Chapter 5
Ivy
I lay there for a moment, listening to the ranch come alive.
Cattle lowing in the distance. A truck door slamming.
Voices carrying on the morning air—ranch hands heading to their first tasks of the day.
It was a symphony I'd once known by heart, each sound telling me exactly what was happening across the property.
Now it felt foreign and familiar at the same time, like trying to speak a language I'd once been fluent in.
"Morning," I said, setting my boxes on the work table someone had cleared for me.
They mumbled greetings, polite but wary. I was the outsider now, the city woman who came to tell them how to do jobs they'd been doing since before I could walk. I'd have to earn their respect all over again, and this time, being Wyatt's girl wouldn't help. If anything, it would make it harder.
"I'm setting up a temporary lab in the side office," I announced, keeping my voice professional but not condescending. "I'll need samples from each breeding group, properly labeled with their tag numbers. But I don't want to disrupt your normal routine, so we'll work around your schedule."
"You want us to pull samples?" Jimmy asked, his weathered face skeptical.
"Only if you're comfortable with it. Otherwise, I can do it myself. I just need someone to help me identify which animals are which until I get familiar with your current stock."
"You know how to pull samples?" One of the younger hands asked, his tone suggesting he doubted it.
Instead of answering, I grabbed a collection kit and headed for the nearest stall, where a beautiful Black Angus heifer stood placidly.
I moved with the muscle memory that apparently hadn't faded, approaching her calmly, running my hand along her flank, talking soft nonsense until she relaxed.
The tail hair sample was collected in under thirty seconds, properly labeled, and stored before the cowboys had finished exchanging glances.
"I might have spent some time in the city," I said, turning back to them, "but I was raised here. I haven't forgotten everything."
Jimmy cracked a small smile. "Fair enough, Ms. Garrison. Tell us what you need."
It took three hours to set up the makeshift lab.
The equipment I'd brought was state-of-the-art—a portable genetic analyzer, digital microscopes, and hormone testing kits.
Things that probably cost more than some of these men made in a year.
I tried not to think about that as I calibrated machines and organized supplies.
By 9 AM, I was walking the hands through the new data logging system I'd designed. It was tablet-based, simple enough that even the most technology-resistant cowboy could manage it.
"Every animal gets logged daily," I explained, showing them the interface on the tablet screen. "Health indicators, feeding data, breeding observations. It feeds directly into the main system, so we can track patterns over time."
"Seems like a lot of extra work," Buck commented, but he was looking at the screen with interest.
"Five minutes per animal, max. And it'll save hours when it comes to breeding decisions. The system will flag optimal pairings based on the data you input."
"Computer's gonna tell us which bull to use?" another hand asked skeptically.
"No, the computer's going to give you information. You still make the decisions based on your experience and knowledge. This just makes sure you have all the facts."
I spent the rest of the morning working with them, showing rather than telling, getting my hands dirty alongside them.
By the time the lunch bell rang—yes, they still had an actual bell, because some traditions were worth keeping—I'd collected samples from thirty head of cattle and taught three cowboys how to use the tracking system.
I was heading back to my cabin to grab a protein bar and hide from the midday heat when Louisa intercepted me on the porch of the main house.
"Ivy Garrison, you are not eating some packaged nonsense for lunch when there's real food right here."
She was carrying a tray with sandwiches that looked like they could feed a small army, a pitcher of sweet tea that was already sweating in the heat, and her expression brooked no argument.
"Louisa, you don't have to—"
"Sit," she commanded, pointing to one of the porch chairs. "You're thin as a rail and probably living on coffee and whatever passes for food in Dallas."
I sat. You didn't argue with Louisa Blackwood when she used that tone. I'd learned that at fifteen, and apparently, some lessons stuck.
The sandwich was thick-cut ham from their own smokehouse, cheese that was definitely not from a package, tomatoes from her garden, and some kind of aioli that made my taste buds weep with joy. The first bite had me closing my eyes, overwhelmed by the simple perfection of it.
"When's the last time you had a proper meal?" Louisa asked, settling into the chair beside me with her own glass of tea.
"I eat," I said defensively.
