Chapter 8
Liam
The next afternoon, the shadows were long across the pasture when I called LAPD. The sun was sinking low enough that the tops of the live oaks were catching fire with orange light.
Detective Harrell answered like a man who already knew he didn’t have good news.“Walker,” he said. “I’ll give it to you straight. Nothing new. We’ve got… nothing.”
The words hit harder in the quiet end-of-day air.
“Nothing,” I repeated.
“We canvassed again. Pulled more camera angles. Re-interviewed the assistant. Ran prints. Reviewed everything the security company sent.” He exhaled, tired. “The trail’s cold. Ice cold.”
Cold. That familiar, sharp punch to the ribs.
“Copy,” I said, even though every muscle in my jaw locked. “If anything changes—”
“You’ll be my first call.”
The line clicked dead.
I stared out over the pastures, watching the sunlight drain away like someone wringing the sky dry. Poet was a golden streak near the barn. Stephy’s braid flashed when she turned her head, brushing the mare’s coat.
She was safe. Right here. Where nothing could get to her.
I ran through the security checklist automatically:
Perimeter locked.
Cameras checked.
Motion sensors armed.
Dogs roving between the houses. Two Blackwood families within shouting distance. Fifteen acres of private land between Stephy and the outside world.
She was protected.
But the nagging worry wouldn’t let go. That old scar inside me—the one that whispered I’d be too late again—throbbed in a slow, relentless beat.
Not her. Not this time.
Dusk rolled in. Crickets started up. The temperature dropped enough that the air held a bite.
It had been three days since Stephy's first morning outside, and Wyatt's truck rumbled up the drive just as the sun was setting. I watched from my porch as he helped Ivy out, both of them carrying covered dishes that smelled good enough to make my stomach growl from thirty feet away.
Stephy was in the barn with Poet, had been most of the afternoon. It had become her routine—morning coffee on the porch, breakfast with me, then hours with her horse. The mare had become her therapy, her anchor, her way back to herself.
"That for us?" I called out.
"Ivy insisted," Wyatt said, but his eyes were soft as he watched his girl navigate the gravel in her boots. "Said you two could probably use a real meal."
"I've been feeding her Maggie's cooking, thank you very much."
"Then she definitely needs real food," Ivy said with a grin, but her expression shifted to interest when she spotted Stephy emerging from the barn.
Stephy had Poet's lead rope in one hand, her other hand resting on the mare's neck as they walked.
She'd taken to wearing my old work shirts and Maggie's hand-me-down jeans, her hair usually in a messy braid falling over her shoulder.
She looked nothing like the glossy country star from the magazines. She looked better. Real.
"Hey," she said, approaching cautiously. She was still skittish around new people, even family she'd technically met while semi-conscious.
"We brought dinner," Ivy said, her voice straightforward and warm. "Wyatt made brisket. Fair warning—he made enough for twelve people. These Blackwood men don't understand portion control."
"I cook normal amounts," Wyatt protested. "Y'all just eat like birds."
"Right." Ivy rolled her eyes, then looked at Stephy with the kind of direct assessment that came from someone used to evaluating cattle. Not unkind, just practical. "You look better than when I saw you last week."
Stephy's lips quirked—not quite a smile, but close. "I feel better. And it smells amazing."
"Let me put Poet up," I said, reaching for the lead rope, but Stephy shook her head.
"I've got her. I know the routine now." She looked at Ivy and Wyatt. "Five minutes?"
"Take your time," Ivy said. "We'll set up inside."
I watched Stephy lead Poet back to the pasture, the horse following her like a devoted dog. She'd taken to the routine of evening feeding like she'd been doing it all her life—checking water, measuring grain, making sure the gate was latched twice.
"She looks better," Wyatt observed, following my gaze.
"She's getting there."
"Ivy wants to ask her about her music. She's been playing Stevie Wilson albums all week."
"Let her. Steph needs to remember there were good parts of that life, too."
By the time Stephy came in, Ivy had efficiently set the table with plates I forgot I owned. The brisket sat in the center, surrounded by cornbread, coleslaw, and what looked like pecan pie.
"This is too much," Stephy said softly, standing in the doorway like she wasn't sure she was allowed in.
"This is normal for Wyatt," Ivy said, pulling out her own chair. "You should see what happens when he actually tries. Sit. Eat. He'll be offended if we don't finish at least half."
