Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Wyatt
I rub the back of my neck, which like clockwork, is aching like a motherfucker.
Dayton and I spent the last three hours wrestling with a downed fence line in the north pasture after a couple of ornery bulls decided the grass was greener on the other side and tore straight through the cedar posts.
It’s the last thing I need at the end of a sixteen-hour day.
“See, that’s the difference between her and me—she’s just playin’ hard to get,” Dayton drawls beside me.
I haven’t listened to a word he’s said in the last twenty minutes. He’s been mumbling on about some bartender he tried to get a leg over last night. My patience is wearing thinner by the second.
“Dayton, shut the fuck up.”
He looks like he’s about to fire back, but both our heads snap toward the horizon. A dust cloud is hurtling down the private track toward the main house. It slows suddenly, and as the grit settles, I make out what can only be described as a neon blue toy car.
“The hell is that?” Dayton exclaims, squinting.
It’s a bright turquoise, sporty-looking speck of a Mini Cooper, complete with a ridiculous spoiler and racing stripes on the hood.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone this side of the state line drive such a thing.
It looks like it belongs in a cereal box, not a ranch.
It’s kicking up a tail of dust that has no business being on my road.
“Some city idiot must’ve got lost,” I mutter, though my gut doesn’t buy it. Tourists don’t drive that fast toward a private porch.
Dayton snorts, shaking his head. “Surprised that thing didn’t bottom out on the washboards.”
I keep my eyes on the car, my attention piques when my father steps out onto the porch. He doesn’t look annoyed, which is his default setting when strangers turn up unannounced. He’s smiling.
My gaze snaps back to the car as a petite blonde figure steps out. Her hair catches the fading light as she moves, glowing like spun silk. She pushes her sunglasses back onto her head, climbs the steps, and walks straight into my father’s arms.
What the fuck? Since when does Owen Miller hug anyone?
My suspicion spikes. My theories of lost tourists or land developers go out the window as I watch him usher her toward the wicker chairs in the corner of the porch. Does he know her? She looks a little young for him.
“That’s real weird,” Dayton mutters, voicing exactly what I’m thinking.
“Yeah. Real fucking weird.” I flip the reins and push Maverick into a canter. I need a closer look.
Dayton must catch the dark vibe rolling off me because he yells, “Good luck with that, Boss,” and veers off toward the stables.
The closer I get, the clearer her features become.
A flicker of recognition sparks in the back of my brain, but it’s something I can’t quite catch.
I take my time tying up the horse at the side gate, using the angle to study her.
She looks small against the massive timber of the house, wrapped in a wool blanket like she’s fragile.
My boots hit the wooden porch steps with a heavy thud, making my arrival clear. I’m covered in the day’s grime, dust on my jeans, sweat under my hat, and I feel like a total intruder on their quiet moment.
Dad glances up, a smirk playing on his lips. “Ah, Wyatt. I was wondering when you’d come sulking back.”
I don’t smile back. I keep my eyes on the woman.
Up close, she’s even more striking than she was from a distance.
She has icy blonde hair in thick waves and a pair of rosy lips pressed into a nervous line.
She’s wearing loose linen pants and a black halter top that does things to her curves I have no business noticing on a Tuesday evening.
I shift my gaze to her face, but that’s worse.
Those oceanic blue eyes are almost too much to hold.
I know exactly who this is, and my heart almost stops. I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like I’ve swallowed a handful of North Pasture dust.
“Wyatt, you remember Emily Callahan, don’t you? Andrew’s daughter.”
The name hits me like a kick from a spooked colt.
Emily.
The last time I saw her, she was a scrawny seven-year-old with bruised knees and pigtails who used to follow me around like a shadow. I blink, trying to reconcile that memory with the woman in front of me. She isn’t a child anymore. Hell, there’s no other word for it—she’s stunning.
I feel a visceral heat crawl up the back of my neck that has nothing to do with the Montana summer.
I’m aware I’ve been staring a second too long at the way that top frames her breasts.
