Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Emily
Wyatt fucking Miller.
I find myself saying his name under my breath as I unload my belongings from the suitcase he just dropped in here.
Jesus. I don’t know what I was expecting after twenty-three years, but it certainly wasn’t that.
He isn’t a boy anymore. Not even close. He looks like he was carved right out of the Montana landscape, all rugged and guarded to the bone.
Under that hat, his dirty blond hair is long enough to be unruly, and his jawline looks like it was sharpened on a whetstone.
I knew he was always going to be tall. He had the longest legs of any kid I knew, but now his large frame is honed with the kind of muscle you only get from decades of manual labor.
I didn’t see a wedding ring. I shouldn’t have been looking, but I’m definitely curious.
My hands are a little unsteady as I open the large oak chest of drawers that stands next to the doorway.
I place my T-shirts, jeans, and shorts neatly into the top drawer and flick on the light switch as the last of the evening light begins to fade.
I remember this room. It’s certainly had an upgrade since I was last in it, but it’s the room I used to sleep in when Dad was working late on the ranch.
I can almost smell the grilled cheese Owen’s wife, Evelyn, used to make us before reading a bedtime story.
Kassie and I would huddle under these covers, chattering and giggling until I inevitably fell asleep first.
A fond smile tugs at my lips. This place is already stirring up warmth I thought I’d lost.
I walk over to the window and lean my forehead against the cool glass, looking out at the valley as the last of the light dies behind the peaks. Wyatt definitely isn’t a boy anymore. Not an inch of him.
I turn away, my body finally buckling under the weight of the thirteen-hour drive, the months of grief, and the exhausting legal battles. I need to wash the Oregon dust off my skin.
In the ensuite, I turn the brass handles of the vintage clawfoot tub and watch the steam rise in thick, inviting clouds.
As I sink into the hot water, my muscles finally begin to uncoil.
My mind, which is usually a chaotic mess of financial calculations and ‘what-if’ scenarios about my career, finally goes quiet.
But the silence of the ranch is different from the silence of my father’s house. It doesn’t feel lonely. It feels safe.
I know I want to make myself useful. I can’t sit here and be Owen’s charity case, no matter how much he insists we’re family. Tomorrow, I’ll find a way to earn my keep. I’m a structural engineer. Surely there’s a barn, or a foundation on this massive property that needs my eyes.
But as I scrub my skin, my thoughts keep drifting back across the hallway—to the way his eyes lit up on the porch as he recognized me, to the way he looked at me as if he were trying to decide if I was a threat or a guest.
I eventually climb out of the tub, dry off, and pull on a pair of clean, pink floral pajamas I’ve packed.
I slide under the crisp white covers of the guest bed, and the smell of fresh laundry and mountain air fills my nose.
For the first time in what feels like years, my nervous system begins to settle.
The wave of anxiety that has been crashing in my chest since the day I broke my boss’s jaw finally fades to a dull murmur.
I’m safe here.
I close my eyes, the image of Wyatt standing in the twilight being the last thing I see before I finally drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.