BOOK 1 IN THE COWBOYS OF COPPER CREEK SERIES
PROLOGUE
Ivy - Fourteen Years Ago
The creek sang my favorite song tonight—water over
stones, cicadas in the cottonwoods, and the distant lowing
of cattle settling for sleep. But this time, it felt a lot more
like goodbye.
August in Copper Creek had its own rhythm, slow and
sweet as molasses, the kind of heat that made the whole
world shimmer at the edges like a half-remembered dream.
The air hung thick with honeysuckle and fresh-cut hay, with
the promise of summer storms building somewhere beyond
the horizon. It was the kind of night that made you believe
in forever, in promises whispered against sweat-dampened
skin, in love that could survive anything.
Anything but running away.
"Happy birthday, Ivygirl."
Wyatt's voice rumbled against my ear where I lay
tucked against his chest in the bed of his beat-up Ford,nothing but an old quilt between the rusty truck bed and us.
Above us, the Texas sky sprawled endlessly, stars scattered
like spilled sugar across black velvet. I could pick out the
constellations he'd taught me over the years—Orion's Belt,
the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia's Throne.
We'd been coming to this spot since we were kids, first
on bikes with playing cards clothespinned to the spokes,
then on horseback on his daddy's gentlest mares, and now
in his truck that coughed blue smoke and had more rust
than paint. This place existed outside of time—our sanctu‐
ary, our whole world condensed into a patch of Texas earth
beside running water.
"Technically," I started, tracing lazy circles on his bare
chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath sun-
bronzed skin, "it won't be my birthday for another seven‐
teen minutes."
His chest rumbled with quiet laughter. "Close enough.
Besides, I want to be the first to give you your present."
"Wyatt Blackwood, if you bought me something
expensive—"
"Hush." He shifted beneath me, careful not to dislodge
me from my spot against his side as he reached for his jeans
crumpled near our feet. The movement made the truck bed
creak, a familiar sound that would forever after make my
heart ache. "It's not what you think."
I pushed myself up on one elbow, holding the quilt to
my chest with my free hand, suddenly aware of every place
where the night air kissed my bare skin. The temperature
had dropped maybe ten degrees since sunset, leaving the
perfect amount of coolness to balance the heat still thrum‐
ming between us from what we'd just shared.
An hour ago, he'd laid me back against this same quiltwith hands that shook just enough to tell me he was feeling
this moment as deeply as I was. "I want to see you," he'd
whispered, his voice rough with want. "All of you. Want to
memorize you in the moonlight."
And I'd let him, let him worship me with his hands and
mouth, let him tell me with his body what words could
never quite capture.
He’d been gentle and loving, but Wyatt had never been
anything else with me. He always treated me like I was
precious. Something to treasure. Protect. He’d made sure I
was comfortable and warm. Had taken his time exploring
every inch of me, while letting me rediscover every part of
him in return. He had watched for every little reaction,
noting what made me gasp or arch into him. And when he
figured out what made me call out his name, he kept going
until it felt like the stars in the sky were dancing across my
skin.
When he'd moved over me, his eyes had held mine, so
full of love and promise that I'd had to close my own
against the tears that threatened. He'd whispered my name
like a prayer, like a vow, and I'd broken apart in his arms,
knowing I was stealing something that wasn't mine to keep.
Now, in the aftermath, with our breathing finally steady
and our hearts finding their normal rhythms, he was trying
to give me the world, and all I could give him in return was
goodbye.
Only he wouldn’t know this was goodbye until he woke
up tomorrow morning.
"Just open it." He pulled out a small velvet box,
midnight blue in the moonlight, the kind that made my
heart stutter and race.
My hands trembled as I took it. The velvet was softbeneath my fingers, expensive-feeling in a way that made
me know he'd saved for this, probably skipped lunches and
worked extra hours mucking stalls to afford whatever was
inside.
The hinge creaked softly. Inside, nestled on white
cotton, lay a silver horseshoe pendant on a delicate chain. It
was perfect—not too big, not too small, with tiny diamonds
(real or not, I didn't care) dotting the nail holes. It caught
the moonlight, throwing tiny sparkles across the darkness
between us like captured stars.
"It's beautiful," I whispered, my throat suddenly tight.
"Turn it over."
I lifted the pendant carefully, tilting it toward the moon‐
light. On the back, engraved in letters so small I had to
squint: Forever - WB
"Wyatt..." My throat closed around his name like a fist.
