Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Two weeks had gone by in a blink. With all the working I was doin' on the ranch and all the fucking I was doin' in Brody's bed, I'd never slept better.
One more afternoon of work, and then it was a night out at The BP to celebrate Slim's birthday followed by a couple blissful days of working on Brody's house and cozying up with Cat.
I was toppin' off water troughs along the near paddock when a white dually rounded the last bend in the drive onto Wild Acre Ranch, kicking up a lazy trail of dust that hung in the hot afternoon air.
It pulled to a stop in front of the main house.
I cut the water, wiped my hands on my jeans, and squinted against the sun.
A door opened, and the driver stepped out.
My vision tunneled.
I knew the shape of him before I saw his face. The narrow shoulders. The way he moved, unhurried and a little bowlegged from decades on the circuit, like his body had memorized the shape of a saddle and never quite let go of it.
Denny Jennings.
My daddy.
The air left my lungs like someone had reached through my ribs and squeezed.
He hadn't changed a bit in sixteen years.
Same wiry frame, same sun-scorched skin, same beat-to-shit Resistol he'd worn since before I was born.
He looked older, sure—harder around the eyes, thinner in the face.
But it was him. Unmistakably, undeniably him, standing in front of the house that used to be my grandfather's like he had every right to be there.
He didn't.
He had no business being on this ranch.
Why is he on this ranch?
No way in hell him being here was a coincidence, but not once in sixteen years had he tracked me down.
Why now?
My brow scrunched as the last few seconds rocked my fucking world—and not in a good way.
Daddy reached back into the truck for something—probably a pack of cigarettes—and turned toward the house.
Then the passenger door opened and the world tilted beneath my feet.
If there was any oxygen left in the big Montana sky, not a lick of it was makin' its way into my lungs.
Wyatt Cole unfolded himself from the cab, easy smile already in place. Broad shoulders. Dark hair curling out from under his hat. He moved the way he always had—loose and confident, like the whole world was a bar he'd just strolled into and already decided he owned.
Thirty-seven years old and still riding bulls—though Meagher County wasn't exactly where the big names rode.
He was smiling like he hadn't broken a single thing that mattered, still handsome in the way fifteen-year-old Calvin had drooled over, but thirty-four-year-old Calvin knew was just pretty packaging for something utterly foul underneath.
My hands went still at my sides.
Something long practiced clicked into place—a series of locks sliding home, one after the next, shutting down systems I'd spent months learning to leave open.
The softness Brody had coaxed out of me, the laughter, the warmth I'd let myself feel at Colleen's table, all of it sealed behind a door so heavy I could feel the weight of it settle into my bones.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Just stood there at the edge of the paddock, thirty yards away, and watched my past walk toward my present.
The screen door of the main house opened.
Mr. Calloway stepped onto the porch. I'd only seen the man a handful of times in the months I'd been on this ranch.
He stayed inside, mostly, coming out only to bark orders or make everyone within earshot miserable.
He was tall, broader than Rhett but softer in the middle, with the look of a man who'd once been impressive and hadn't made peace with the erosion.
He came down the steps and shook my daddy's hand.
"Denny. Nice to meet ya." His voice carried across the yard, clear as a bell. "Glad you could make it out."
"Appreciate the call," Daddy said, pumping his hand. "Been a long time comin'. Didn't know my girl had gone and ended up here of all places."
Appreciate the call.
Mr. Calloway had called him. Mr. Calloway—who I'd never spoken to, never crossed, never given a single reason to think twice about me—had picked up a phone, tracked down my daddy, and handed him my location like I was a stray cow that had wandered onto someone else's property.
Why?
I stood perfectly still. The sun was hot on the back of my neck. A horsefly droned past my ear. In the paddock behind me, one of the horses snorted and shifted its weight. Normal sounds. Normal day. The world carrying on like it didn't know what was happening to my insides.
They were curdling, for the record.
My daddy hadn't seen me yet. He was still talking to Mr. Calloway, hat in hand now, gesturing toward the truck where Wyatt leaned against the hood with his arms crossed, scanning the property with the casual inventory of a man casing a place.
Then Wyatt's eyes found me.
His smile didn't change. That was the thing about Wyatt Cole—his smile never changed. It looked the same when he was charming a crowd as it did when he was cornering a fifteen-year-old girl in a trailer. A smile designed to make you doubt your own instincts.
