Chapter 7
Ivy
I woke to the hum of Copper Creek—the windmill creaking in its eternal rotation, cattle lowing their morning complaints, the smell of fresh hay drifting through my open window.
It was nothing like Dallas, where I'd wake to car alarms and construction noise, the air filtered and recycled until it tasted like nothing at all.
Here, every breath told a story. Here, the morning had texture and weight and purpose.
Here, I couldn't stop thinking about that cabin.
I'd barely slept, my mind replaying the moment over and over.
The way the light had caught the windows.
The careful craftsmanship in every log, every joint.
The swing hanging from the oak tree, waiting for children who would never play there.
Wyatt had built our dreams out of wood and stone, and then had to live with the empty monument to what we'd planned.
The thought made my chest ache. Imagining him alone in those rooms we'd designed together, drinking coffee on the porch we'd talked about, sleeping in a bed meant for two.
Or worse. What if he lived there with someone? A nice, sweet girl who hadn’t run out on him. Who made his dreams a reality. Someone who fit in with this family better than I ever had. Someone who loved him better than I ever did, even if it had been with every piece of my heart.
The thought forced me out of bed, into the shower, into clothes that were still too nice for ranch work despite being my most casual.
I needed to get to town soon and buy some proper work clothes.
But not today. Today was too raw, too fragile.
Today I needed to focus on work and not on the way my name had sounded in Wyatt's mouth yesterday—like a prayer and a curse all at once.
The main house was already bustling when I arrived for breakfast. I'd tried to skip it, but Louisa had made it clear that breakfast was mandatory.
"We're feeding you properly while you're here," she'd said in that tone that brooked no argument.
"No more of this city nonsense of coffee and anxiety for breakfast."
I could hear them all inside as I climbed the porch steps. Owen's rumbling voice reading something aloud from the paper. The sizzle of bacon in Louisa's cast-iron skillet. Maggie's fingers clicking across her laptop keyboard. The scrape of a chair—probably Clay arriving late as usual.
I paused at the screen door, gathering courage. Then took a breath and walked in.
The conversation stopped like someone had hit a switch.
Owen looked up from his paper, his weathered face neutral but kind. Louisa turned from the stove with a spatula in hand and a smile that was trying too hard. Maggie's fingers froze over her keyboard, her dark eyes assessing. Clay paused mid-reach for the coffee pot, his usual grin faltering.
And Wyatt.
He sat at the far end of the table, coffee mug gripped like a weapon, shoulders tense beneath his work shirt.
He didn't look up, but I saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his knuckles went white around the ceramic.
He was drinking his coffee like armor, like if he just focused on that dark liquid, he could pretend I wasn't there.
"Morning, sweetheart," Louisa said, her warmth covering the awkward silence like a blanket. "Sit. Pancakes are almost ready."
I took the only empty chair, which happened to be directly across from Wyatt. Because of course it was. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
"Sleep well?" Owen asked, folding his paper with deliberate care.
"Fine, thank you." The lie came easily. I'd had years of practice pretending everything was fine.
"Good, good." He cleared his throat. "Supposed to be another hot one today. You'll want to get your barn work done early."
"Already planned on it."
Louisa set a plate in front of me—pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, enough food for three people. "You're too thin," she said, as if that explained everything.
"Mama thinks everyone's too thin," Clay said, finding his voice again. "Last week she told Buster he needed to put on weight, and that man's three hundred pounds if he's an ounce."
"Buster's all muscle," Louisa defended, returning to the stove. "That's different."
The normalcy of their bickering eased something in my chest. This was what I'd missed—not just the big moments but the small ones. The gentle teasing, the casual abundance of food and affection, the way they moved around each other with practiced ease.
"Heard you got the grand tour yesterday," Maggie said, her tone carefully neutral. "See everything you needed?"
My eyes flicked to Wyatt involuntarily. He was staring into his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe.
"Yes," I managed. "The operation is even more impressive than the reports suggested."
"Guess we're startin' early then," Wyatt muttered, standing abruptly. His chair scraped against the floor with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. "Got work to do."
He left without looking at me, taking his coffee and his anger and his hurt with him. The screen door banged shut behind him with a finality that made everyone wince.
"He's not a morning person," Clay said into the awkward silence. "Never has been."
We all knew that was a lie. Wyatt had always been the first one up, the first one ready to face the day. He just wasn't ready to face me.
"Don't mind him," Owen said gruffly. "He'll come around."
I doubted that, but I nodded and focused on my breakfast. Louisa's pancakes were perfect—light and fluffy with that slight tang that meant she'd used buttermilk. They tasted like Sunday mornings and belonging and everything I'd run from.
After breakfast, I threw myself into work with the kind of intensity that had gotten me to the top of my field. If I couldn't fix the past, I could at least perfect the future of their breeding program.
The lab was even better than I remembered from the tour—polished stainless steel, spotless counters, the low hum of machines running like a heartbeat. Hunter’s upgrades were seamless, efficient, and—annoyingly—brilliant. My portable setup from Dallas suddenly felt amateur by comparison.
So instead of building my own workspace, I did what any professional worth her salt would do—I adapted.
I spent the morning integrating my software with their system, updating protocols, and running side-by-side comparisons of their data with my own.
