Chapter 21
Wyatt
The flight to Arizona hadn’t been awful because of John, whom Wyatt kept looking over at as though making sure he was still there.
When Wyatt had asked him last night, it hadn’t been planned, but more of a wish.
So, when John said yes, surprised relief had filled him, knowing he could be a little more confident on his journey home because John would be by his side.
When they arrived at the ranch, John let out a low whistle. “It’s beautiful. I don’t know what I was picturing, but I don’t think this was it.”
Wyatt grabbed John’s hand from across the rental car and kissed his knuckles, unable to speak. It had been years since he’d been back. So much anger and grief came up when he thought about the ranch, his father, and Mateo.
But now, those feelings had finally settled. He pressed his lips into the heartlines of John’s hand, love filtering through every fiber of his being for this man.
“Thank you again for this,” he said softly.
John’s eyes collided with his. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.”
“Do we need to reestablish a safe word?” John teased lightly, breaking the tension in Wyatt’s chest.
“God, I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“It won’t,” John’s voice was even and firm. “I won’t let it.”
“My Aunts can be pretty intense. They make CIA interrogators look bad.”
“I think I can handle them,” he murmured, slipping his hand out of his and cradling his chin, stroking the line of his jaw with his thumb. John could handle anything, Wyatt knew that. He knew that this inner-city emergency department doctor was battle-hardened and tested by years of practice.
But could he handle Wyatt’s heart, which felt like a thousand galloping horses stomping on his chest? Because John was here—with him—for him, and he loved him so much it fucking hurt. And he knew he’d never love anyone like he loved John.
“Ready?” John asked gently. “If not, I can drive us to a nearby bar… have a couple drinks… maybe get a hotel…”
“Fuck, that sounds good,” Wyatt grated out, staring into the dark blue spark of John’s heated gaze. “Kiss me.”
John did, it was firm and yet gentle. It was exactly what he needed.
John pulled back, searching his gaze, “Safe word is eructation.”
Laughter spilled from Wyatt’s chest, “Really?”
John grinned, slipping on his sexy aviator sunglasses. “Wonderful. That was the exact result I was looking for, Dr. Lawson. So, yes, we will need to implement this into our vocabulary for the time being.”
Wyatt tried not to melt like hot butter in his seat at the sound of Dr. Donnelly speaking.
“None of that, Dr. Lawson,” John instructed firmly, both eyebrows arched as he popped open the car door. “Can’t have you looking at me like that the next few hours and not expect me to drag you into an empty bedroom—or horse stall?”
“Only if it’s clean,” Wyatt drawled longingly and climbed out of the driver's side, inhaling the scent of dust and nature, a calm settling over his body as his boots hit the ground.
Wyatt gazed over the large house, which over the years had transformed from a working ranch into a private estate for tourists to rent.
The porch had been re-stained and wrapped around the house, with plenty of cushion seating, fire pits, and overhead fans.
The house was painted a cream white color and trimmed in dark brown, with potted plants adding the flare of color that lined the pathway and porch.
John’s eyes moved from the house to Wyatt’s beneath his sunglasses, and he bit back a sigh just looking at his handsome doctor.
He wore a maroon-red button-up that was slightly wrinkled from all the traveling, which he rolled up past his elbows, exposing his thick forearms and wrists.
An all-black watch dangled from his wrist, and he wore dark blue jeans and worn hiking boots.
His brown, graying hair was ruffled, and his beard was trimmed.
He looked relaxed and yet made sure to keep glancing Wyatt’s way, checking on him without saying anything, which he appreciated.
He stared at the watch on John’s wrist, his gaze traveling to his firm hand and fingers.
He wondered what his hand would look like with a matching black band around his ring finger.
Wyatt’s chest swooped, and his heart slammed into his chest.
Oh fuck.
The door to the estate swung open, and Aunt Nancy and Aunt Carol appeared. Wyatt’s thoughts were completely muddled by the time the older women made it down the porch steps, their flittering gazes jumping from Wyatt to John, clearly excited.
“Oh my God, Wyatt, honey,” Aunt Nancy wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight against her tall, slender frame. “I thought you were never…”
“Hush,” Aunt Carol snipped at her. “We’re so glad you’re here, hon.”
Aunt Carol hugged him next, her fuller build was sturdier and her hug firmer, as she patted his back.