"I know we're young." He took the necklace from the
box with those hands that could gentle a spooked horse or
fix a fence or make my whole body sing with just a touch.
His fingers were steady as he unclasped the delicate chain.
"I know everyone says high school love doesn't last. But
what we’ve built these last four years—" He moved behind
me, gathering my hair to one side with a tenderness that
broke my heart. The chain was cool against my throat as he
fastened it, the horseshoe settling into the hollow between
my collarbones like it had always belonged there. "Is differ‐
ent. We're different."
His lips brushed the nape of my neck where he'd
fastened the clasp, and I shivered despite the warm night.
Each word was a stone added to the weight on my
chest. My suitcase was already hidden in the bushes behind
our barn, covered with an old tarp and tucked whereDaddy wouldn't think to look, even if he noticed I was
planning something. The acceptance letter to the University
of Texas with a full scholarship was tucked in my journal,
along with the note I'd written and rewritten a dozen times,
never getting the words right because there were no right
words for this kind of leaving.
"And I'll love you," he continued, turning me to face
him, his hands framing my face like I was something
precious, something holy, "when we're old and gray and
sitting on the porch of that house I'm gonna build you,
watching our grandkids play in this same creek."
I couldn't help it—I was crying now, tears sliding hot
and fast down my cheeks. He caught them with his thumbs,
his face creasing with concern.
"Hey, hey. What's wrong? If you don't like it—"
"I love it," I managed, and it was true. It was perfect.
He was perfect. And I was about to destroy everything. "I
love you."
"Then why—"
I kissed him instead of answering, pouring everything I
couldn't say into the press of my mouth against his. I kissed
him like I was trying to brand the taste of him into my
memory—summer wheat and spearmint gum and that
underlying something that was just purely Wyatt. I kissed
him like I was drowning and he was air. I kissed him like it
was the last time, because it was.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he grinned.
It was that same crooked smile that had been making my
heart skip since seventh grade. "If that's how you say thank
you for jewelry, remind me to buy you something every
day."
"You can barely afford gas for this truck," I teased,trying to find normal ground, trying to pretend this wasn't
the last conversation we'd ever have as us.
"I'll figure it out. I'd figure anything out for you." His
hand came up to play with the pendant where it rested
against my skin. "You know that, right? There's nothing I
wouldn't do for you."
And that was the problem. He would. He'd give up
everything—his family's ranch that had been in the Black‐
wood family for four generations, his future as the heir
apparent to the cattle empire his daddy had built, his
freedom—if he knew the truth about what happened in my
house when my daddy got deep in the bottle.
I knew he’d already noticed things, even if he hadn’t
brought it up. Bruises I explained away. The way I flinched
when voices got raised. How I always had an excuse for
why he couldn't come by my house. Last week, after Daddy
had been particularly rough and left marks on my wrist that
looked exactly like fingerprints, Wyatt had finally asked
point-blank if my father had ever hit me. The fury in his
eyes when I didn't answer fast enough had scared me more
than Daddy ever had.
"Tell me about the cattle auction tomorrow," I said,
desperate for some normalcy. It was exactly why I hadn’t
told him my plans. I wanted our final moments to be just
us. Not teary goodbyes or pleas to stay or offers to follow.
Wyatt launched into plans for which heifers to sell,
which bloodlines to keep, his voice taking on that passionate
tone he got when talking about the ranch. His free hand
gestured as he spoke, painting pictures in the air of the
future he saw for Blackwood Ranch.
I made agreeable sounds, but my mind was already
walking through the next hours. Wait until he falls asleep,slip out of the truck without waking him, and bike to his
house one last time to leave the note where he'd find it.
Then home to grab my suitcase and pray Daddy was
passed out enough not to hear me leave.
The Greyhound left at 4:47 a.m. By sunrise, I'd be
halfway to a new life, watching Texas roll by through
smudged windows, turning into someone who'd never
heard of Copper Creek.
"You're not listening," Wyatt said softly, his fingers
stilling in my hair.
"I am."
"No, you're somewhere else tonight." He studied me in
the moonlight, those green eyes that could shift from soft as
spring grass to hard as jade, trying to read the secrets
written on my face. "What aren't you telling me, Ivygirl?"
Everything. Nothing. Only the things that would destroy
us both.
"I'm just tired," I said, hating how easily the lie came.