Chapter 3 #2
I drove through town slowly, windows up, air conditioning blasting like it could keep the memories at bay. Main Street stretched before me, two blocks of businesses that had been there forever and would be there forever more, God willing and the creek don't rise, as Louisa used to say.
A few people on the sidewalk turned to look at my Mercedes, foreign and shiny among the trucks and practical sedans.
I saw the moment recognition dawned on some faces.
Mrs. Henderson from the post office stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth falling open.
She immediately turned to the woman next to her—Mrs. Patterson from the bank—and I could practically see the gossip spreading in real-time.
Jake Williams came out of the hardware store, saw my car, and did a double-take.
He'd been in my grade at school, had asked me to freshman homecoming before Wyatt and I were official.
He was heavier now, wearing a wedding ring, but his expression was the same mix of curiosity and judgment I remembered from high school.
By the time I reached the Blackwood Ranch entrance, I knew the whole town would know I was back.
The phone lines would be burning up, texts flying, the gossip mill grinding at full speed.
"Did you hear? That Garrison girl is back.
Driving some fancy car like she's somebody now.
Wonder what she wants. Wonder what Wyatt will do. "
The entrance gate stood open, the Blackwood brand worked into the iron arch overhead.
The drive was the same crushed limestone.
It crunched under tires in a way that sounded like coming home.
Wind chimes hung from the gate posts—Louisa's touch, something about welcoming good spirits and warding off bad ones.
The drive wound through pastures where Black Angus cattle grazed in the morning sun, their coats gleaming with health.
The fences had been upgraded—steel posts now instead of just wood, with electric wire running along the top.
The pastures themselves looked lusher than I remembered, probably due to improved irrigation systems.
I passed the breeding barn—significantly larger than I remembered, with what looked like a mechanic workshop attached. Hunter's influence, probably. Solar panels gleamed on the roof, and I had to smile. Owen might honor tradition, but he'd never been afraid of progress.
The equipment barn was new entirely, massive and modern, probably housing millions of dollars in machinery.
The old barn was still there, though, converted into what looked like storage.
Good. That old barn held too many memories to tear down—first kisses stolen between chores, dance lessons from Louisa when she'd caught us practicing for prom, the kittens Maggie and I had hidden there one summer.
The main house came into view, and my breath caught hard enough to hurt.
It looked like something out of a magazine—the white limestone walls gleaming, the wraparound porches on both levels decorated with hanging baskets overflowing with petunias and begonias.
The wedding tree, the massive oak where Owen and Louisa got married, spread its branches over the side yard, and I could see they'd strung lights through them.
But what nearly stopped me in my tracks was everyone waiting in the front yard.
Not the whole family—thank God for small mercies—but enough to make my knees weak as I parked.
Owen stood at the foot of the porch steps, tall and commanding despite being in his late fifties now.
His hair had gone completely silver, and there were more lines around his eyes, but he still had that presence that made you want to stand up straighter, be better, earn his approval.
He wore his usual uniform—jeans, boots, and a Blackwood Ranch button-down that Louisa probably pressed within an inch of its life.
Louisa stood beside him, and the sight of her made my eyes burn.
She was smaller than I remembered, or maybe I'd just forgotten how petite she was next to her husband and sons.
Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back in the same practical ponytail.
She wore jeans and a soft blue blouse, and her eyes were already bright with what looked suspiciously like tears.
Clay leaned against the porch rail with studied casualness, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.
He'd filled out since I'd last seen him, no longer the lean kid but a man who'd spent years on the rodeo circuit. Pretty sure I’d read somewhere he’d made top ten in the world.
His grin was the same, though—cocky and charming and just a little bit wicked.
He wore his championship belt buckle, because of course he did.
And Maggie. No longer sixteen, but a beautiful woman who looked so much like Louisa it was startling.
She had her laptop balanced on the porch rail because, apparently, she ran the business side of things now.
Her dark hair was longer, pulled back in a braid, and she wore a Blackwood Ranch polo and jeans that managed to look both professional and practical.
