Chapter 17
Seventeen
I'M SCARED OF THE ANSWER HE'S GOING TO GIVE ME, BUT I WON'T BACK AWAY FROM IT.
KINSLEY
Complicated or not, I’m going with Wyatt tonight.
Any reservations I have about him seem to disappear the moment he pins me with his stare. It’s like my good sense is no match for him.
"I need to stop at the feed store, then we can see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
The invitation catches me off guard—not because he asked, but because of the way he asked. Like he needs me to say yes.
And I want to say yes.
"Of course," I say, and watch something ease in his shoulders.
Wyatt nods. “Good.”
He steps outside the barn and calls to Billy, asking him to take care of Ace as I put Rebel up for the night.
Wyatt waits for me to join him, and we walk toward his truck. He slips his hand in mine, and I can’t help but think how glad I am that it’s me he’s reaching for.
The truck is a beauty—gleaming black Chevy with chrome details that catch the dying light, sponsor decals telling the world Wyatt’s one of the best at what he does.
He opens the door, and I climb in. The cab smells like leather and pine, with a St. Christopher medal hanging from the rearview mirror.
Wyatt gets in and starts the engine, the rumble vibrating through the floorboards.
His knuckles go white on the steering wheel as he backs out of the drive like he’s reliving whatever just happened.
And whatever it is, it's taken him right to the edge of something he's not sure he can come back from. I can feel the anger humming under his skin.
When he blows through the first stop sign, I reach over and cover his hand with mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm, but more than that—it seems to unlock something in him.
"What’s going on?" I ask softly. For a moment I think he's going to deflect, give me another easy smile and pretend everything's fine.
Instead, he exhales like a man who's been holding his breath for hours.
"They put survey flags on our land." The words come out rough and bitter. "Thirty-six of them, running right through the section Gritstone Ranch offered to buy from us."
My stomach drops. "The Whitmores were on your property?"
"Staking it out like they already own it." Tension coils through his voice, sucking the air from the cab. "Dad found them when we were checking the eastern fence line. Ripped every last one out of the ground like he was pulling weeds."
The truck lurches as he takes a curve too fast, and I tighten my grip on his hand. The St. Christopher medal hanging on his rearview swings with each turn, catching the light like a prayer.
"What did your father do?" I'm scared of the answer he's going to give me, but I won't back away from it.
"Pounded on Whitmore’s door and threw the flags at him." Wyatt's laugh holds no humor. "Told him to stay off our land. Would've done worse if Eleanor hadn't pulled on Maxwell’s leash."
The pieces click together in my mind—Oscar's temper plus the hundred-year feud between their families boiling over into something that can't be taken back.
"And then?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.
"Then Dad and I had it out on the ride home." He spits the words out like a sour confession and accusation all in one. "Same old fight. I should be here, doing what he tells me to do, and he doesn't need or listen to me so why would I stick around?"
What he doesn't say hangs heavier than what he does—the impossible weight of being the only son, the pressure of knowing that every choice he makes affects five generations of family legacy. The way his father sees his rodeo career as selfishness instead of success.
"Maybe he's scared," I say softly, watching the way his shoulders tense at the suggestion.
"Of what?"
"Of losing you. Of losing the ranch. Of everything your family built disappearing because he can't control you or what’s happening with the Forest Service. His world is spiraling."
Wyatt clears his throat and shifts in his seat as I glance out the window.
He’s thinking on what I said, and I give him a minute to work it over.
The truck's engine hums as we crest a small hill, and suddenly the town of Gritstone unfolds below us—the collection of neat buildings nestled against the mountainside, the church steeple rising above tree-lined streets like a compass point.
By the time we pull into the gravel parking lot of Halloway Feed & Supply, the worst of the storm has passed. His breathing's evened out and his death grip on the steering wheel relaxed to something approaching normal.
The building sits solid and welcoming before us—weathered wood siding, green metal roof, windows that glow warm yellow in the gathering dusk.
"Better?" I ask, and he turns to look at me with something raw and grateful in his trail-worn eyes.
"Yeah." He reaches for my hand and holds tight. “You’re good at that."
"At what?"
"Making the noise in my head quiet down."