I haven’t been around a woman who looks like that in longer than I care to admit.
My thoughts haven’t exactly been clear these past few years, not since Charlotte.
And Alex takes up every spare second I’m not working the ranch.
“Emily,” I manage to say, my throat dry. “It’s been a long time.”
“Hi, Wyatt,” she says softly, rising to her feet.
The last thing I expect is the hug she pulls me into.
Her voice has a melodic, polished tone to it now, and I’m almost intoxicated by the summer-like scent radiating off her skin.
We Millers aren’t big on hugging, so I awkwardly squeeze her shoulder, noticing how massive my hand looks against her frame.
“Emily called after Andrew’s funeral,” Dad says quietly.
“Oh. Right.” I nod, the reality of it sinking in. Dad mentioned Andrew’s cancer diagnosis. He only lasted six months. Dad even went out for the funeral a few days ago. I somehow forgot that Emily would be an adult now.
“She was about to tell me about her situation,” Dad adds, looking at me tentatively.
“Oh?” I ask, leaning against the porch railing. I’m intrigued. Why is she here, twenty-three years later, with what looks like her whole life packed into a toy car?
Dad looks at me tentatively. “I mean, if you’re okay with Wyatt being here?”
“Oh, yeah, of course.” She shrugs.
“It’s not exactly the most interesting tale,” she says, taking a deep breath as if the next words are going to cost her. “But I figured I should probably explain why I’ve turned up out of the blue.”
“Nonsense,” my old man cuts in. “Emily, I invited you here.”
“I know, and honestly, I owe you a big one.” She exhales, her shoulders dropping. “Okay. Where should I start? Well, I’ve been working for a major structural engineering company for the past four years.”
I feel a jolt of surprise. Structural engineering? Jesus, that sounds big-time. I’d half-expected her to say she was a model or something. I feel a sudden pang of shame for assuming she was just another pretty face from the city.
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” Dad chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “You were constantly in your old man’s toolbox when you were a little girl. Kassie used to try to get you to play tea parties, but you were always under the hood with one of the wranglers.”
He smiles fondly at the memory. So do I. That’s exactly what I remember of little Emily Callahan, always with a grease stain on her cheek or a scraped knee. That is, when we weren’t chasing her with frogs in our pockets.
“Yeah, it’s in the genes.” She lights up with the most luminous smile I’ve ever seen.
It makes me scowl. Damn it, I have no business looking at her the way I am right now.
“I got a master’s degree, then a job offer at a firm in Portland,” she continues, her voice steadying. “I was leading projects, managing a team, earning a decent penny, and living in the city.” Her face falls abruptly. “Until I got fired.”
“And how’d that happen?” Dad asks, his tone turning defensive of her.
I find myself leaning forward, unsure what to expect. She doesn’t look the type for any wrongdoing, but the city changes people. Her expression shifts, and I can tell that whatever she’s about to say is burning a hole of shame inside her.
“I—uh. I got fired because my boss made a pass at me.” Her eyes immediately drop to the floor.
“He what?” I growl the words out of my mouth before I can stop them.
She nods, her lips pursed. I can see in her eyes that it’s still raw. “Yeah. We were working late one night on a project, and he started getting a little…handsy. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I—I kinda broke his jaw.”
Fuck.
My father and I both stare at her, stunned. I look at her small, delicate hands wrapped around the bourbon glass and then back to her face. I didn’t see that coming. It’s total badassery, pure and simple.
“Hell…” is the only word my father manages.
“Yeah. I filed a complaint with HR the next day, but he’d beaten me to it. Went to the cops and pressed charges against me for assault. I had no proof he touched me first.”
I feel the blood start to swell in my veins. My fists clench at my sides. How the fuck could someone do that to her? Dad’s face is furrowed deep; I can tell this has touched a nerve in him, too.
“Dad used all his savings to get a legal team. I gave up my apartment. I lost everything.” She still won’t look at us.
“He eventually agreed to drop the charges, but I got blacklisted from every firm on this side of the country for being a troublemaker. Not long after, Dad finally admitted he’d been sick for some time. He didn’t have long left.”
