’m always pretty proud of myself, Matty, now that you mention it.” He studied the other man, and laughed again. Maybe a little louder this time. “Mostly for not committing the acts of violence that I think would be appropriate to the moment.”

Matty smirked. “I think we know what kind of man always resorts to threats of violence, don’t we?”

“I don’t make threats,” Boone assured him. He stretched an arm out along the side of his truck and leaned back against it. “Funny you should mention that. Because it seems to me that there’s a very specific kind of man who likes to go around stirring things up, as if violence doesn’t exist. And anytime someone objects, he claims it’s a threat. There’s a word for a man like that, Matty. I bet you know it. It rhymes withHoward.”

Matty let that cold glare of his move between the two of them, and shook his head. “I hope you enjoy my leftovers, Boone,” he said in his awful, suggestive, snide voice. “But then, you always have, haven’t you?”

It took everything Boone had not to close the distance between them and rearrange Matty’s face. It would take one swing. For all of Matty’s strutting around recently and his claims that CrossFit had changed his life, what it hadn’t done was teach a snotty little rich boy how to fight. Having grown up with four brothers, three of them older than him, Boone did not suffer from the same limitations.

But he kept his hands to himself. And all he did was laugh at Matty, then inclined his head toward the truck—inviting Sierra to climb in.

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