Chapter 14
Fourteen
GOOD GUYS brEAK HEARTS ALL OF THE TIME.
KINSLEY
The cottage kitchen glows amber in the pre-dawn light Monday morning, and I'm already three cups of coffee deep when my phone buzzes. My heart does this stupid little flutter, and I hate myself for hoping it's him.
After our conversation the other night it’s been one flirtatious text after another. I know I shouldn’t, I can’t trust the guy, but I can’t help myself.
Turns out, he does kiss better than he rides.
Wyatt: Morning Gorgeous.
My heart purrs and I groan. What am I doing?
I need to focus on the legal pads spread across the pine table, every page is covered in my tight handwriting—names, connections, pressure points.
My laptop screen glows with congressional notes and environmental regulation websites.
Yet I’m torn between the memory of a kiss and the image burned on the backs of my eyelids of another woman lying on Wyatt’s chest.
Good morning. I type, then add, How about you come on over here and help me plot out how to unravel a government office?
Clearly the memory of the kiss is winning.
His response comes back fast: Got to get chores done first. How many cups of coffee are you into this morning, Sweetheart?
Sweetheart. So cheesy, yet I'm grinning at my phone like an idiot. A Monday morning requires three cups minimum. I’m more dangerous when I’m caffeinated.
Wyatt: Dangerous looks good on you. What's the battle plan?
Most guys want me softer, quieter, less of whatever makes them feel inadequate, but Wyatt seems to like my edges.
Me: Come find out.
I hit send, then immediately want to throw my phone across the room.
This is exactly the kind of complication I swore I'd avoid—getting tangled up with a cowboy who rides bulls for fun and thinks "safe" is a four-letter word.
A man who shows up in random posts with women but acts like it was nothing.
Do I want to be involved with a man like that?
Yet, he's been nothing but good to me, not just saying all the right things, but making sure I ate three proper meals on Sunday and checking my head injury. I want to believe there’s more to him than what you see on social media, but I’m not sure—even if Brook swears he’s a good guy. Good guys break hearts all of the time.
And who says I have to give him my heart?
The sound of tires on gravel snaps me back to reality. Sarah's early, and I'm sitting here daydreaming about her son.
Professional. I need to be professional.
Sarah pushes through the screen door, carrying a white bakery box. "Good morning. I brought ammunition."
There's something different about her energy today. Like she's shed diplomatic politeness and revealed the steel underneath.
"You've been busy," she observes, settling across from me like a co-conspirator ready to plot.
"I work better with a plan."
"Good. Because after Eleanor Whitmore’s little visit, we're going to war."
My coffee mug freezes halfway to my lips. From what Wyatt’s told me, where the Whitmore’s go, Ford follows. My throat has gone dry, but I set my cup down, needing to clarify the situation. "The Whitmores came here?"
"Eleanor and Ford rolled up here in her Mercedes, all sweet smiles and veiled threats." Sarah's smile turns predatory. "They made us an offer for our eastern section of land, with a helpful reminder about how expensive environmental lawsuits can be."
The casual way she drops Ford’s name freezes me, like stepping into mountain shade at dawn. My father. Here.
That’s a lot to take in. I can’t believe he drove right past my front door, and I had no idea. You’d think I would have known—somehow. Like the part of me that came from him would have noticed.
"They threatened you," I say, and something fierce flares in my chest. Not professional outrage—personal anger.
Sarah opens the bakery box to reveal perfect cinnamon rolls. "They tried. But we don't scare easily. And now we have reinforcements." The way she says 'we' makes me think that I belong here.
I’m the reinforcements. I open my mouth to tell her that I could also be a liability, but she asks, "Tell me your read on the situation," Sarah says, motioning to my piles of information. "What did you see that I might have missed?"
This woman didn't hire a consultant. She recruited a general. I can be that for her, no matter whom I’m related to. I stuff my confession aside and move on.
"The angle bothers me," I say. "Someone's been building a case against Stonegate specifically and identifying your pressure points."
"Eleanor Whitmore doesn't make moves unless she's already three steps ahead." Sarah slaps her hand on the table.