"Restaurant food doesn't count. Takeout definitely doesn't count. Don’t forget I had my time in the city. I know what it’s like.” It was easy to forget that Louisa went to college in Austin, too. But unlike me, she had come back for Owen, not work.
I glanced at her briefly. “I cook sometimes."
Her look said she knew exactly what my version of cooking entailed—bagged salads and pre-marinated chicken breasts that I ate standing over my kitchen sink while answering emails.
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching the ranch hands head back to their afternoon tasks. Wyatt's truck was notably absent—he'd been gone when I'd arrived this morning and apparently had no intention of crossing paths with me if he could help it.
"The presentation yesterday was impressive," Louisa said finally. "Owen couldn't stop talking about it last night. Said you've become everything he hoped you would."
The words made my throat tight. "He was a good teacher."
"He was. But you had the hunger to learn. Not everyone does." She refilled my tea glass without asking. "That program you outlined—it could really transform things here."
I huffed a laugh, staring at my sandwich. “If Wyatt doesn't fight me every step of the way."
"He might. He's as stubborn as his father and twice as proud." She paused, then added quietly, "He's also hurt. Has been for a long time."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I looked at her, this woman who'd been more of a mother to me than my own had ever been, and felt the weight of all the years between then and now.
"I never meant to hurt him," I said quietly. "I thought I was doing the right thing."
"The right thing for who?"
"For him. For everyone."
Louisa was quiet for a moment, then reached over and covered my hand with hers. The touch was warm, calloused from years of ranch work, infinitely gentle. It pulled up a memory so sharp I almost gasped.
That night. The summer before I left. Wyatt had been at that cattle drafting school in Fort Worth for two weeks.
Daddy had been getting meaner as graduation approached, like he knew I was planning to leave and was determined to get his last licks in.
That particular night, he'd been drunker than usual, meaner than usual.
The bruises on my ribs made it hard to breathe.
The cut on my lip wouldn't stop bleeding.
I'd ridden my bike to the Blackwood ranch at 2 AM, barely able to see through the tears and the swelling around my eye. I hadn't meant to knock—hadn't wanted to wake anyone. I just wanted to sit on their porch for a while, somewhere safe, somewhere that felt like home.
But Louisa had found me. Like she had a sixth sense for broken things that needed tending.
She'd taken one look at me, and her face had gone hard as stone, then soft as silk. She'd brought me inside without a word, led me to the kitchen, and started cleaning my wounds with hands that didn't shake even though I could see the rage in her eyes.
Owen had come down, taken one look, and I'd seen him reach for his keys.
"No," I'd begged. "Please. You can't. He'll know I came here. He'll make it worse."
"Honey," Louisa had said, her voice breaking, "it can't get much worse than this."
"It can. It always can."
They'd kept me there for three days, until the worst of the bruising had faded enough to cover with makeup. They'd sworn not to tell Wyatt, though I could see how much it cost them. They'd offered me a permanent place to stay, offered to call the sheriff, offered to make it stop.
But I'd known the truth—the only way to make it stop was to leave. And if Wyatt knew, if he saw what his future father-in-law was capable of, he'd do something that would ruin his life. Prison or worse. Because Wyatt Blackwood protected what was his, and he considered me his.
"Honey?" Louisa's voice brought me back to the present. "Where'd you go?"
"Just remembering that time you and Owen took care of me," I said, my voice thick.
Her hand tightened on mine. "I remember too. That summer... I wanted to kill Art Garrison with my bare hands."
"But you didn't."
"No. You begged us not to. Said it would make things worse." She studied me with those knowing eyes. "Is that why you left? To protect Wyatt from your father?"
I couldn't answer. The truth was lodged in my throat like glass. I just looked down at my hands and picked at my nails.
"Oh, honey," she said softly. "You were just a baby yourself. Trying to handle all that alone."
"I wasn't alone. You and Owen—"
"For three days. Then you went right back to that house, to that monster, and pretended everything was fine." Her voice held old frustration, old grief. "We should have done more."
"You did everything you could. More than anyone else ever did."
We sat in silence for a moment, both lost in memories better left buried.