Chapter 12
Twelve
DON’T YOU DARE THINK THAT.
KINSLEY
Turns out, Brook makes a killer lasagna.
Wyatt and I sit at the small kitchen table, empty plates pushed aside, and salad bowls forgotten.
Wyatt's stretched back in his chair, one arm draped over the back, long legs extended under the table until his boot brushes against my bare ankle.
The casual contact sends electricity shooting up my leg, but he acts like he doesn't notice.
Maybe he doesn't. Maybe I'm the only one losing my mind over every accidental touch.
"Tell me about your family," he says, swirling the ice in his sweet tea— Hailey’s special blend. She stopped in this afternoon and made a pitcher while I filled her in on the bag of ice on my skull. "Your mom's got quite the reputation in barrel racing circles."
Pride blooms in my chest. "Callie Rose is extraordinary.
She built her training operation from nothing.
Best barrel horse trainer in three states, maybe four.
" I trace the rim of my glass with one finger, remembering countless hours watching her work with horses that seemed impossible to reach.
"She taught me that if you want something in this world, you work for it. No shortcuts, no handouts, no excuses."
"What about your father?"
“That’s a lot to unpack.” I consider my options in what I can or should tell him, while Wyatt waits patiently.
After Brook filled me in on the whole feuding families thing I realized what a liability my father is to me here.
For some reason, I'd rather Wyatt hear from me that my father works for Gritstone Ranch, who, according to Brook, is behind the fire rezoning. There’s no way to soften this or spin it.
I have to just get it out. "His name is Bradley Ford. "
Wyatt goes completely still. Not just quiet—still, like every muscle in his body has turned to stone. Something cold and dangerous flickers across his face.
"You know him." I'm not asking. Of course he knows him.
"Yeah, I know Ford." The way he says it—just the last name, flat and hard—tells me everything I need to know about my father's reputation.
"I've seen him exactly three times in my life that I remember." The words tumble out unrehearsed. I need him to know I’m not my father’s daughter.
"Once when I was seven and Mom had business in town where he was delivering cattle.
Once at a rodeo when I was fourteen—he didn't know I was there.
And once when I was twenty-one and decided I was old enough to introduce myself. "
I've never told anyone this—not Jessica, not my college roommates, certainly not any of the men I've dated. I don’t know why I keep talking.
"That last time, I walked right up to him and said, Hi, I'm Kinsley. I think you're my father." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "He looked at me for maybe ten seconds, said 'You've got your mother's eyes,' and walked away."
Wyatt tips his head. "What did you want him to say?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected a tirade or a list of Ford’s sins—not curiosity or interest. "I don't know," I admit. "Maybe just... acknowledgment that I existed. That losing a daughter cost him something." I shrug, trying to make it sound casual when it feels like swallowing rocks.
"His loss," Wyatt says quietly, but there's steel beneath the words.
"Is it?" The question escapes before I can stop it, carrying all the doubt I've been harboring for years. "Because I keep thinking maybe there's a reason he never tried to be part of my life." I drop my eyes. “Like maybe I'm not worth the effort.”
"Don't." The single word comes out sharp enough to snap my gaze to his eyes.
"Don't you dare think that." The fierce protectiveness in his expression catches me completely off guard.
This man barely knows me; has no reason to care about the wounds I carry from a father who never wanted to be one.
But he's looking at me like my pain personally offends him, like he'd track down Bradley Ford just to tell him exactly what kind of damage his absence has done.
"Half of me wants to get it over with. Show up at Gritstone Ranch and have whatever conversation we’re going to have,” I say.
"And the other half?" Wyatt’s gaze searches my face.
"Wants to hide in this cottage until my job's done and get out of town without ever seeing him again." I trace patterns in the condensation on my glass. "Being an only child of a single mother makes you good at being alone. But it also makes you wonder what you're missing."
"You're not missing anything with Ford," Wyatt says.
"I wouldn’t know." This clawing need to torture myself is awful, but I can't stop it. “Tell me about him.”
I’m totally blaming this whole evening on the head injury.