They were married partners, the only gay couple Wyatt had known growing up, until he moved to LA.
Aunt Nancy, his father’s sister, had the Lawson family's sandy-brown blond hair that naturally waved and pale blue eyes.
She wore red cowboy boots and a blue short-sleeved dress.
Her skin was well tanned and her hair naturally graying through the blond streaks.
He smiled warmly at her, remembering briefly that the last time he had seen her was a few Christmases ago.
Aunt Carol, her wife, had short hair and a round face.
She wore jeans, a plain brown T-shirt, and a rodeo buckle.
Her boots were black and her smile was contagious.
She had been the first one to figure out Wyatt was gay, and he would always appreciate how she talked to him about it when he was a confused teenager.
“This is John,” Wyatt motioned them to him. “My—uh…”
Boyfriend?
“Partner,” John supplied cooly.
Wyatt’s heart kicked again, and he wondered what it would be like to hear him say: husband.
What the fuck, Wyatt—knock it off!
Way too soon.
But was it? Because his heart, which he listened to and trusted, wanted to say these things to him now, and he didn’t want to ignore it. But he also didn’t have time to process it now. Not here.
Aunt Carol shot Wyatt a surprised look before clasping John’s hand. Aunt Nancy followed, eyes wide.
“Good to finally meet you both,” John said politely, and Nancy stiffened.
“Dr. John Donnelly?” Nancy asked.
John’s eyebrows raised, and he nodded. “I believe we spoke on the phone.”
She swung her gaze to Wyatt, lips parting in surprise. John had mentioned that one of his aunts had called the hospital trying to get a hold of him and he had intercepted the call, which meant he had probably used his title when answering… which meant she had just figured out where they had met.
“Nope,” Carol said flatly. “Not goin’ there, they just got here.” She glanced at the rental car. “You boys need help unloadin’?”
“We didn’t bring much,” Wyatt admitted.
Carol pursed her lips, “Short stay?”
“Yeah.”
Disappointment reflected on her face, but she hid it well behind a cool nod. “Well, c’mon in then.”
The front door opened, decorated with fresh flowers and medical supplies.
Wyatt stopped in his tracks.
John’s reassuring hand was on his lower back as he released the breath in his chest and walked through.
The house's natural wooden beamed ceiling gave it a wide, open feeling, along with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ranch. His father had done a lot of the woodworking in the home himself after his mother had left them. He supposed it was his father’s way of fixating on something—giving himself a project rather than pursuing the woman who had left him.
Wyatt’s mother died several years later in her sleep from a brain aneurysm.
He was barely ten when he went to her funeral and met his half-brothers and sisters—the family she had built outside of him.
He was confused and angry that she had chosen herself, leaving him behind with his cold, unapologetic father.
“He’s in his room,” Nancy informed him. “The hospice nurse will be back soon…”
“What’s his diagnosis?” John asked, slipping his sunglasses off and over the open collar of his shirt. His eyes slid to Wyatt’s, held, and then returned to Nancy’s.
Wyatt didn’t want to walk down the hallway.
He didn’t want to see his father.
He wanted to go to the barn, see the horses—be anywhere else.
“Cancer,” Nancy said tightly. “Prostate cancer. He stopped treatment two months ago. He was getting too sick with the chemo, too uncomfortable. He made the decision himself to just—you know…”
They did.
His jaw clenched. His father was a stubborn old bastard, and when he had made up his mind about something, he refused to bend. Another family trait, he supposed.
He released another breath and headed down the hall.
“Wyatt,” John called softly. “Do you want me to…?”
He shook his head and followed his feet to his father’s bedroom. If he didn’t go now, he would never go.
His father’s door was open, and the heart and oxygen monitor he was hooked up to were silent.
Thankfully, the hospice nurse had muted the beeping.
His throat bunched, and he finally looked at his father.
His once handsomely stoic face was gray and ashen, the skin loose over the planes of his cheeks.
The oxygen tube wrapped around his ears and into his nostrils, sustaining what was left of his lungs and body.
His hair was patchy and thin, yet Wyatt could still see the streaks of sunlight mixed with the chestnut.
The strong, imposing man his father had once been was gone. He hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten, and regret clawed at his insides for waiting this damned long to have the courage to come back. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes but he blinked, refusing to show emotion.
“Water,” his father’s voice was the barest of whispers.