Chapter 17
Ivy
The black SUV sat in front of the main house like an oil spill on canvas—sleek, expensive, and completely wrong for this place.
I'd thrown on the most professional outfit I could find in three minutes flat: black slacks that needed pressing, a silk blouse that had seen better days, and boots I'd hastily wiped clean.
My hair was pulled back in a ponytail that did nothing to hide the fact that I'd been sleeping under stars and working cattle for two days.
Doug stepped out first, his charcoal suit so crisp it could cut paper, his smile the one he used for difficult clients—all teeth, no warmth. He surveyed the ranch like a king reviewing his holdings, and I wanted to tell him he had no claim here, no right to that proprietary gleam in his eye.
"Ivy!" he called, too loud, too cheerful for a Sunday morning. "This place is exactly as quaint as you described."
Quaint. Like the Blackwood ranch was a tourist attraction instead of a working operation that had survived four generations.
Harold Williams and Patricia Pope emerged next, both board members who held my future in their manicured hands.
Harold squinted in the morning sun like it personally offended him.
Patricia was already taking photos with her phone, probably for some corporate newsletter about "investing in rural America. "
Then Mark stepped out.
He'd dressed down for the occasion—khakis and a powder blue polo that brought out his eyes, boat shoes that would be ruined the first time he stepped in anything organic. His smile was the one I'd once thought charming, the one that had fooled me into thinking comfortable was the same as content.
"There she is," he said, coming toward me with arms open like we were still together, like I hadn't ended things definitively before leaving Dallas. "God, I've missed you."
I stepped back before he could embrace me, extending my hand instead. "Mark. Welcome to Blackwood Ranch.”
His smile flickered but held. "Doug thought I should see the operation firsthand, given our international expansion plans." He took my hand but held it too long, his thumb stroking my palm in a way that made my skin crawl. "You look...rustic."
"It's a ranch," I said, pulling my hand free. "Rustic is part of the package."
Behind me, I heard the screen door open. Wyatt's presence filled the porch before he even spoke, that particular electricity that announced him like thunder before lightning.
"You must be the visitors from Dallas," he said, his voice polite but edged with something dangerous.
He'd cleaned up too—fresh jeans, a button-down shirt that made his eyes look impossibly green, his good hat.
But there was dust on his boots and his knuckles were still wrapped, and he looked exactly what he was—a man who belonged here in ways these city people never would.
"Wyatt Blackwood," he said, coming down the steps with the controlled grace of a predator. "Ranch manager."
“Doug Johnson," my boss said, shaking hands while obviously trying not to wince at Wyatt's grip. "This is quite an operation you have here."
"It's been in the family for generations," Wyatt said, his eyes finding mine for just a moment. "We're particular about who we trust with it."
The warning was subtle but clear. Mark either missed it or chose to ignore it.
"Mark Winters," he said, stepping forward with his hand extended and that salesman's smile. "Ivy's boyfriend. We're practically partners in everything—life, work, you name it."
The lie hung in the morning air like a bad smell. I saw Louisa appear in the doorway, Owen behind her, both taking in the scene with sharp eyes.
"Ex-boyfriend," I corrected firmly. "Very ex."
Mark laughed like I'd made a joke. "She's still upset about a little disagreement we had. You know how women are."
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the chickens seemed to stop clucking. Wyatt's jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grind. Clay appeared from the barn, drawn by some invisible drama radar. Hunter emerged from his shop, wrench still in hand, like he might need a weapon.
"Why don't we start the tour?" I said quickly, desperate to defuse the tension. "The breeding barn first, where the program implementation is most visible."
We walked as a group toward the barn, but Mark stayed glued to my side, his hand finding the small of my back every few steps despite my attempts to create distance. Each touch felt like a brand, and I could feel Wyatt's eyes burning into us from behind.
"The genetic improvements are remarkable," Doug was saying as we entered the barn, reviewing the charts I'd posted. "Conception rates up thirty percent, projected calf weights increased by twelve percent. The board will be very impressed."
"It's a team effort," I said. "The ranch hands have been incredible in implementing the new protocols."