Wyatt weighs his words. "Ford's got a reputation." He pauses, grunts and then forges on. "He’s the type of man who'd sell his own shadow if the price was right."
The words cut deep. I half-hoped that there was some noble reason he stayed away—protecting me from something, or thinking I was better off without him. Maybe that wasn't the case at all and if so—what do I do with the half of myself that's all him?
"I used to make up stories about him when I was little," I say quietly. "That he was a secret agent and couldn't contact us for our safety. Or that he was searching for buried treasure and would come back rich enough to take care of us forever." I shake my head at my own foolishness. "Kid stuff."
"Kids need stories," Wyatt says, his voice gentler now. "Sometimes they're better than the truth."
"What about you?" I ask, deflecting before I reveal anything else. "What's it like growing up Halloway?"
Wyatt's expression shifts, and I watch something complicated cross his features.
"That's a conversation that may require something stronger than sweet tea.
" He takes a drink. "Growing up Halloway means that bull riding's a rebellion.
" He swirls the ice in his glass. "For me, it's the only way I know how to breathe when the weight of this place gets too heavy. "
"What kind of weight?" I ask quietly.
“One person inherits it all. The work, the responsibility, the cattle, the fight, everything. There’s only one name on the deed—and it’ll be mine."
I lay my hand on his forearm. "That doesn't seem fair to your sisters."
"Fair's got nothing to do with it." He looks down at me, and suddenly I'm aware of how close we are, how much I’ve allowed myself to move toward him and how much closer I want to be.
"Divided land loses its strength, its influence.
Break it up between siblings, and within two generations it's sold off piece by piece and means nothing. "
"Like it's a living thing," I say.
"It is," he agrees, and something shifts in his expression as he realizes I get it. "You feel it, don't you? The weight of it, the pull?"
I nod, because I do feel it. From the moment I drove into this valley, there's been something here that speaks to a part of me I didn't know existed.
"So, you ride bulls to escape," I say.
"I ride bulls to remember who I am when I'm not carrying everyone else's expectations." His voice drops. "I'm only home to let my shoulder heal up. Doc's orders. I didn't know about the land troubles Mom brought you in for, or Kit's drama until I got here."
Whether he stays or goes has nothing to do with me, yet I'm still irritated that he seems to brush off this responsibility so easily.
"But now that you know?" I ask.
"I'll do what I can while I'm here," he says, and I can practically hear Mom's voice in my head: They always leave, baby girl. "Help Dad with the cattle and Grandpa with the colts and maybe talk some sense into Kit. But come September, I'll be back on the road chasing Vegas."
"Of course you will," I say, and I can hear the bite in my voice.
Wyatt catches it immediately, his brow furrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." I lean back and drop my hand, needing space to think clearly. "It's just very... typical."
"Typical of what?"
"Men,” I bite out. "You show up, you charm your way into people's lives, you make them care about you, and then you run.”
We both know I have no right to say this, at least to him, but yet in that moment, it’s my truth.
Something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "I don't run from anything."
The air between us crackles.
"Who are you, Wyatt?" I challenge. "Really? Because I see two sides to one man and I can’t help thinking you don’t even know yourself.”
Something raw and hurt flashes across his features. "I'm someone who knows better than to make promises I can't keep," he says quietly. "Someone who's learned that wanting something and being able to have it are two very different things."
His gaze drops to my mouth, and for a heartbeat I think he might kiss me—despite the anger, despite everything.
"Your mom's smart," he says, and there's something almost gentle in his voice now. "Teaching you not to trust cowboys."
I hate that. Because he's right—Mom did teach me that. She showed me in a thousand small ways that a man is free to leave while the woman is left to pick up the pieces. I know she left Ford, but the effect was the same. She had me to take care of and he got off scott-free.
"Yeah," I whisper. "She is."
The silence stretches between us like a taut wire, vibrating with everything we've said and everything we haven't. Wyatt's sitting there with that careful distance he just put between us.
I hate it.
"So, what is this?" I motion to the dinner plates and then around the cottage. The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and reckless. "Were you just going to start something you have no intention of finishing?"
His jaw tightens. "That's not what this is."