PROLOGUE #2
Everything. Nothing. Only the things that would destroy us both.
"I'm just tired," I said, hating how easily the lie came. "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 and impossible because you can't build happiness on a foundation 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, memorizing 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 shorts that 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 enthusiasm.
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 so many 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 moonlight 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 I come 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."