The compliment hits me somewhere deep in my chest, tender and fierce all at once.
No one's ever needed me for comfort before—I'm the woman they call when they need results, not peace—which is not always the same thing.
But Wyatt looks at me like my presence alone is enough to steady the wild within him.
Before I can respond, the feed store's front door opens, and Brook steps onto the wooden porch. The moment her gaze lands on us in the truck, her eyebrows rise. She waves lightly, then turns on her heel and slips inside.
I roll my eyes. I'm not sure what this thing with Wyatt is but I’d bet my spurs Brook thinks she knows what’s going on between us.
I know what we look like out here, leaning in close and talking low.
Keeping his family out of our business is impossible when we’re living on the same patch of land.
I should be thinking about keeping my job, appearing businesslike, and remaining professional.
Not about how perfectly my hand fits in his.
Definitely shouldn’t be thinking about how right it feels to be in his truck, to be sitting beside him.
“Come on.” Wyatt opens his door and then comes around and opens mine. He touches my side to steady me as I slide out. Even though I don’t need his help—I like it.
The moment I step through the doors of Halloway Feed & Supply, I'm not disappointed.
The wooden floors are worn smooth in all the right places, polished but honest, and the smell—grain, leather, something warm and earthy—settles into my chest like a deep breath.
It's exactly what I expected from a Halloway business: old but well-kept, with saddles and tack lining one wall and modern shelving units displaying supplements and grooming supplies on the other.
Everything's organized without being fussy, purposeful without feeling cold.
There's a new register system at the counter, but the wood beneath it is dark with age, smoothed by decades of use.
It's a place that knows what it is—rooted in tradition but not stuck in it. I can respect that.
"Well, well," Brook says from behind the counter, as she takes in the sight of Wyatt and me together. "Look what the wind blew in."
Heat creeps up my neck at her knowing smile. It’s dumb of me to blush—it’s not like we were making out in the parking lot. She's reading how Wyatt keeps reaching out to make sure I’m not too far away. His movements are subtle, but for a younger sister they’re neon lights.
"We need some mineral blocks for the south pasture," Wyatt says. There's a calmness to him that wasn't there a half hour ago. Whatever demon was raging inside him has gentled to something manageable.
"Uh-huh." Brook's grin widens. "And you needed to bring reinforcements for that?" She winks my way.
“Nah. Kinsley’s here to make sure I stay respectable.” Wyatt gives her a crooked grin and touches the small of my back. "You wanna look around for a bit?"
"Yeah." I step away from him, feeling the loss of his touch. I wander the aisles while Wyatt gathers his order.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down to see Jessica's name. Everything okay? You hung up pretty fast.
Me: All good. Drama with Wyatt's family. Will call later.
Jessica: Is he okay?
I look over at him, watching the easy way he banters with his sister, the way his shoulders have finally relaxed. He will be.
Jessica: Good. I like him already.
The response makes me smile, because I know Jess would like him. And not just because he’s Wyatt Halloway, the bull rider and not just because he's gorgeous—though that doesn't hurt—but because of the way he fights for what matters.
"Y'all make a cute couple," Brook calls out, loud enough for half the store to hear.
"Brook," Wyatt warns, but he's fighting a smile.
“Watch the front for me? I have to grab some things from the back.” She leaves us there.
Wyatt reaches over the counter and pulls out a handful of candy, winking at me.
I'm walking backward, watching him and laughing at his gleeful snitching of candy, when I collide with something solid.
The impact sends me stumbling, off-balance, and for one crucial heartbeat the man behind me does nothing.
Doesn't reach out, doesn't steady me, doesn't react like someone who just knocked a stranger over.
Wyatt’s strong arms catch me before I can fall, pulling me against a firm chest. His hands are sure and gentle as they steady me, his touch carrying a warmth that makes me feel fluttery inside.
"Easy there, Kins," he murmurs against my ear. I like the way he shortened my name and made it his. No one's ever called me that before.
I turn in his arms to face the man who watched me stumble, and my heart stops.
Bradley Ford stands there in his pressed jeans and expensive boots, green eyes cold as January creek water. He looks older than I remember—silver threading through his dark hair, lines etched deep around his mouth—but it's the same face that haunted my childhood dreams.