Chapter 4
Sadie
He’s taller up close. Broader. More… solid. Not because he looks like a threat. Because he looks like someone who could block one.
He looks like shelter.
His eyes track to mine, and something in my chest recognizes him before my brain catches up.
A staff member gestures between us. "Sadie, this is Wyatt.”
His jaw tightens, like my name just did something to him.
“Hi,” I manage.
He nods, slow and deliberate.
“I’m Wyatt Callahan.”
The name lands with weight, like a door clicking shut. In or out? I haven’t decided.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t crowd.
Just offers the truth like a handhold.
The coordinator hands us slim folders. “This confirms your match. It lays out the arrangement, emergency contacts, and follow-up options. You're encouraged to add your own expectations or opt out at any point.”
I glance down at the paperwork—legal language softened by neutral phrasing.
Either party may end the arrangement at any time. No questions asked. No reason necessary.
A temporary cohabitation. A probationary clause.
Fair. Practical. Smart.
But when Wyatt takes his copy, he flips straight to that line, pulls a pen from his jacket, and crosses it out with one deliberate stroke.
“No need,” he says, calm and final.
The coordinator blinks. “That part is optional, of course. Some participants prefer to—”
“Not backing out,” Wyatt says simply. His gaze flicks to me, steady and open. “We’ll figure it out.”
It’s not about possession or control. It’s an anchor. A promise I didn’t ask for and didn’t know I wanted—until now.
We each sign.
The pen trembles in my hand.
When we finish, she slides the folders back into her tablet bag, then glances between us with a smile that feels like a quiet blessing.
“Well,” she says softly. “That’s it. You’re good to go.”
She turns her attention to me. “You’ve got backup, Sadie. Always. Call if you need anything.”
“I will,” I whisper.
Wyatt offers his hand. “She’ll have space. And safety. On her terms.”
The coordinator studies him for a few seconds. Something in her expression shifts—like she’s not just hearing the words, she’s weighing the man.
Then she nods and shakes his outstretched hand. “Yes. I believe she will.”
With a final smile, the coordinator turns and leaves.
“Truck’s outside. Can I carry anything for you?” Wyatt asks.
I hold up my small backpack—my whole life, pathetic as that is. “Just this.”
He gestures for me to walk beside him. Not ahead or behind but equal.
I hesitate, then fall into step.
The night air bites as we step outside. Wind slices across the gravel lot. I shiver immediately, but Wyatt’s already shrugging off his coat, holding it out. “Here.”
I startle. “No, I—”
“It's warm.”
“I'll be fine.”
“You're already shaking.”
I hesitate, then slip my arms in. The coat swallows me—sheepskin and warmth and the scent of cedar and something distinctly him.
I close my eyes for half a second, just breathing it in.
When I open them, he's watching me with an expression I can't read.
Wyatt’s truck waits under a flickering lamp. It’s big, dark, and functional like him.
He opens the passenger door and steps aside.
Choice. He keeps giving me a choice.
Behind us, two trucks rumble to life: Jessie with the giant bearded man, Jane with the cowboy-hatted one. Both women look… lit from within. Hopeful. Steadier. Like maybe they’ve found what they came for.
We didn’t talk backstage, but we shared a waiting room. We borrowed courage from each other.
Now they’re stepping into their beginnings.
Warmth flickers beneath my ribs.
As the trucks pull past us on the gravel, the bearded man leans out the driver’s side window and mutters, “Good luck, Saint.” His gaze moves to me. “You’re in safe hands, Sadie.”
The cowboy-hatted one grins and calls, “And don’t be weird!”
Wyatt’s mouth almost twitches.
Almost.
He waits beside the open truck door. Still not crowding. Still steady.
I climb in cautiously, like stepping into someone else's life is a risk I'm still weighing. The seat is warm—he thought ahead.
He shuts the door, circles around, and gets in.
“Seatbelt.”
It’s not gruff or commanding. Just a reminder.
I click it into place with trembling hands. “I—um. Thank you. For what you did. I wasn't sure anyone would…”
He cranks the engine. “Anyone decent would’ve.”
I glance at him. “Not everyone in that room was decent.”
“I noticed. That’s why I bid.”
I look down at my hands, twisting the coat sleeves.