"Don't be modest," Mark interjected, his arm sliding around my waist in a move that made me want to scrub my skin with lye. "You always downplay your brilliance. It's one of the things I love about you."
I stepped away, but he followed, his hand now on my arm, proprietary and possessive. "The credit belongs to everyone here—"
"This is why you need to take the senior partnership," Doug interrupted, studying the data sheets. "You're wasted out here in the middle of nowhere. Dallas is where you belong. The international expansion Mark's been developing needs someone with your expertise."
"We make such a good team," Mark added, his fingers squeezing my arm. "In the office and out of it. Don't we, sweetheart?"
The endearment made my stomach turn. Behind us, I heard something crack—Wyatt's knuckles, probably, from clenching his fists.
"Don't call me that," I said quietly, but Mark either didn't hear or didn't care.
The tour continued, but it felt more like a hostage situation. Mark's hands were constantly on me—my arm, my back, my shoulder—marking territory that wasn't his to mark. Every touch was a performance for Wyatt, who followed our group with storm clouds gathering in his eyes.
Doug praised everything he saw but kept circling back to Dallas, to the promotion, to the life I'd built there. "The signing bonus alone would set you up for life," he said. "Corner office, company car, six figures plus bonuses. You'd be crazy to pass it up."
"Some things matter more than money," Louisa said from behind us, having joined the tour with the quiet authority of a queen reviewing her realm.
"Do they?" Patricia Pope spoke for the first time, her voice carrying the dismissive tone of someone who'd never worried about money. "In my experience, that's what people say when they can't afford better."
The insult landed like a slap. I saw Owen's face darken, saw Clay take a step forward before Hunter's hand on his arm stopped him.
"You're right," Louisa said smoothly. "We can't afford to compromise our values for a paycheck. That kind of poverty would bankrupt us in ways that matter."
By the time we reached the house for lunch, the tension was thick enough to choke on.
Louisa had prepared a spread—pot roast, fresh vegetables from her garden, homemade bread, pie that smelled like heaven.
The kind of meal that should bring people together, but instead felt like a battlefield being set.
We sat at the long dining table, Mark maneuvering to sit beside me despite my attempts to avoid him. Wyatt sat directly across, his gaze never leaving Mark's hands every time they touched me.
"So," Harold Williams said, cutting into his pot roast with surgical precision, "when can we expect you back in Dallas, Ivy? The Murphy project needs your expertise."
"The contract here runs through—" I started.
"Contracts can be modified," Doug interrupted. "I'm sure the Blackwoods understand that your talents are needed elsewhere."
"Her talents are needed here," Wyatt said, his voice deceptively calm. "The program is only half-implemented."
"Any competent tech could finish it," Mark said dismissively. "Ivy's too valuable to waste on”—he gestured vaguely at the room, the ranch, everything I'd come to love—“this."
"Careful," Clay said softly. "That's our home you're insulting."
Mark laughed, that practiced sound that had once fooled me into thinking he had genuine joy in him. "I'm not insulting anything. I'm just saying Ivy belongs in a boardroom, not a barn. She's meant for bigger things than playing cowgirl."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" I asked. "Playing?"
"Come on, sweetheart," he said, his hand covering mine on the table. "This whole thing has been fun, I'm sure. Revisiting your roots, playing with cows, reliving your teenage romance—"
The room went absolutely still. Wyatt's chair creaked as he leaned forward.
"But it's time to come home," Mark continued, oblivious to the danger. "We have a life in Dallas. Plans. That corner condo you loved, remember? The one with the view of downtown? I put an offer in. A surprise for when you come back."
"Mark—"
"I know we had that little fight before you left, but couples work through things. That's what love is." He squeezed my hand harder when I tried to pull away. "Tell them, sweetheart. Tell them about us."
I stood so abruptly that my chair smacked against the floor. Every eye in the room turned to me.
"There is no 'us,'" I said, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. "There hasn't been for months.
We broke up before I left Dallas. You don't get to come here and pretend otherwise.
You don't get to use my name to build yours, my work to advance your career, my life as a prop for your ambitions. "
Mark's smile finally died, replaced by something harder, meaner. "Careful, Ivy. You're embarrassing yourself."
"The only embarrassing thing here is you thinking you have any claim on me."