The Blackwoods might have built the hardware, but I had the analytics that could make it sing.
Once everything synced, I lost myself in the rhythm of the work. Processing samples. Running markers. Logging results. Numbers and patterns made sense in a way people rarely did. DNA didn’t lie, didn’t hold grudges, didn’t remember your worst mistakes.
By noon, I had a preliminary report ready. Several of their cows showed exceptional genetic potential for the embryo transfer program. Their bull, Maximillian, had markers that were nothing short of extraordinary—clean, dominant traits that could elevate Copper Creek’s lines to the national level.
I was measuring hormone doses for the afternoon trials when the hands started filtering in for lunch.
They’d grown more relaxed around me over the past few days, offering easy greetings instead of wary glances.
Out here, respect wasn’t earned with titles or degrees—it was earned by showing up, getting your hands dirty, and proving you could keep pace with the Blackwoods.
"How's it looking, Ms. Ivy?" Jimmy asked, peering at my computer screen with interest.
"Better than looking," I said, turning the screen so he could see the genetic map I'd created. "You've got some exceptional animals here. With the right pairings, we could produce calves that would put Blackwood on the international map."
"We're already on the map," Buck said, but he was leaning in to look too.
"Texas map, sure. I'm talking about buyers from Japan, Australia, Scotland. Premium genetics at premium prices."
I spent the next hour walking them through the basics of what I was seeing in the data, translating the science into practical terms they could understand and appreciate. They asked good questions and made observations based on years of experience that no amount of education could replace.
"So this fancy computer stuff really works?" one of the younger hands asked skeptically.
"It's not magic," I said. "It's just information. You already know which cows produce the best calves, which bulls throw the strongest offspring. This just tells us why, at a genetic level, and helps us make even better matches."
I was deep in explanation about hormone synchronization when I felt him. That particular electricity in the air had always announced Wyatt's presence. He stood in the doorway, backlit by afternoon sun, watching me teach his men about the future of his ranch.
Our eyes met across the space, and for a moment, everything else faded.
The hands kept asking questions, but all I could hear was my heartbeat, all I could see was the unreadable expression on his face.
But there was that fire in his eyes. The one that told me he was pissed.
Wyatt was never one for having someone take over his projects, so I knew having a consultant here rubbed him ten different kinds of wrong.
Twenty ways, considering it was me who was doing the consulting.
Then he moved, walking past our little group toward the supply closet. As he passed, his shoulder knocked into mine—deliberately, I was certain. The contact sent sparks down my arm, made my breath catch before I could stop it.
“Watch your step, city girl,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Wouldn’t want you to trip over something you can’t handle.”
Fire flashed through me—anger or something else, I wasn’t sure. Both burned hot enough to sting.
“I grew up on this dirt just like you, Wyatt,” I fired back, my voice just as quiet but sharp as glass. “I know exactly where to step.”
He paused, his back to me, shoulders tightening beneath his shirt. For a second, the air between us sizzled—thick, charged, alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t just old hurt or stubborn pride. It was something wilder. Dangerous.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmured over his shoulder.
My hands curled at my sides. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The rest of the barn remained silent. Waiting with bated breath for what would come next, just like I was.
Wyatt turned, just enough so I could see his face when he said, “Just know you tend to bolt when things get hard.”
The words stung like a slap. I opened my mouth to respond, but a hand cleared his throat, and the moment broke.
Jimmy awkwardly asked another question about genetic markers, and Wyatt kept walking. I forced my focus back to the task at hand, pretending my hands weren’t shaking, pretending my skin didn’t still hum from where he’d touched me.
Fine. He could smolder all he wanted from across the barn; I had work to do.
If he wanted to play cold, I could play colder.
I’d built an entire career out of composure.
I’d faced boardrooms full of men just like him—only none of them had ever known how to kiss me breathless or make my pulse forget how to behave.
Fuck him.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of focus sharpened by fury.
I measured hormone doses for the synchronization protocol, labeled samples, drafted breeding recommendations for Owen to review.
Professional. Efficient. Absolutely, one hundred percent, not thinking about the way Wyatt’s shoulder had felt against mine or the gravel in his voice when he’d challenged me.
By the time the sun started its descent, painting the pastures gold and red, I packed up my equipment with careful precision.
Tomorrow, we’d begin the embryo transfer protocol—the culmination of months of research and the next phase of my reputation.
Tomorrow, I’d prove that I was here for the science, not the man who kept trying to make me forget that.
But as I walked back to my cabin, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing toward the north pasture, where that cabin sat among the trees. I couldn’t stop wondering if Wyatt was there, alone with the ghosts of what we used to be, or if he had someone waiting in the home that was supposed to be ours.
The windmill creaked its evening song, a steady heartbeat against the fading light. Somewhere, a mockingbird ran through its stolen melodies. The ranch settled into its nighttime rhythm, and I stood on my porch, caught between the urge to run and the stubborn need to stay.
“I know exactly where to step,” I’d told him.
That was a lie. Once upon a time, his hand had shown me the way. Now, every step felt like it might trigger a landmine of memory. Every breath carried the scent of what we’d lost.
Still, I was here. Still, I would do the work. Still, I’d face whatever came next.
Even if it broke me all over again.