Chapter 6
Ivy
“Morning,” he said when I opened the door, the word clipped and professional.
He stood on my small porch looking everywhere but at me, his hat shadowing his face, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.
“Morning,” I replied, matching his tone. My voice sounded steady. My pulse wasn’t. “Let me grab my things.”
I collected my notebook and phone and tried to collect my composure while I was at it.
Today would be hours of close proximity to him—breathing the same air, sharing the same sunlight, trying not to remember how it used to feel when that air and sunlight were wrapped around us.
I could handle it. I was a professional.
The fact that he still smelled like leather and sunshine and everything I’d been missing for years? That was beside the point. Completely beside the point.
“I know you’ve already worked in them some, but we’ll start with the breeding barns,” he said as I joined him outside. “Work our way through the facilities, then ride out to see the pastures.”
“Sounds good.”
We walked in silence toward the barns, the morning already warming with the promise of another hot June day. Every few steps, his shoulder brushed mine, and each time it sent a small, traitorous spark down my spine.
Ranch hands nodded as we passed, and I caught a few curious glances. Everyone probably knew this was awkward as hell, but they were too polite—or too smart—to say anything.
Still, the air between us hummed. Quiet. Charged. Like the moment before a summer storm breaks.
The breeding barn was state-of-the-art, a far cry from the simple structure I remembered.
Wyatt walked me through it with the efficiency of someone who'd given this tour before, pointing out the hydraulic squeeze chutes, the climate-controlled semen storage, the laboratory setup that was actually better than what I'd brought from Dallas.
"Hunter designed most of the upgrades," he said, his voice neutral. "Implemented them over the last five years."
"It's impressive." I jotted notes, keeping my own voice professionally detached. "The flow pattern is particularly well thought out. Minimizes stress on the animals."
"That was the idea."
Every word between us was carefully measured, like we were afraid that speaking naturally might break some spell and send us tumbling back into the past.
He explained the feeding schedules, the breeding rotations, and the health protocols they'd implemented. I asked clarifying questions, made suggestions that he actually considered instead of dismissing outright, and slowly, incrementally, the tension eased from unbearable to merely uncomfortable.
The feed sheds were next, massive structures that could hold enough hay and grain to last through a bad winter. He showed me their inventory system—still paper-based, which I made a note to digitize—and explained their relationships with various suppliers.
"We source local when we can," he said, running his hand along a beam that looked new. "Keep the money in the community."
"Your father always believed in that," I said without thinking, then immediately wanted to take it back. We weren't supposed to acknowledge that I knew these things, that I'd been part of these conversations once.
But Wyatt just nodded. "Still does. Says a ranch is only as strong as the community around it."
We moved through the equipment barns, the maintenance shops, the original barn that had been converted to storage.
Every building had a story, an upgrade, an improvement that had been made in the years I'd been gone.
The ranch had evolved, grown, become something even more impressive than it had been.
And Wyatt knew every inch of it, every detail, every plan for the future.
He was magnificent in his element, and I had to keep reminding myself not to stare.
The boy I'd loved had become a man who commanded respect, who led by example, who'd turned his pain into purpose.
His hands still moved as he talked, those same hands that had once traced every inch of my skin now pointing out drainage improvements and structural reinforcements.
"The horses are in the south barn," he said as we finished the facilities tour. "We'll need to ride out to see the pastures properly. Unless you've forgotten how."
There was a challenge in his voice, the first hint of anything personal he'd allowed.
"I haven't forgotten," I said quietly, meaning more than just riding.
Something flickered in his eyes—there and gone too fast to identify.
The south barn smelled like sweet feed and horse, a combination that immediately transported me back to being seventeen and sneaking rides with Wyatt when we should have been doing chores.
He moved down the line of stalls with the easy confidence of someone who'd spent his life around horses, finally stopping at two already saddled and waiting.
"This is Honey," he said, indicating a golden palomino mare with a white blaze. "She's gentle but responsive. Figured she'd suit you."
The mare was beautiful, well-proportioned, and alert. I approached slowly, let her smell my hand, and ran my palm down her neck. She whickered softly, already accepting me.
"She's perfect," I said.
Wyatt swung up onto a bay gelding with the fluid grace of a born horseman.
I took a bit longer, muscles protesting that they hadn't done this in far too long.
But once I was in the saddle, it all came back.
The feel of the reins, the rhythm of the horse's movement, the subtle communication between rider and mount.
We rode out past the immediate buildings, into the vast expanse of Blackwood land. The morning had heated up, but there was a breeze that kept it bearable. Wyatt led, I followed, and for a while, we just rode. The silence wasn't comfortable exactly, but it wasn't hostile either.
"How many head are you running now?" I asked as we paused at the top of a rise overlooking a pasture dotted with Black Angus.
"About twelve hundred breeding stock, another eight hundred for market." He shifted in his saddle, scanning the herd with an experienced eye. "We rotate them through sixteen pastures, trying to maintain grass quality."