She chokes out the last part, as her eyes turn glassy. She swirls the bourbon in her hand, trying to muster the strength to keep talking. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s really been through the fucking wringer.
“So, the night after Dad’s funeral, I sat in his house for hours. No food in the fridge, no options left. I just cried. If I weren’t desperate, Owen, I honestly wouldn’t have bothered you.”
My dad reaches out, setting a firm hand on her forearm. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to be desperate to be welcomed here. This place was once your home, and it will be for the rest of your life. I promised your father.”
A single tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away with a quick, jerky motion. Her cheeks turn pink, like she’s embarrassed to be breaking down.
God, I feel terrible. Would it be really awkward to hug her?
Yeah, it totally would be, but my heart breaks for her.
She really appears to be down on her luck.
We’ve all been through our fair share of shit on this ranch, but watching her crumble right now…
it tugs at me in a way I’m not prepared for.
“Listen, you’ve had a long day,” Dad says, his voice softening. “There’s plenty left over from dinner. The guest room is all ready for you. Just make yourself at home.”
The guest room?
Shit. That’s across the hall from mine. I mean, it’s a big house, but having her that close…
I quickly shake the thought from my head. It’s fine. It’s not a problem. She’s an old family friend. I’ll stay out of her way, and we’ll be…well, we’ll be whatever we are now.
“Thanks, Owen. You’ve honestly been too kind,” she says, her voice still a little thick with emotion.
“Not at all. Wyatt, help her take her bags up to her room. I’ll move the car into the garage…though I’m not sure how the hell I’m gonna fit in that thing.” Dad smirks, and Emily lets out an infectious giggle.
I can’t help but smile inwardly. I’d pay good money to see my six-foot-two father try to fold himself into that neon blue toy box.
“Follow me,” I say, keeping it brief as I head down the porch steps.
I make my way to her car and pop the trunk.
It’s a tight squeeze. I grab a heavy suitcase and a cardboard box from the back seat as she trails behind me.
Up close, without the evening breeze blowing between us, I catch a trace of her perfume.
It smells like summer—flowers and vanilla.
It’s an upmarket smell that has no business being in a dusty driveway.
I quickly shake the sensation, gripping the handle of her bag a little tighter.
I lead the way inside, the silence between us feels heavy and awkward.
My boots thud against the hardwood floors in the quiet.
The sound echoes through the high-timbered foyer.
Twenty-three years. We’re both thirty now, and I realize I have no idea how to talk to this woman.
Do I ask about Portland? Engineering? The fact that she just admitted to breaking a man’s jaw?
I stop at the guest room and push open the heavy, dark wood door, setting her things down on the rug. My dad has clearly had Mary go all out. The bed is made up with crisp white linens, there are fresh towels stacked at the foot, and there’s even a vase of wildflowers on the dresser.
Jesus, Dad. Does he think this is a five-star hotel?
I turn back to her, and the words catch in my throat.
Standing in the soft lamplight of the room, she looks even more striking.
The vulnerability from the porch is still there in her oceanic blue eyes, but there’s a flicker of something else, a strength that matches the story she told us.
She’s looking at me with a tilted head, her gaze curious and a little bit cautious, like she’s trying to find the boy she used to know inside the man standing in front of her.
A man who’s been through shit that kid would never comprehend.
“I’ll just let you get settled,” I manage to say, my voice sounding rough even to my own ears. “My room is just across the hall—I mean, if you need anything. But Mary’s the housekeeper, she’s here most of the day.”
God, why can I barely speak? I’m standing here like a tongue-tied teenager instead of a grown man who runs a multi-million-dollar operation.
I’m acutely aware of how small the room feels with her standing three feet away.
“Thank you, Wyatt,” she says softly, her eyes holding mine for a beat too long. “I really appreciate how kind you’ve all been. Truly.”
“Goodnight, Emily,” I say with a nod, already backing toward the door.
“Night, Wyatt.”
Fuck.