Chapter 10
Wyatt
Sunday dinner at the Blackwood ranch was sacred. Always had been.
Long before I was born, Mom and Dad decided they were going to build something different—a family that didn’t look anything like the ones they’d grown up in. No cold silences. No slammed doors. Just love, loud and stubborn and real.
Their best friends, Aunt Clem and Uncle Haz—Liam and Sophie’s folks—became part of that family from the start.
The four of them made a promise: no matter how busy life got, no matter how hard the years came at them, they’d always make time to sit down together.
Sunday dinner wasn’t a suggestion. It was law.
Now, decades later, Aunt Clem and Uncle Haz were gone, taken too soon. But the tradition they built never broke.
We still gathered under the wedding tree—that massive oak where Mom and Dad said their vows—its branches heavy with years and memories, strung with lights that turned the evening gold.
The air always smelled like mesquite smoke and home, and for a little while, everything in the world felt steady again.
The long table could seat twenty, and tonight it was nearly full. Family, ranch hands, and whoever else Mom had collected during the week. She had a gift for finding strays—people who needed a good meal and a place to belong, even if just for an evening.
Tonight's stray was Ivy. Though technically, she wasn't a stray. She was a consultant. A temporary addition. A professional obligation.
Who was I kidding?
I told myself that's all she was as I watched her help Mom carry platters from the kitchen, laughing at something Maggie said, fitting into the choreography of our family dinner like she'd never left.
She moved between the kitchen and the table with the ease of someone who knew exactly where the good serving spoons were kept, which platters were for special occasions, how Mom liked things arranged.
She'd changed from her work clothes into a sundress—nothing fancy, just simple blue cotton that moved when she walked and made her look softer than the sharp-edged professional she'd been all week.
Her hair was down, catching the light from the string bulbs overhead and looking like hand-spun gold, and when she laughed at something Clay said, her whole face transformed.
"You're staring," Liam said quietly, settling into the chair beside me with two beers.
"I'm not.” I was.
"You haven't looked away since she walked out.” How could I? She was the most beautiful thing I’d seen. Always had been. It didn’t matter how furious it made me that I felt that way; I did. And after last night in the barn? I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head.
I took the beer, needing something to do with my hands that wasn't reaching for her. "Just making sure she doesn't mess anything up."
Liam snorted. "Right. That's why you look like someone's torturing you."
Before I could respond, Mom was calling everyone to sit.
The table filled quickly—Clay claiming his spot where he could hold court, Hunter quiet at the far end with a beer in hand, Luke on speakerphone from Dallas because he couldn't make it home this weekend.
The ranch hands filled in the gaps—Jimmy and Buck with their wives, a few of the younger guys, including Tyler Garrett.
Tyler. Twenty-five, built like he'd walked out of a cologne ad, with that easy smile that had probably gotten him laid since high school. He made a beeline for the chair next to Ivy.
I gripped my beer bottle hard enough that my knuckles went white.
"Easy," Liam murmured. "You break that, Aunt Lou will make you clean it up."
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are. That's why you're looking at Tyler like you're planning where to bury his body."
Dad said grace, his deep voice carrying across the table, thanking the Lord for family, food, and fortune.
I bowed my head but kept my eyes open, watching Ivy through my lashes.
She had her eyes closed, hands folded, and for a moment, she looked exactly like she had at seventeen, sitting at this same table, believing she belonged here.
The meal erupted into controlled chaos as it always did.
Platters passed hand to hand—Mom's famous pot roast, mashed potatoes whipped with enough butter to make a cardiologist cry, green beans from her garden, cornbread that was more cake than bread.
Conversations flowed and crossed, everyone talking over and around each other in the comfortable way of people who'd shared hundreds of meals.
"So, Ivy," Tyler said, his voice pitched to carry, "how are you finding being back in Copper Creek after the big city?"
She glanced my way for a split second before answering. "It's... an adjustment. But a good one."
"Must be nice having some excitement in Dallas, though," Tyler continued, leaning closer to her than necessary. "Restaurants, nightlife, culture. Bet you had men lining up to take you out."
"I kept busy with work mostly," she said diplomatically.
"All work and no play?" Tyler grinned. "That's a crime for someone like you."