“You set the terms,” he says. “I agreed by bidding. I won’t cross them.”
I blink. Most men take rules as challenges. “You’re… okay with no physical expectations?”
“If you want a handshake, you’ll have to ask first,” he says, tone so flat it takes me a second to realize it’s a joke.
Relief loosens something in my chest. And—God help me—interest.
“You’re in the military,” I say. It’s not a guess. It’s in his posture, his awareness.
He nods. “Ex Navy SEAL. Discharged.”
The last word hits heavy, as though it wasn’t his choice, and still burns.
“I appreciate that you’re not… pushing anything.”
His eyes track over me—deliberate and thorough, reading me the way I read the room. “Figured you didn't need rescuing. Just... someone standing guard.”
That’s… exactly what I need. It feels dangerously easy to believe he could provide it.
But what does he need? Why did he bid on me?
“You hungry?” he asks suddenly. “I’m sure you’ve had a day.”
Understatement of the century. Sadie’s Day of Poor Life Choices deserves its own Netflix miniseries.
Before I can answer, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen, frowns, and then looks at me.
“Message from Tom at the ranch.”
“Who’s Tom? What ranch?”
“Tom Sutton. Havenridge Ranch. I live in one of the cabins there. Part of the veterans’ program.”
My breath stutters.
Havenridge.
Of all the places I could’ve landed—
Of all the counties in Montana—
Shay sent me straight to her home turf.
I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to bring danger to her doorstep. But apparently, Shay had other plans.
“So… you know Shay?” I ask carefully.
Wyatt’s eyes soften a little. “Henry’s wife. She said she needed a favor, so—”
“I’m that favor,” I finish.
Why does that feel like a punch?
Because for one terrifying, fragile second on that stage, you let yourself believe he chose you.
He speaks again, jolting me from the spiral.
“… a section of fence went down. One of the herding dogs got hurt.”
My instincts snap forward. “What kind of injury?”
“Laceration to the leg, sounds like. Vet’s stuck on the north road in the storm. Can’t get here until morning.”
“I can help.”
His eyes sharpen. “You have animal experience?”
A cold draft slides down my spine. Too much truth in one answer. “I’ve worked with animals,” I say cautiously. “Enough to help.”
If there’s one thing I still trust myself with, it’s a creature in pain.
He nods. Accepting without prying.
Wyatt pulls out, checking both directions twice. Snow flurries catch in the headlights, swirling like the world is exhaling.
For a few minutes, we ride in silence. It’s not awkward. More like… calibrating.
I study him from the corner of my eye. One hand on the wheel, fingers steady. Relaxed posture, but alert. Competent.
My bones react before my brain can scold them.
“You did well in there,” he says finally.
His voice shouldn’t feel like touch. But it does.
I let out a breath. “I stood still and didn’t cry. That’s not exactly impressive.”
He glances at me briefly. “You held your ground in a vulnerable situation. That’s impressive. Most people don’t know how to stand in the light without flinching.”
Heat crawls up my throat. “I didn’t feel steady.”
“You didn’t have to,” he says quietly. “You just had to stay standing. You did.”
Why does that feel like praise I’ve been starving for?
I look out the window, hiding the flush.
Snow swallows the world beyond the beams of the headlights, turning trees into shifting ghosts.
My fingers twitch in my lap, mapping the rhythm of the road, counting turns, landmarks, anything that might help me retrace our path if I had to.
I don’t realize I’m doing it until he speaks again.
“You’re watching the road for tails. You clocked every exit in the building. You kept your back to the wall onstage. And when you heard a dog was hurt, you didn’t hesitate.”
He glances at me like he’s piecing together a pattern.
“That tells me two things,” he continues. “One: you’re carrying something heavy. Two: you’re not someone who walks away even when you’re scared.”
My breath hitches. It feels like he’s reading my blueprint.
“Do you analyze all your… companions this much?” I try to joke.
“Only the ones I need to protect,” he says simply.
A quiet beat thickens between us.
Protect. Not own or command.
I glance at him. “What happens now?”
His hands grip the wheel, knuckles white for a second.
Then he turns to me. “We take it one step at a time. You set the pace.”
My shoulders drop—relief mixed with something fragile I'm afraid to name.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Something warm flickers under my ribs—
Not safety.
Not yet.
But possibility.