"What about water access?"
He actually looked at me then, surprise flickering across his features. "We installed solar pumps at strategic points. Every pasture has at least two water sources."
"Backup systems?"
"Windmills at three locations, and we can truck water if needed."
I made notes as he talked, genuinely impressed by the operation. They'd thought of everything, planned for contingencies, built redundancy into critical systems. It was ranching at its finest—respectful of tradition but embracing innovation.
"Your soil rotation schedule?" I asked, pen poised.
"Seven-year cycle, with periodic testing. Maggie handles that side—she's got it down to a science."
We rode on, and he answered every question thoroughly, professionally. He knew his operation inside and out, and despite everything between us, I found myself impressed.
The sun climbed higher as we covered more ground.
We stopped to check fence lines, inspect water stations, examine stands of native grass that were encouraging.
At each stop, Wyatt dismounted with easy efficiency, and I tried not to notice the way his jeans fit or how his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he bent to examine something.
Professional. I was being professional.
“That's about it,” he said as we remounted after checking a particularly remote pasture. His voice had changed, become carefully neutral in a way that immediately put me on alert.
We rode in silence for another ten minutes, following a trail I didn't remember. Then we crested a ridge, and below us, in a clearing surrounded by oak trees, sat a cabin.
It was perfect. That was my first thought.
A log cabin that looked like something out of a dream, with a porch that wrapped around two sides and windows that caught the morning light like fire.
There was a garden plot to one side, though it had gone wild.
A swing hung from a massive oak tree. Everything about it screamed home in a way that made my chest ache.
"It's beautiful," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Who's it for?"
Wyatt's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. “It’s mine. Built it a few years back."
He didn't say more. Didn't have to. Because I knew—with the kind of bone-deep certainty that comes from knowing someone down to their soul—that he'd built it for me. For us. For the life we'd planned in breathless whispers and desperate promises.
The realization hit like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my eyes burn. I stared at that cabin, at physical proof that he'd held onto our dreams even after I'd shattered them. He'd built our future and then had to live with it empty.
Three bedrooms—I could tell from the window placement.
One for us, two for the kids we'd talked about.
The porch faced east because I'd said I wanted to drink coffee and watch the sunrise.
The garden, because I'd wanted to grow my own vegetables, even though I'd never successfully grown anything.
The swing, because we'd talked about sitting there when we were old, watching our grandchildren play.
He'd built it all. Every dream. Every promise. Every word of love I'd whispered against his skin in the dark.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could barely breathe around the guilt and regret crushing my chest.
He should have kept riding. Should have left me there to stare at the monument to what I'd destroyed. But he waited, patient and silent, while I struggled to process the magnitude of what he'd done. What I'd cost him. What we'd lost.
When I finally looked at him, the years fell away. We weren't consultant and ranch manager. We weren't strangers dancing around shared pain. We were just Wyatt and Ivy, two kids who'd loved each other with everything they had until everything wasn't enough.
His green eyes held mine, and for just a moment, his mask slipped. I saw the hurt, the anger, the confusion, and underneath it all, something that might have been longing. Or maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see, what I needed to see to justify the choice that had brought us here.
I couldn’t stop the quiver in my chin, the welling of tears. "Wyatt…" His name came out weak like a plea, like an apology, like all the words I couldn't say.
But he was already turning his horse toward home, shoulders rigid, walls slamming back into place.
"We should head back," he said, his voice rough. "Storm coming in this afternoon."
I looked at the clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight, but didn't argue. There were different kinds of storms, and the one between us had been brewing for years. And I knew once it hit, it would be catastrophic.
The ride back was silent, heavy with unspoken words and questions neither of us was ready to ask or answer. But that cabin stayed with me, burned into my mind like a brand. Evidence that Wyatt Blackwood had loved me enough to build a future even after I'd destroyed the present.
When we reached the barn, he dismounted quickly, efficiently, and handed his reins to Jimmy without looking at me.
"That covers the tour," he said, still not meeting my eyes. "You have what you need?"
"Yes," I managed, though what I needed and what I had were two very different things.
He nodded once and strode away, leaving me standing there holding Honey's reins and the weight of my guilt that threatened to buckle my knees.
"You okay, Ms. Ivy?" Jimmy asked gently, and I realized he'd probably watched this whole drama unfold. Everyone had. Small towns didn't keep secrets well.
"I'm fine," I lied, handing him the reins. "Thank you for asking."
I made it back to my cabin before the tears came. Sat on my bed and cried for the girl who'd run, for the boy who'd built a house for ghosts, for the future that existed only in wood and stone and broken dreams.
Outside my window, I could see storm clouds building on the horizon.
So Wyatt hadn't been wrong about that. But the storm outside would be nothing compared to the one raging in my chest, built from regret and longing and the terrible realization that I might have made the biggest mistake of my life.
And worse, that it might be too late to fix it.