Stephy sat carefully, still moving like her ribs hurt, though the bruises had faded to almost nothing. The physical healing was happening faster than the emotional, but that was expected.
"So," Ivy said, cutting straight to the point in that way she had, "Liam says you write your own music. All of it?"
"Most of it." Stephy seemed surprised by the direct question. "Or I used to. The label's been bringing in other writers lately."
"That must be frustrating," I said, giving Wyatt a pointed look.
"Kinda like someone telling you how to breed your own cattle,” Ivy added, smirking at her boyfriend. Teasing him about the fit he threw over Ivy bossing him around never got old.
Wyatt didn’t miss a beat. "Darlin’, you didn’t tell me. You lectured me. There were charts involved." He tipped his hat, smirking. "Hell of a way to flirt, by the way."
Stephy actually laughed at that. "That's... actually exactly what it's like."
"I run breeding programs for three counties," Ivy explained. "Used to have old ranchers telling me what to do every damn day until the results started speaking for themselves. Now they shut up and listen. Maybe you need to get back to doing things your way."
"Maybe," Stephy said thoughtfully.
The conversation shifted to easier things. Wyatt talked about the ranch. Ivy discussed bloodlines with the same passion most people talked about sports. She and Stephy clicked fast—different stories, same backbone. One of those quiet, instant understandings women just have with one another.
"Louisa wants you at Sunday dinner," Ivy said as they prepared to leave. "Fair warning—it's chaos. Everyone talks at once, there's usually at least one argument, and Clay will definitely steal food off your plate."
"Sounds nice," Stephy said wistfully.
"It's loud," Ivy said bluntly. "But it's real. None of that fake politeness bullshit. If they like you, you'll know. If they don't, you'll know that too."
"They'll like her," I said.
Ivy studied Stephy for a moment. "Yeah, they will. You don't put on airs. That counts for a lot around here."
After they left, Stephy helped me clean up, moving around my kitchen like she belonged there.
"I like her," she said, drying dishes. "She's very..."
"Direct?"
"Real. No agenda, no hidden meanings. Just says what she thinks." She paused. "I haven't had much of that lately."
"That's Ivy. Spent too long dealing with other people's expectations. Now she just doesn't bother."
"I want to be like that. When I figure out who I am again.”
“You will, sweetheart,” I assured her.
Her throat moved with a rough swallow, and she set the dishrag down. “How can you be so sure?” she whispered, not meeting my eyes.
I crossed the kitchen and stopped just close enough that I could smell her shampoo. It was flowery and sweet—intoxicating. And before I could stop it, my hand moved to brush a lock of her hair behind her ear.
She looked up at me slowly, blue eyes soft as my fingers slid along her jaw to stop at her chin. She let me tilt her head back. Just enough that the warm glow from the porch light outside highlighted the soft angle of her cheek, the curve of her mouth.
God…that mouth.
My gaze snapped back to hers. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about her mouth…or the way she ruined me with it five years ago.
I cleared my throat. “I just am.” My voice came out too low, too hushed.
She licked her lips. “You have too much faith in me.”
“And you don’t have enough.”
Her eyes lowered, and I felt that heavy stare of hers like a caress over every inch of my body, leaving liquid fire in her wake. “Lee…”
The distance between us became smaller and smaller, like two magnets being pulled together. My heart pounded in my chest, my head went light as our noses brushed—
Her phone rang.
Stephy backed away and pulled it out of her pocket. “It’s my mom,” she said, breathless.
“Answer it.” She looked up at me, a silent question. “Go on. I know she wants to talk to you.”
“Okay… Goodnight, Lee.”
“Night, Stephy,” I murmured as she walked towards the door and answered her phone.
Sunday came faster than expected. I found Stephy on her porch that afternoon, staring at the main house in the distance like it might bite.
"We don't have to go," I said. "They'd understand."
"No, I want to. I'm just..." She gestured at herself. "I don't have anything nice to wear. Everything I have is Sophia's pajamas or work clothes."
"It's Sunday dinner, not a state dinner. Come as you are."
"But—"
"Steph." I caught her hands. "Half the time, Clay shows up still covered in arena dirt. Hunter usually has engine grease under his nails. Once, Maggie came straight from mucking stalls. Nobody cares."
She took a breath, squared her shoulders. "Okay."
The walk to the main house took ten minutes, Stephy's hand gripping mine tighter with each step. But the moment we walked in, all her worry evaporated.
The house was pure chaos.