He didn't wave. Didn't call out. Just held my gaze across the distance with that steady, patient look that said I see you. I found you.
My stomach turned to ice.
The barn door opened behind me. Rhett walked out coiling a lead rope. He stopped when he clocked the scene—the unfamiliar truck, his father on the porch steps, two strangers in the yard.
His eyes tracked left. Found me.
I wasn't looking at him, but I felt it.
"Calvin." Low. Even. Not a question.
I shook my head.
He was quiet for a beat. Then he moved—not in front of me, beside me. Close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed mine.
How he just knew, I hadn't the faintest.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him slip his phone from his back pocket. His thumb moved across the screen a few times. He held it at his side, screen down.
Brody's name was there.
My daddy turned our way.
The grin that spread across his face was wide and familiar and so completely devoid of shame it was almost a talent.
"Well, there she is!" He spread his arms. Spread his goddamn arms like he expected me to run into them. Like I was nine years old and he'd just pulled up to the house after a week away. "Kiddo! Look at you. All grown up out here playin' cowgirl."
I didn't move. Barely breathed.
He dropped his arms. Tilted his head.
"Aw, c'mon now. Don't be like that. Your old man comes all the way out to Montana to see you and you can't even say hello?"
"Who's this?" Rhett's voice cut clean across the yard. He wasn't looking at Denny.
He was looking at Wyatt.
Still leaning against the truck. Still smiling.
Rhett had identified the threat before anyone told him which one it was.
Denny answered like it was a cocktail party. "Name's Denny Jennings. I'm Calvin's daddy." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "That there's Wyatt Cole. Rides the circuit. We're in town for the—"
"The rodeo." Rhett's jaw was tight. "Right."
Denny clapped his hands together once, like the introductions had gone real well. "Your daddy here was kind enough to let me know my girl was workin' on the ranch. Haven't seen her in—Lord, how long's it been, kiddo?"
He said it like the timeline was fuzzy. Like maybe it was three years or five. Like he'd just been real busy.
Sixteen years wasn't absence to Denny Jennings.
It was an oversight.
"Long time," I said. Two words. The minimum.
Wyatt pushed off from where he'd posted up beside Denny. Hands easy at his sides. Boots crunching gravel at a pace that said he had all day. He didn't stop next to Denny.
He walked past him.
Straight to me.
Close. Too close. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—the same cheap shit he'd worn when I was fifteen, still clinging to his skin like it had stained him permanent. Close enough that Rhett went rigid beside me, the lead rope creaking in his fist.
Wyatt looked down at me. That smile that hadn't changed—warm and easy and practiced—the one he'd given me the first time he'd told me I was pretty. The same one he'd worn while he held my wrists above my head and told me to relax.
"Calvin." He said my name slow. Like he was unwrapping something. "Look at you."
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
The touch was light. Casual. The kind of thing a boyfriend might do. To anyone watching, it was nothing.
But his fingertips dragged. Traced the curve of my ear, grazed my jaw, lingered a half second too long on the side of my neck before his hand dropped back to his side. The whole time, his eyes held mine—patient, proprietary, daring me to flinch.
I didn't.
My skin screamed where he'd touched it. Every nerve ending firing in the wrong direction, sending signals my body hadn't had to process in sixteen years. Fight, flight, freeze—all three slamming into each other behind a face that gave him absolutely nothing.
Not a flinch.
Not a blink.
Not one goddamn thing.
"You look good," he said. Soft. Almost tender. Like we were picking up right where we left off, and the sixteen years in between were just a pause he'd been generous enough to allow.
Rhett took one step forward.
Just one.
But his hand closed around Wyatt's forearm, grip firm and deliberate
"Step. Back." Rhett's voice was low and a little menacing, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.
Wyatt's eyes cut to the hand on his arm.
Then up to Rhett's face. He measured him—height, weight, the set of his shoulders, the kind of still that came before a storm.
Something flickered behind that easy smile.
Not fear. Calculation. The quick arithmetic of a man deciding whether this particular fight was worth having in this particular moment.
It wasn't. Not right now, at least.
Wyatt pulled his arm free and took one step back—slow, unhurried, like it was his choice. The smile never wavered.
"Didn't mean anything by it." He said it to Rhett, but his eyes slid back to me. "Just missed her is all."