She laughed—light and easy, the kind of laugh she used to give me when I'd say something particularly ridiculous. "Someone like me?"
"Beautiful. Smart. Sophisticated." Tyler was laying it on thick, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Clay hiding a smirk behind his cornbread.
"That's kind of you to say," Ivy replied, but I caught the slight discomfort in her tone. Good. At least she wasn't falling for his bullshit.
"I could show you around," Tyler continued, apparently missing her signals. "I bet the town's changed since you were here last. New restaurant opened up on Main Street. Nothing fancy like Dallas, but they make a decent steak."
"Not that much has changed," Clay interjected, grinning. "Murphy's still serves warm beer, Dottie still burns the coffee, and everybody still knows everybody's business before they know it themselves."
"Some things never change," Ivy agreed, and her eyes found mine again. This time, they held for a beat longer than necessary.
"The good things don't need to," Dad said, raising his glass slightly. "To tradition."
"To tradition," everyone echoed, but I noticed Ivy's voice was soft, almost sad.
Tyler monopolized her attention through most of dinner, regaling her with stories about his bull riding days—all two of them before he'd busted his shoulder.
He had nothing on Clay, ranked number six in the world.
She was polite, engaged even, laughing at the right moments.
But I knew her tells. The way her fingers drummed against her thigh when she was impatient.
The slight tilt of her head that meant she was only half-listening.
The way her eyes kept drifting to other conversations, other people.
To me.
"You could always go over there," Liam suggested quietly. "Join the conversation. Stake your claim."
"I don't have a claim.” Even though my hickey was on her neck, barely hidden under her hair, and what looked like a lot of makeup.
"No? Then why do you look ready to throw Tyler into the stock tank?"
"He's annoying."
Liam chuckled. “He's twenty-five and shooting his shot. Can't blame a man for trying." He took a pull of his beer. "Though he's about as subtle as a freight train."
"Ivy," Hunter called from down the table, inadvertently saving her from Tyler's next story. "That new equipment you ordered for the breeding barn—I've been looking at the specs. The hydraulic system's impressive."
She turned to Hunter immediately, her whole demeanor changing. "It should integrate with your current setup without too many modifications. Though I might need your help with the installation."
"No problem. I've been wanting to upgrade that old chute system anyway. This gives me the excuse." Hunter's quiet voice carried his typical understated enthusiasm for anything mechanical. "The automatic gate system alone will save us hours."
They talked shop for a few minutes—hydraulics and load capacities and electrical requirements. Tyler tried to follow along, but he was out of his depth when Hunter started explaining torque ratios and pressure systems.
"Remember when Ivy helped deliver that breech calf?" Maggie said suddenly, and the table quieted. "During that ice storm? She was, what, sixteen?"
"Fifteen," Mom corrected, smiling at the memory. "Stayed in the barn all night, even though she had school the next day."
"Nearly got frostbite," I added before I could stop myself. Everyone looked at me. "She wouldn't leave the calf. Had to literally carry her to the house when it was over."
Ivy's cheeks pinked. "The calf needed help."
"You saved her life," Dad said. "That calf grew up to be one of our best producers. Still have her descendants in the herd."
"Really?" Ivy's face lit up. "Which ones?"
"The ones with the white star markings," I said. "We called the first one Lucky, after you named her."
Her expression softened, head tilting a little, as if she were surprised. “You kept the name?"
"Kept the whole line. Lucky's bloodline is one of our strongest."
We looked at each other across the table, and for a moment, it was just us. No anger, no hurt, just the shared memory of a freezing night when we'd worked together to save something small and precious.
"That's beautiful," Tyler said, shattering the moment. "You've got quite a history here, Ivy."
"Ancient history," she said quietly, looking away.
The rest of dinner passed with forced normalcy. Stories were told, jokes were made, Mom's apple pie was praised to the heavens. But there was an undercurrent of tension, like everyone was carefully navigating around land mines.
As plates were cleared and people started dispersing, I noticed Ivy lingering, helping Mom and Maggie clean up. Tyler had finally gotten the hint and left with the other hands, though not before extracting a vague promise from Ivy to "think about that dinner” before she slipped away to the barn.