Chapter 1 #2
Same as always. Like I hadn't vanished from his ranch, his town, his son's life without a word of explanation. Like the last time he'd seen me, I hadn't been sneaking away in the dark, leaving devastation in my wake.
"Owen," I managed, the name feeling rusty on my tongue.
"That's better. Doug tells me you're gonna be the one helping us drag Blackwood Ranch into the modern age."
"That's the plan." I forced professional steadiness into my voice. "I've reviewed your current numbers. There's definitely room for improvement in conception rates, and your genetic diversity could use some expansion. I think we can—"
"Ivy." He interrupted gently. "I didn't call to talk business. We'll have plenty of time for that when you get here."
I waited, my free hand clenched so tight my nails bit into my palm.
"I called because I wanted you to hear it from me first. Louisa's already got the guest cabin all made up for you. New quilts on the bed, fresh flowers on the table. She's practically beside herself knowing you're coming home."
Home. The word lodged in my throat like a stone. The guest cabin—I remembered it. A cozy two-room structure near the main house, close enough to feel like family but private enough for space.
"I appreciate the offer," I said carefully, "but I'll probably stay at the hotel in town—"
"Nonsense." His voice held that gentle authority that had made him so successful—firm but kind. "You're family, Ivy. Always have been, always will be. Besides, you'll need to be close to the barns for early morning work. No point driving back and forth from town every day. Waste of time and gas."
Family. If only he knew how badly I'd wanted that to be true once upon a time. How many nights I'd dreamed of being a real Blackwood, of having the right to that name and all it meant.
"Now," he continued, either not noticing or politely ignoring my silence, "I want you to know this isn't just about business. Louisa and I... well, we've missed you, honey. The whole family has."
The whole family. My chest tightened as faces flashed through my mind.
Clay with his easy laugh and terrible jokes.
Maggie, the only person on that ranch who could wrangle her brothers without breaking a sweat.
Hunter with his gentle intelligence and way with fixing things.
Luke, the baby of the family, probably smarter than all of us combined.
And the Walkers. Liam, with his quiet intensity and unexpected wisdom, and Sophia, now a nurse.
And then there was... him.
"We're looking forward to having you home," Owen said softly, and I could hear the genuine affection in his voice, the kind that made me wonder how different my life might have been if I'd been born a Blackwood instead of a Garrison.
"However long you've been gone, however far you've traveled, Copper Creek is still part of you. That doesn't change."
My throat grew tight. “Owen—“
"Monday, then? I'll have one of the boys meet you at the ranch entrance, help you get settled."
One of the boys. My heart hammered against my ribs. Which one? Would it be Clay with his teasing grin? Liam, with his stare that somehow saw everything? Or would it be—
"That's not necessary—"
"'Course it is. We take care of our own here. Always have." His voice warmed even further. "Your cabin will be ready, and Louisa's already planning a feast for Monday night. Fair warning—she's making her famous pot roast. The one you used to love."
I remembered that pot roast. Remembered sitting at their dinner table, feeling like I belonged somewhere for the first time in my life. Remembered Wyatt's foot finding mine under the table, a secret touch that made my heart race.
"I should go," I said, because if I stayed on this call any longer, I might do something stupid like cry.
"Of course. I'm sure you've got plenty to prepare." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held something I couldn't quite identify. "Ivy? We're real glad you're coming. Real glad.”
“Me too, Owen,” I replied, even though I was weighed down with dread.
After we hung up, I sat in my expensive ergonomic chair in my corner office with its view of downtown Dallas, and I felt more lost than I had since stepping off that Greyhound bus fourteen years ago.
The drive home to my apartment in Uptown was a blur of traffic and memories I couldn't quite push down.
My place was everything a successful consultant's home should be—modern, minimalist, decorated in shades of gray and white that the designer had assured me were "timeless and sophisticated.
" It looked like a magazine spread and felt about as personal.
"You're early."
I jumped, keys clattering on the entryway table. Mark stood in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, something simmering on the stove that smelled like the expensive cooking classes he'd been taking.
"I thought we were going out," I said, setting my purse down carefully, trying to remember how to be the person he expected me to be.
He walked to me, his smile easy and practiced, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. His cologne was subtle, expensive, the kind that whispered rather than shouted. "You said you needed wine after a long day. Figured you'd prefer staying in."
This was Mark—thoughtful in a calculated way, always doing the right things at the right times. He'd probably read an article about how successful relationships required such gestures. He was good at relationships, the way he was good at law—studied, methodical, effective.
He handed me a glass of something red and expensive. "Want to talk about it?"
