Chapter 4
Wyatt
The family gathered around the long oak dining table at seven sharp, because Blackwoods were nothing if not punctual.
This table had been our boardroom for three generations—deals made, plans hatched, futures decided over Mom's coffee and Dad's stubborn will.
Today, it would be where Ivy Garrison stood up and told us how to run our ranch better.
The thought made my jaw clench so hard my teeth ached.
I took my usual seat, back to the window so I could watch everyone else.
Clay sprawled in his chair like he didn't have a care in the world, but his fingers drummed against the table—his tell when he was nervous.
Maggie had her laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard, probably pulling up spreadsheets and financial projections.
Always prepared, our Maggie. Hunter sat quiet as always, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, watching everything with those thoughtful eyes.
Liam had taken the seat next to me, a silent show of support I didn't ask for but appreciated anyway.
Mom bustled around, setting out pastries and refilling coffee cups even though everyone had told her to sit down.
It's what she did when she was anxious—fed people, fussed over them, tried to smooth rough waters with food and maternal energy.
Dad stood at the head of the table, his usual spot, talking quietly with Luke, who'd driven in from Dallas for this.
The baby of the family at twenty-five, but he had a sharp mind for business that would probably take him far from ranch life.
And then she walked in.
Time in Dallas had polished Ivy Garrison into something that barely resembled the girl who'd run barefoot through our pastures.
She wore slacks that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary and a silk blouse the color of cream.
Her hair was pulled back in some complicated style that looked effortless but probably wasn't. She carried a leather portfolio and a laptop like weapons, and her face was a mask of professional calm.
But I saw the tell-tale signs. The way her fingers tightened on the portfolio when she saw me. The slight hitch in her breath when our eyes met for half a second before she looked away. The careful way she moved, like she was walking through a minefield.
Good. She should be nervous.
"Morning, everyone," she said, her voice steady and professional. Nothing like the girl who used to whisper my name in the dark.
Everyone murmured greetings. Mom pulled her into a quick hug that Ivy accepted stiffly, like she'd forgotten how to be hugged by someone who meant it. The contrast between them was stark—Mom all warmth and worn denim, Ivy all sharp edges and expensive fabric.
"Let's get started," Dad said, ever the businessman. "Ivy, the floor is yours."
She moved to the head of the table with a confidence that was new, setting up her laptop with efficient movements.
When she turned it toward us, the wall behind her lit up with a projection—she'd set that up earlier, apparently.
Of course, she had. Probably came in at dawn to make sure everything was perfect.
"Thank you for this opportunity," she began, and her voice had taken on a slight accent I didn't recognize.
Not quite Dallas, not quite anything. Like she'd scrubbed the Copper Creek out of her voice and replaced it with something generic and forgettable.
"I've spent the last week reviewing your current operations, and I'm impressed with what you've built here. "
Flattery. Starting with compliments to soften us up. I'd seen enough consultants to know the playbook.
"However," she continued, clicking to the next slide, "there's significant room for improvement in several key areas."
And there it was. The 'however.' The part where she told us everything we were doing wrong.
But then she surprised me. Instead of tearing down what we'd built, she showed how to enhance it.
Her presentation was a masterclass in cattle genetics and ranch management.
Breeding maps that looked like art, showing optimal pairings based on genetic markers I'd never even heard of.
Embryo transfer timelines that could triple our conception rates without losing the bloodlines Dad had spent decades cultivating.
Data analytics that could predict everything from birth weights to market values with scary accuracy.
"The initial investment would be substantial," she said, clicking through financial projections that made Clay whistle low. "But the ROI would be realized within eighteen months, with profits increasing by forty percent within three years."
"Forty percent?" Hunter leaned forward, interested despite himself. "That seems optimistic."
She turned to him, and for a second, I saw a flash of the old Ivy—the one who'd debate cattle genetics with Dad for hours, passionate and sure. "It's conservative, actually. The Henderson ranch saw a fifty-two percent increase after implementing similar protocols."
"The Hendersons also lost half their heritage bloodlines," I said, my first words since she'd walked in.
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and the air in the room went electric.
"Only because they didn't properly manage the transition.
With correct protocols, you can maintain genetic diversity while improving overall quality.
Look—" She clicked to another slide, showing a complex chart.
"This is your current genetic distribution.
See these markers here? You have one of the most diverse heritage populations in Texas.
We're not talking about replacing that—we're talking about enhancing it. "
She moved through the data with a fluency that was mesmerizing. This wasn't some city consultant who'd learned ranching from textbooks. This was someone who understood cattle down to their DNA, who knew the difference between a breeding program and a legacy.
"These protocols," I challenged, not ready to give up the fight. "They're all theory, aren't they? Academic exercises?"
"No." She clicked again, and case studies filled the screen.
"I've implemented variations of this program at six ranches in the last three years.
Every single one has exceeded projections.
" She paused, meeting my eyes. "Including the Sullivan ranch in Montana.
They were as traditional as you, as resistant to change.
They're now the leading Angus supplier in the Northwest."
Dad leaned forward, interested. "John Sullivan let you touch his breeding program? That man's more stubborn than I am."
A small smile touched her lips—the first real one I'd seen since she'd arrived. “Funny,” she laughed. ”He said the same thing about you when he heard I was coming here."
The room chuckled, tension breaking slightly.
She had them. Hell, she almost had me. Then again, there was a time when I was wrapped around her finger so tight I didn’t know where I ended and she began.
But things were different now. I couldn’t let her get to me.
Couldn’t let her convince my family that this was a good idea unless it really was.
She fielded questions for another hour, and each answer was more impressive than the last. When Clay asked about implementation timelines, she had Gantt charts.
When Maggie grilled her on costs, she had spreadsheets that accounted for everything down to the last syringe.
When Liam questioned the science behind embryo transfer success rates, she quoted studies from memory, complete with publication dates and sample sizes.
She was composed, commanding, smart as sin, and in any other circumstance, I would have been proud as hell. Would have been shouting from the rooftops that this brilliant woman had come from Copper Creek, that we'd helped shape that mind.
But she'd left. She'd taken all that potential and promise and run with it, leaving us—leaving me—behind.
When she finally wrapped up, closing her laptop with a decisive click, the room was silent for a beat. Then Maggie started a slow clap, and soon everyone except me was applauding.
"Well," Mom said, beaming. "That was incredible, honey."
"Impressive work," Dad agreed, though he was watching me, not her. "We'll need time to discuss this as a family, but I think the direction is clear."
"Of course," Ivy said, gathering her things with the same efficiency she'd shown throughout. "I'll be in the breeding barn this afternoon if anyone has questions. I'd like to start assessing the current stock, with your permission."
Permission. Like she needed permission to be in barns where she'd once spent more time than her own home.
"Whatever you need," Dad said.
She nodded, professional and distant, and left without looking at me again.
The moment the door closed behind her, everyone started talking at once.
"Did you see those projections—" Maggie was saying.
"The genetic diversity preservation alone—" Hunter added.
"She really knows her stuff," Clay said, then grinned. "Plus, she looks good. City life agrees with her."
"Enough," I growled, standing so fast my chair scraped against the floor. "You want to implement her plan? Fine. But don't expect me to pretend I'm happy about it."
"Wyatt," Mom started.
"I've got work to do."
I stormed out, ignoring Mom calling after me, ignoring the weight of everyone's stares. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to be anywhere but in that house that still smelled like her perfume.
I saddled Tempest without thinking, muscle memory taking over when my mind was too full of her to function. The stallion sensed my mood, dancing sideways as I mounted, eager to run. I gave him his head, and we tore across the pasture like we were both trying to outrun something.