BOOK 1 IN THE COWBOYS OF COPPER CREEK SERIES #2
"Senior year was long. All those finals, all that worry about
college—"
"Which you don't need to worry about anymore," he
interrupted. "Community college is gonna be perfect for us.
We can both take classes and still help with the ranches.
Dad's already talked to Jim Richardson about you helping
with their breeding program part-time. Between that and
what I make at Blackwood, we'll have enough saved to get
married by next summer."
Married. Next summer. A little house on Blackwood
land. Babies with his green eyes and my stubbornness.
Sunday dinners with his family, Louisa teaching me her
secret for perfect cornbread, Owen showing our sons how
to ride. A life that would be beautiful and suffocating andimpossible because you can't build happiness on a founda‐
tion of violence, can't bring babies into a world where their
grandfather is a mean drunk who uses his fists when words
fail him.
"That sounds perfect," I whispered, another lie to add
to the pile that would bury us. But it wasn’t a lie. It did
sound perfect. But in this life, perfection could only be a
dream. And between the two of us, Wyatt was the dreamer,
not me.
"It will be." He pulled me back down against him, and I
went willingly, selfishly stealing these last minutes, memo‐
rizing the way we fit together like we'd grown this way.
"We've got the whole summer to figure out the details. And
after that, we've got the rest of our lives."
I closed my eyes against the burn of tears, letting him
think I was drifting off to sleep. His hand stroked my back
in slow, soothing circles, the calluses on his palm catching
gently on my skin. He started humming something low and
sweet—an old country song his mama used to sing when
they were little. The vibration rumbled through his chest
into mine, and I had to bite my lip to keep from sobbing.
"Love you, Ivygirl," he murmured, already half-asleep,
the words slurred and soft as butter.
"Love you too," I whispered back, meaning it with every
broken piece of my heart.
His breathing eventually evened out, deep and trusting.
I counted to five hundred, then five hundred again, making
sure he was truly asleep. Carefully, I extracted myself from
his arms. He mumbled something that might have been my
name, his hand reaching for me even in sleep, fingers
grasping at empty air before settling on the quilt.
I pulled on my clothes with shaking hands—jean shortsthat were frayed at the hems, the tank top he'd peeled off
me with such reverence just hours ago. My boots were
under the truck, and I had to lie flat on my belly to reach
them, tasting dust and oil and the memory of all the times
we'd parked here.
The horseshoe necklace bounced as I moved. I touched
it once, memorizing its weight, then unclasped it with
fingers that felt numb. It pooled in my palm like liquid
starlight, still warm from my skin.
I stood there for a moment, drinking in the sight of
Wyatt—sprawled in the truck bed like he owned the world,
one arm flung out where I'd been, dark hair mussed from
my fingers, that face I'd loved since before I knew what love
meant. The moonlight painted him in silver and shadow,
beautiful and young and trusting that tomorrow would
come with me still in it.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to his sleeping form. "I'm so
sorry."
Then I grabbed my bike from behind the cottonwood
where I'd hidden it and pedaled away without looking back,
because one glance at him sleeping in that truck bed,
believing that I'd be there when he woke, would have
undone me completely.
The two-mile ride to the Blackwood ranch had never
felt longer. The dirt road stretched ahead, familiar yet
foreign in the darkness.
The Blackwood ranch house rose up like something out
of a dream—two stories of white limestone and cedar
beams, wraparound porches on both levels, windows
glowing soft and gold even at this hour because Louisa
always left a light on "just in case someone needs to find
their way home."I knew every creaky board on that porch, having spent
enough dinners at their table to navigate it blind. Fourth
step had a loose nail that squeaked. Seventh board from the
door would groan if you stepped on the left side.
I circled around back to Wyatt's window—first floor, a
blessing since I'd never been good at climbing. His parents
had offered him the bigger room upstairs since he was the
eldest, but he'd kept this one because it looked out toward
the creek, toward our spot.
The window was unlocked because this was Copper
Creek, and nobody locked anything because trust was
woven into the fabric of this place like thread in a quilt. I
slipped inside, careful not to make a sound while my eyes
adjusted to the deeper darkness of his room.
It smelled like him—leather from his work gloves tossed
on the dresser, soap from his shower, and that cologne his
mother bought him that he only wore for church and
school dances. His bed was unmade, sheets tangled from
where he'd rolled out in a hurry when I'd called earlier,
breathless, asking him to meet me at the creek for my
birthday.
