Chapter 9
Wyatt
The wind has a knife edge this morning, slicing through my coat as I cross to the barn, stinging my cheeks and clearing out everything except the basics. Feed. Water. Check the splint. Keep moving.
The foal lifts her head when I step into the stall, eyes calmer now, breath puffing soft little clouds while she leans into the fresh straw.
Emmy's wrap is neat and tight, professional work that saved this animal's life.
Every time I see it, I picture her hands working steady as rain.
I picture her mouth too, the way she tasted yesterday in the loft, and then I make myself think about fences.
But the thoughts keep circling back. To the way she felt pressed against me on that workbench. How she whispered my name like a prayer. The trust in her eyes when I gave her those keys.
I fork hay, check the latch, run my palm down the filly's neck. "You're going to be fine," I tell her, because saying it out loud makes it real. "You just keep standing."
The words feel like a promise I'm making to myself too.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Remy:
Remy
Aunt May's driving up there Christmas morning whether you want her to or not. Fair warning.
I stare at the message, jaw tightening. My family's been trying to drag me back into the fold for years, ever since Sarah died and I shut everyone out. They mean well, but they don't understand that some walls exist for a reason.
Another text:
Remy
She misses you, man. We all do. Stop punishing yourself for something that wasn't your fault.
I delete both messages without responding. Some conversations are better left buried.
By noon the clouds have thinned, sun hitting the snow in a way that makes the whole pasture glare.
I should eat. I should finish the ledger.
Instead, I find myself in the kitchen, throwing together beef stew with ingredients I forgot I had.
The rhythm of chopping vegetables is soothing, mindless work that keeps my hands busy while my mind wanders to Emmy.
The way she looked yesterday when she said my barn renovation was perfect. How her legs felt wrapped around my waist. The soft sound she made when I kissed her neck.
I'm in dangerous territory, letting someone get this close. But for the first time in five years, dangerous feels worth the risk.
I fill two thermoses with the finished stew and wash up, changing into a clean shirt that doesn't smell like hay and motor oil. The drive into town is slow with slush, Hope Peak looking like a Christmas card with lights blinking along storefront windows and kids building snowmen in the square.
I park outside the clinic and sit for a full minute, gripping the thermoses until the metal bites. Through the window, I can see Emmy moving around inside, hair catching the light, and my pulse kicks up just watching her.
The bell over the door rings when I enter. Carly glances up from the counter and does a little double take when she sees what I'm carrying.
"Delivery?" she asks, too cheerful to be casual.
"Lunch," I say.
"For Emmy." She draws the words out, trying not to grin. "She's in back, probably forgetting to eat again. Go on, I'll make sure you're not disturbed."
The wink she gives me makes heat crawl up my neck, but I nod my thanks and head down the hall.
I find Emmy in the small office, shoulders hunched over a stack of forms, hair twisted into a loose knot that's halfway fallen out. She's wearing that green sweater that makes her eyes look like amber, and when she glances up, those eyes widen with surprise.
"Hi," she says, careful, like the word might spook me.
"I brought stew." I set the thermoses on her desk, suddenly feeling foolish. "It's hot."
Her mouth softens into that smile that does things to my insides. "You cooked?"
"I can read a recipe."
She unscrews one lid and steam curls up, carrying thyme and beef and onion. She closes her eyes for a second when she smells it, and something in my chest shifts and settles.
"Thank you," she says, and the simple words land deeper than they should.
We eat at her desk with plastic spoons, me perched on the edge of the filing cabinet with one boot hooked on her chair.
The office is quiet except for Christmas music playing softly from the radio out front and the scrape of our spoons.
It feels domestic, comfortable in a way I haven't experienced in years.
"How's the foal?" she asks when her spoon scrapes the bottom.
"Standing stronger. She pushes at the gate now. Got opinions about her feed schedule."
Emmy laughs. "Good. I like a fighter."
"So do I."
The words carry more weight than they should, and from the way her cheeks flush, she knows I'm not just talking about the horse.
"I talked to the council this morning," she says after a beat, setting down her spoon. "Levi thinks he can keep them from breathing down your neck if we show progress this week. A walkthrough today, maybe a test run with the sleigh tomorrow."
My jaw tightens on instinct. I hate being managed, hate having deadlines imposed on my land. But the alternative is losing those grazing permits, and I can't afford that blow.
"We can do that," I say, forcing the words out.
She studies me like she's waiting for the argument. When it doesn't come, some of the tension in her shoulders unwinds.
"I put the keys you gave me on a lanyard," she says, fingers skimming the cord at her throat. "Felt silly wearing them around the clinic, but it helps. Makes the barn feel real."
"It is real." I lean forward, drawn by the movement of her fingers against the keys. "It's yours."
Her breath catches. The moment stretches, charged with all the things we're not saying. The office suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.
I slide off the cabinet and step closer. She doesn't move, just watches me with those hazel eyes that see too much. There's heat in her gaze now, and hope, and that stubborn light that makes me want to tear down every wall I've built.
"I'm not good at this," I admit, voice rough. "But I'm trying."
"I know." She says it like a truth she picked up and weighed before bringing it to me. "Trying is enough if we keep doing it."
My hand finds her jaw, thumb brushing across the soft skin of her cheek. She leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and the trust in that simple gesture nearly undoes me.
I lean in and kiss her, slow this time. Not desperate like our previous encounters, but deliberate. The press of mouth to mouth, the soft catch of breath, the way her fingers curl into my shirt and hold on like she's afraid I'll disappear.
She tastes like thyme and peppermint, like winter and something I don't have words for. The kiss deepens naturally, her chair rolling back until she's pressed against the wall and I'm leaning over her, one hand braced on the desk.