"If it was the Whitmores, they’re good. I don’t have any direct links to them. The other thing to consider is how deep does this go? Are they opportunistic vultures or did they orchestrate the whole thing?"
Sarah reaches for her purse and pulls out a thick folder. "I was hoping you'd ask that question. Because I might have some answers."
Environmental impact studies. Congressional correspondence. Internal memos that make my heart race with glee over the paper trail this allows me to trace. I sort through them. “Sarah, where did you get these?"
"I've been fighting political battles since before you were born, honey. I know how to work the system." She steeples her fingers like an evil mastermind and grins. "Now, show me how we destroy them."
I spread her papers across the table. "If we're going to beat this, we need to fight on multiple fronts simultaneously. First—congressional pressure campaign. We target your Representative and both Senators. Frame this as federal overreach versus local land management expertise."
"I know our state reps personally," Sarah says. "We're on good terms and I'm sure they'll throw themselves behind this."
The casual way she says it reminds me of what Wyatt said about owning land equaling power.
"Perfect. Second—coalition building. We can't let this look like one family fighting for special treatment." I'm writing as fast as I'm talking. "Every ranching family in Colorado should be terrified of what happens if we lose."
Sarah's eyebrows rise with admiration. "You really do know how to fight dirty."
"Fighting fire with fire," I reply. "Point three—FOIA requests. We request all communications about this designation to find a loophole or incorrectly filed form—anything that would invalidate their demands. And point four—Senator Martinez from Texas is a huge champion of western lifestyle issues, and he’s up for reelection and needs a high-profile win to swing the vote. "
Sarah grins. "You have a senator in your back pocket?"
"We have mutual respect and aligned interests.” I’ve worked with Senator Martinez before, and the man loves to play cowboy. We should be able to swing his attention our way.
Sarah stares at me. "We need you. Stonegate needs women like you in the fight."
Before I can respond, the screen door opens with a creak and my heart leaps.
Wyatt fills the doorway—fresh from morning chores, sleeves rolled up, looking like every cowboy fantasy I've tried not to have. The scent of leather and honest work drifts in with him and just like that, I can’t remember why trusting the man you want to make out with is such a big deal anyway.
"Morning, ladies. Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
"Perfect timing," Sarah says with obvious satisfaction. "Kinsley was just walking me through her strategy to save our ranch."
Wyatt winks at me, and I’m trying really hard to remember exactly what strategy Sarah is talking about.
"Hank's on board," he says, moving to lean against my counter. "He's ready to stand with us."
"Excellent news." I try to sound professional while cataloguing how his jeans fit. "The more unified we are, the stronger our position becomes."
He moves closer to the table, and suddenly my kitchen feels smaller. When he reaches for the same document I'm pointing to, his fingers brush mine, sending electricity up my arm.
Neither of us pulls away.
"This is impressive," he says, his voice rougher. "You really think we can beat them?"
"I think we can give them the fight of their lives.” I work to keep my voice from sounding breathless and it is a struggle. The man makes me weak in the knees without even trying.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "I'm in for whatever it takes."
The words carry weight beyond their meaning, and I’m seriously drinking whatever he’s pouring. I gulp.
Sarah's phone rings, cutting through the charged atmosphere. She glances at the screen, and her expression shifts to something that makes my stomach drop.
"It's Tom Rodriguez from the Forest Service. He's a friend." She hits the green button and says, "Hello, this is Sarah." I watch the color drain from her cheeks.
"How long do we have?" she asks quietly.
A pause that stretches too long.
"I see. Thank you for the heads up."
She hangs up, noting where Wyatt’s hand is on the back of my chair. I pray we don’t look like we’re about to jump into each other’s arms even though that’s the battle I’m fighting inside.
"The Forest Service is going to do a controlled burn on our property line Wednesday if we don’t stop it.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
Wyatt curses. “A burn that close means fences gone, feed ruined, cattle scattered. And if it jumps the line, the Forest Service won’t pay the price—we will.”
My professional training kicks in. I came here to solve a problem, I can’t forget that, won’t forget that—and Wyatt wouldn’t want me to. That much I know.
"I'll get you into a federal court. Sarah, call your lawyer."