Boots were scattered by the closet—work boots, church
boots, the fancy ones he'd bought for prom. His guitar
leaned in the corner, the one he was teaching himself to
play, mostly succeeding at three chords and a lot of enthusi‐
asm. Pictures were scattered on his bulletin board—us at
last year's county fair, his family at Christmas, the whole
rodeo team after they'd won state.
In every picture with me, I was looking at the camera.
He was always looking at me.
I reached into my pocket for the note I’d folded somany times that the creases had worn soft. I'd kept it
simple because anything more would have destroyed my
resolve:
I'm sorry. This isn't about you or us. It's about me needing to
leave. Please don't look for me. Please don't wait for me. You deserve
better than someone who runs. -Ivy
I placed the note on his pillow, then set the necklace on
top of it, the silver horseshoe gleaming in the faint moon‐
light from the window. My hands shook so badly that it took
three tries to get them positioned just right, where he'd see
them first thing when he came home.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I spun, heart hammering against my ribs like a spooked
horse against a stall door. Liam stood in the doorway,
silhouetted by the hall light. Wyatt’s cousin never missed
anything. I was an idiot to think I could sneak in and back
out without him noticing.
My mouth bobbed, struggling to come up with an
explanation. "I—"
He took in the note on Wyatt's pillow, the horseshoe
necklace glinting beside it, the way I was poised to bolt like
a deer that had scented a hunter. "You're leaving." It wasn't
a question. "You're running."
"I have to."
“Bullshit."
"You don't understand—"
"Then make me understand." He stepped into the room,
closing the door behind him with a soft click. The hallway light
disappeared, leaving us in darkness, broken only by moonlight
through the window. "Because from where I'm standing,
you're about to destroy my cousin. And I'd like to know why.""I can't—" My voice broke into sharp pieces. "It has to
be done. He deserves better than this."
"Better than what? Better than the girl he's loved since
he was fourteen? Better than the person he's planning to
marry after next year's rodeo season?"
Each word was a knife between my ribs. I pressed my
hand to my mouth, holding in the sob that wanted to
escape. This was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
Even if it felt like ripping my heart out and laying it next to
that necklace.
“Why, Ivy?" Liam continued, relentless.
"Because if he knows the truth, he'll do something that
can't be undone," I whispered. "And I can't let him destroy
his life for me."
"What truth?"
I shook my head, unable to voice it even now.
Liam's eyes narrowed, and in that moment, he looked
older than eighteen, looked like the man he had to become
far too early. "This about your father?”
I didn't answer, but my silence was confirmation
enough.
His eyes softened. "Ivy—"
“Please, Liam." I was crying now, ugly sobs I couldn't
contain, the kind that came from your belly and left you
hollow. "Please don't tell him. Not tonight. Give me time to
get away. If he comes after me, if he tries to stop me—" I
shook my head. "Something terrible will happen. I know it
will. Wyatt's got too much good in him to throw it away on
someone like me."
"You're not—"
"You don't know what happens in my house." The
words came out bitter, poisoned. "You don't know what Icome from. But you know Wyatt. If he finds out, if he tries
to protect me, he'll end up in prison or worse. And I won't
let that happen."
He sighed and stepped aside, clearing my path to the
window. "If you're going to leave, stay gone. And I don’t
mean that to hurt your feelings, I’m protecting his. Because
if you come back and leave again, it really will destroy
him."
I nodded, unable to speak, and climbed back out the
window. Behind me, I heard Liam whisper, "I hope that
scholarship is worth it."
The bike ride home was a blur of tears and terror. Part
of me hoped my father would be asleep. Part of me hoped
he'd be awake and angry enough to give me a reason to
stay gone forever, to make this leaving feel like escape
instead of abandonment.
He was waiting on the porch, bottle of Jim Beam in
hand, eyes mean with drink. He'd positioned himself in the
old rocking chair that had been his daddy's, the one that
creaked with every movement. Cigarette smoke curled
around his head like a diseased halo.
"Where you been, girl?"
"Out."
"Out where?" His words slurred but sharp, every one
soaked in whiskey and hate. "Whorin’ with that Blackwood
boy again?"
The screen door slammed against the wall as I tried to
slip past him, but he moved faster than a drunk bastard
should. His hand shot out and clamped on my arm, fingers
digging right into old bruises.