"I got the Blackwood assignment," I said, taking a larger sip than was strictly polite.
His eyes lit up with genuine excitement. "Ivy, that's fantastic! That's the big one, right? The one everyone was after?" He pulled me into a hug that smelled like his cologne and the garlic he'd been chopping. "God, Doug must be beside himself. This could make your whole career."
"Yeah," I agreed against his shoulder. "It could."
"When do you leave?"
"Monday."
"Monday?" He pulled back, a frown creasing his artificially tanned forehead. "That's soon. How long will you be gone?"
"A month. Maybe more."
His frown deepened, and I could practically see him calculating how this would affect his schedule, our standing dinner reservations, and the charity gala next month, where he'd already RSVP'd for two.
"That's a long time. Maybe I could come visit? I've never seen that part of Texas. Could be interesting, seeing how the other half lives."
The thought of Mark in Copper Creek, his Italian leather shoes stepping where worn boots had taught me to dance, his rental car parked where a beat-up farm truck had been my whole world—
"It'll be all work," I said quickly. "Sunrise to sunset in barns and pastures. You'd be bored out of your mind."
He laughed, pulling me closer, his hands settling on my waist with practiced familiarity.
"You're probably right. I don't really do rural.
" His thumb traced circles on my hip, a gesture that should have been intimate but felt more like marking territory.
"We should make the most of the time before you leave, then. "
This was the part where I was supposed to melt into him, let him lead me to the bedroom, lose myself in the kind of sex that was perfectly fine—technically proficient, mutually satisfying, completely forgettable.
But tonight, with Owen's voice still echoing in my ears and the ghost of a silver horseshoe against my throat, I couldn't pretend.
"I need to shower," I said, stepping back. "Long day. Give me twenty minutes?"
Disappointment flashed across his face before he smoothed it away with another practiced smile. "Sure. Dinner will be ready when you are."
I escaped to the bathroom, turning the water as hot as I could stand it. Steam filled the space, fogging the mirror until I couldn't see myself anymore. Good. I didn't want to see the woman I'd become—successful, polished, empty.
The water beat against my shoulders, and I let myself remember what I'd spent fourteen years trying to forget.
The weight of that pendant against my skin.
The smell of leather and hay and summer storms. The feeling of calloused hands that knew exactly how to touch me, reverent and demanding all at once.
The way my name sounded in his mouth, that Texas drawl turning it into something between a prayer and a promise.
Ivygirl.
Nobody had called me that in fourteen years.
In Dallas, I was Ivy or Ms. Garrison or occasionally "babe" from Mark when he was feeling particularly affectionate.
But Ivygirl—that was something else entirely.
That was who I'd been when I believed in forever, when I thought love could overcome anything, when I didn't know that sometimes the bravest thing you could do was run.
By the time I emerged from the bathroom, I'd rebuilt my walls and remembered my role. I sat across from Mark at my dining table that had never seen a family meal, eating food that was perfectly seasoned and utterly tasteless, making conversation about his latest case and my upcoming trip.
"You'll kill it," he said, raising his wine glass in a toast. "Show those country boys how it's done. Bring Blackwood into the modern age."
I clinked my glass against his, the sound sharp and hollow in my sterile apartment.
Later, in bed, he reached for me with those smooth, uncalloused hands.
I let him, because it was easier than explaining why I couldn't. His touch was practiced, effective, achieving its goal with minimum fuss and maximum efficiency.
He knew what he was doing, had probably read articles about that too.
But as he moved above me in the darkness, all I could think about was another darkness, another time, when making love had meant something more than achieving mutual satisfaction. When every touch had been a promise, every kiss a vow, every whispered word a piece of forever.
Mark finished with a satisfied sigh, kissed my forehead, and rolled away to his side of the bed. Within minutes, his breathing evened into sleep.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and let myself admit the truth I'd been running from all day.
Come Monday, I was going back to Copper Creek. Back to the place where I'd been loved completely and left completely broken. Back to the ranch where every fence post and barn door held a memory. Back to the people who'd offered me family when I'd had none.
Back to him.
The man whose heart I'd shattered. The one whose name I still couldn't say, even in the privacy of my own mind. The one who'd made me promises I'd never let him keep, loved me in a way that had ruined me for everyone else.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number with a 903 area code.
Heard you're coming home. The creek's been waiting. -L
L. Liam. His message was simple, but I read between the lines. He was warning me. Preparing me.
Because if the creek had been waiting, that meant Wyatt had been too.
And in five days, ready or not, I was going to have to face what I'd done to him. What I'd done to us.
What I'd done to the only version of myself that had ever felt real.