The lanyard slips and taps against my wrist as she reaches up to tangle her fingers in my hair. When she tugs gently, I groan into her mouth, the sound swallowed by her lips.
"Wyatt," she breathes against my mouth, and hearing my name in that breathless tone makes my blood burn.
I want to lift her onto the desk, push that green sweater up, discover if her skin is as soft as I remember. But footsteps echo down the hall, followed by voices, and we break apart just as a light knock sounds on the door.
Emmy smooths her hair with shaking fingers, cheeks flushed and lips swollen from my kisses. I step back, running a hand over my face, trying to pull myself together.
Levi leans into the doorway, scarf dusted with snow and an official expression on his face. "Sorry to interrupt. Walkthrough at Dry Creek in an hour if that works. We'll keep it simple, just want to see the progress."
Emmy clears her throat. "We'll be there."
Levi's eyes flick between us, taking in Emmy's mussed hair and my guilty expression, but his poker face doesn't slip. "Appreciate your cooperation, Wyatt. This'll go a long way with the council."
After he disappears, Emmy laughs once, low and embarrassed. "We really are cursed. Every time we..."
"Just busy," I say, though my voice comes out rougher than intended. The interruption leaves me aching, wanting to pull her back into my arms and finish what we started.
"Come by the ranch early, before the council gets there," I say as we gather our things. "I strung lights in the loft last night. They're crooked. Could use your eye."
She tilts her head, a smile playing at her lips. "You strung Christmas lights."
I look away so she doesn't see me smile like an idiot. "Figured the kids would like them. For the sleigh rides."
"The kids," she repeats, amused and soft. "Right."
Outside, the December air is sharp and clean, Christmas decorations glittering in the afternoon sun. Emmy slips on a patch of ice and I catch her by the elbow, my hand staying there longer than necessary.
She steps closer, tucking her chin into the collar of my coat like she wants the warmth for a second. Her voice goes quiet. "I'll be there. And Wyatt? The lights don't have to be perfect. Nothing does."
She's talking about more than Christmas decorations, and we both know it.
I watch her cross to her truck, keys swinging against her chest, and when she looks back once, I raise my hand in a wave. It feels strange and good to do it. She grins and climbs in, and I stand there like a fool until her taillights disappear around the corner.
The drive home passes in a blur of snow-covered fields and the memory of Emmy's mouth under mine. When I reach the ranch, I park by the barn and sit for a moment, staring at the building that's become the center of something I'm not sure I'm ready for.
Inside, the space glows with the Christmas lights I spent half the night hanging. They're crooked as hell, strung haphazardly between the beams, but they cast everything in warm gold that makes the renovated space feel magical.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Remy:
Remy
Whatever's got you decorating for Christmas, don't let it go. Sarah would want you to be happy.
This time, I don't delete the message. Instead, I think about Emmy's smile, the way she looked at the lights yesterday like they were the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Maybe Remy's right. Maybe it's time to stop punishing myself for surviving when Sarah didn't.
The council arrives exactly on time, three cars crunching through the snow. Levi climbs out first, followed by Mayor Patterson and Mrs. Parker from the historical society. They're bundled in winter coats and official expressions, clipboards in hand.
"Wyatt," Levi nods. "Where's Dr. Sinclair?"
"On her way."
As if summoned, Emmy's truck appears on the ridge, heading down the ranch road with plumes of snow kicked up behind the tires. She parks beside the council's cars and climbs out, looking professional in dark jeans and a wool peacoat, that lanyard with my keys visible at her throat.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, joining our group. "Last-minute emergency at the clinic."
"No problem," Mayor Patterson says. "Shall we take a look?"
I lead them into the barn, acutely aware of Emmy walking beside me, the subtle scent of her perfume mixing with hay and sawdust. The space looks good, I have to admit. Professional. Safe. The kind of place families would trust with their children.
"Impressive work," Mrs. Parker says, making notes on her clipboard. "The renovation exceeds our safety requirements."
"Dr. Sinclair provided excellent guidance on the layout," I say, catching Emmy's surprised look. "Her input was invaluable."
We walk through the space, the council asking questions about capacity and emergency exits and insurance coverage.
Emmy answers most of them, her professional knowledge filling the gaps in my own understanding.
Watching her work, seeing the respect in the council members' faces, makes something proud and protective swell in my chest.
"The lights are a nice touch," Levi observes, looking up at my crooked handiwork.
"Emmy's idea," I say, which isn't entirely true but feels right.
She bumps my shoulder gently, and the brief contact sends warmth shooting through me.
"I think we've seen enough," Mayor Patterson declares. "This exceeds our expectations, Wyatt. The Christmas Eve sleigh rides are approved."
After they leave, Emmy and I stand alone in the decorated barn, both breathing hard like we've just run a marathon.
"That went well," she says.
"Thanks to you." I step closer, drawn by the flush in her cheeks and the way the Christmas lights catch in her hair. "Couldn't have done it without you."
"You could have. You just didn't have to."
The distinction matters, and she knows it. This partnership we've built, this thing growing between us, it's not about need or desperation. It's about choice. About wanting to build something together.
"Emmy," I start, then stop, not sure how to put the feeling into words.
She solves the problem by stepping into my arms, going up on her toes to kiss me softly. It's different from our heated encounters, gentler but no less intense. A promise instead of a question.
"Christmas Eve," she murmurs against my lips. "Think you'll be ready?"
For the sleigh rides, she means. But looking into her eyes, seeing the trust and hope and something that might be love, I know she's asking about more than just a community event.
"Yeah," I say, meaning it. "I think I will."
For the first time in five years, Christmas doesn't feel like a wall I have to climb. It feels like a door that might open if I keep my hand on the knob and turn it slow.
And Emmy Sinclair might just be the key.