Her expression was carefully neutral—not cold exactly, but cautious. Protective.
And then, standing back in the shadows of the barn entrance, was Wyatt.
Even from fifty feet away, even with his black Stetson shadowing his face, I knew it was him.
Would know him anywhere, in any crowd, after any amount of time.
It was the way he stood—weight shifted to his left leg, arms crossed over his chest, that particular stillness that meant he was holding himself back from something.
Whether that something was violence or welcome, I couldn't tell.
He was bigger than I remembered, broader through the shoulders and chest in a way that spoke of years of hard physical labor.
His work shirt was already dusty, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that were corded with muscle and marked with the small scars that came from working with wire and wood and stubborn animals.
His jaw was shadowed with dark stubble that would feel rough against soft skin—
Stop it.
I forced myself out of the car on legs that felt like jelly, my heels immediately impractical on the gravel drive.
"Ivy-weed!" Clay reached me first, sweeping me into a bear hug that lifted me clean off my feet. He smelled like hay and horse and Copenhagen, and I had to bite my lip hard to keep from crying. "Welcome home. It’s been way too damn long."
"Can't breathe," I gasped. He laughed and set me down, but kept his hands on my shoulders.
"Look at you, all citified and sophisticated." His eyes—green like all the Blackwood boys—scanned me with an appreciation that was more reflex than real interest. "Bet you don't even remember how to ride a horse."
"I remember plenty," I managed, my voice only slightly shaky.
"We'll see about that." He winked.
"Clay," Owen's voice held gentle reproach as he walked over. "Let the girl breathe."
"Good to have you home, Ivy," he said gruffly, and I could hear the genuine warmth under the formal words.
Owen's hug was brief but warm, his calloused hand patting my back twice in that way fathers do when they're not quite sure how much affection is appropriate.
He smelled like leather and coffee and that particular aftershave he'd worn forever.
Then Louisa was there, and her hug undid me completely.
She pulled me close, one hand cradling the back of my head like she used to when I was young and scared and trying not to show it.
She smelled exactly the same—vanilla and cinnamon, fresh bread, and lavender soap.
The scent of maternal comfort I'd never gotten from my own mother.
"Oh, honey," she whispered against my hair, quiet enough that only I could hear. "We've missed you so much. I've missed you."
I couldn't speak around the lump in my throat, so I just held on, probably too tight and for too long, probably giving away far too much about how lonely these years had been.
When I finally pulled back, Louisa's eyes were wet, but she was smiling. "You look beautiful, sweetheart. City life agrees with you."
It didn't, but I smiled and nodded like it did.
Maggie approached more slowly, and her smile was polite but cautious. "Hi, Ivy. Good to see you again."
Not "welcome home" or "we missed you." Just carefully neutral politeness from someone who used to worship the ground I walked on. But she was protecting her brother now, and we both knew it.
"You look wonderful, Maggie," I said, meaning it. "All grown up. Running the business side of things, I hear?"
"Someone has to keep the boys from trading cattle for magic beans," she said, a small real smile cracking through. "You know how they are with numbers."
"Hey now," Clay protested. "I can count just fine. One, two, many."
It was an old joke, and we all smiled, but it felt forced. Like we were playing roles in a play about people who used to know each other.
Movement in the barn entrance caught my eye. Time stood still as Wyatt stepped forward, out of the shadows and into the harsh morning light. The impact was like being kicked in the chest by one of his horses.
God, he was devastating. The years had refined him, turned the boy I'd loved into something harder, sharper, more dangerous.
Something that made my mouth go dry and my hands itch to touch.
His hat was tilted back now, and I could see his face clearly.
The same strong jaw, now shadowed with stubble.
The same mouth that used to smile so easily is now set in a firm line.
The same straight nose, though it looked like it might have been broken once.
But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. Still, that green that could shift from soft as spring grass to hard as jade, but there was something else there now. A coldness. A distance. Walls I'd never seen before because I'd been the one he'd never needed walls with.