Chapter 19
Ivy
Main Street had been transformed into something from a dream.
String lights zigzagged overhead like captured stars, casting everything in a warm golden glow that made even the hardware store look magical.
The annual Copper Creek Summer Dance had taken over downtown—booths lined the street selling everything from fresh lemonade to handmade leather goods, the smell of barbecue and funnel cake mixing in the warm evening air.
Fiddle music spilled from the makeshift stage in front of the courthouse, where the Broken Spoke Band was working through their repertoire of Texas swing and classic country.
Couples two-stepped in the cordoned-off street, kids ran between the booths with sticky faces and prizes from the ring toss, and it seemed like everyone in three counties had come out to celebrate.
I stood near the pie booth with Maggie and Sophie, a cold beer sweating in my hand and something light in my chest I hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever.
“So then Hunter says—completely serious, mind you—‘It’s not broken, it just needs percussive maintenance,’” Maggie was saying, gesturing with her fork like a preacher with a sermon. “And proceeds to beat the ever-loving hell out of the tractor with a wrench until it starts.”
Sophie snorted so hard she almost dropped her lemonade. “No. Way.”
“Oh, it worked,” Maggie said, laughing. “It always works. Man’s basically a redneck wizard. If it’s metal and it moves, Hunter can fix it—with violence and profanity.”
I grinned. “So he’s not a mechanic, he’s an exorcist.”
Maggie laughed so hard she had to set her fork down. “Exactly. He lays hands on it, cusses a little, and boom—salvation.”
Sophie leaned in, her dark eyes still dancing. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. So does Hunter Blackwood, apparently.”
We all cracked up, the kind of laugh that leaves you breathless and a little teary.
This was new—this easy rhythm, this warmth. In Dallas, I’d had colleagues and networking contacts and people who smiled strategically at charity galas. But this? This was friendship. Real and messy and loud. The kind that comes with inside jokes and unspoken loyalty.
“Oh, hell,” Sophie murmured suddenly, glancing over my shoulder. “Incoming. Tommy Barrett, twelve o’clock.”
Maggie groaned, already trying to duck behind the pie table. “No, no, no. That man’s been orbiting me for months. If I hear one more line about my ‘pretty blue eyes,’ I’m gonna throw pie.”
“Which flavor?” I asked.
“Whichever one stains worst,” she muttered.
The crowd shifted, laughter and music weaving through the night air, and then—there he was.
Wyatt leaned against his truck at the edge of the square, half in shadow, half in the amber glow of the string lights.
One boot heel hooked on the running board, a beer dangling from his fingers, the label dark with condensation.
He’d dressed up, though he’d never admit it—dark jeans that fit him indecently well, a black shirt rolled to the elbows, his good hat pulled low. Controlled power. Lethal calm.
And those eyes—locked on me.
He’d been watching. I felt it now, retroactively—every prickle at the back of my neck since I’d arrived, every warm pulse under my skin when I laughed, the way my body had somehow known I was being seen.
Every time I laughed, his gaze sharpened. Every time someone leaned in close, his jaw flexed. And when our eyes met across the square, it hit like contact.
The breath punched out of me. Heat flared low in my belly, spreading upward until even the night air felt too tight. My fingers tightened around my beer bottle, glass slick with sweat. He didn’t look away. Neither did I.
He tipped his head just slightly—barely a movement—but it felt like a summons.
“Ivy?” Maggie’s voice came from somewhere far away, muffled like I was underwater. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I managed, dragging my gaze back to the group. My voice sounded breathless even to me. “Just…hot.”
Sophie smirked, eyes flicking between us. “I’ll bet.”
The band switched to something slower, sweeter—an old George Strait song that turned the night soft around the edges.
Louisa and Owen were dancing in the square, her head tucked against his chest, his hand curved around her waist like it belonged there.
Forty years, and they still looked at each other like no one else existed.
“Relationship goals,” Sophie murmured.
“They’ve earned it,” Maggie said quietly.
“Wasn’t always easy for them,” Liam added, suddenly appearing beside us, beer in hand. He grinned. “Blackwoods never are. We just love hard, fight loud, and protect what’s ours.”
“Speaking of which,” Sophie said, tilting her head toward the square. “Pretty sure our brother’s about to commit a felony.”
I turned.
Wyatt had straightened from his truck, his whole body coiled tight. His hat was still low, but I could feel the heat in his stare even from here—possessive, frustrated, hungry.
A cowboy I didn’t recognize was moving toward me through the crowd, grinning, clearly about to tap my shoulder.
“Excuse me,” I murmured, already moving before my brain caught up with my feet.
The world seemed to narrow—just the space between us and the drumbeat of boots on hard-packed dirt.
The crowd seemed to part as I moved, or maybe that was just my imagination.
The music faded to background noise, the laughter and chatter becoming a distant hum.
All I could see was Wyatt, all I could feel was the magnetic pull between us that had never gone away, no matter how many years or miles had separated us.
I stopped just out of arm's reach, close enough to realize he’d put on cologne for tonight. It was something musky and spiced. Something manly that had me wanting to bury my face in his chest and breathe deep.
"Hi," I said brilliantly.
"You look beautiful," he said, his voice rough like he'd been drinking whiskey instead of beer. "That dress..."
I'd worn blue—a sundress that was probably too nice for a street dance, but that I'd bought in Dallas and never had occasion to wear. It made me feel pretty, feminine, desired. The way he was looking at me confirmed all three.
"You clean up nice yourself," I managed.
"Ivy—" he started, then stopped, his hand clenching around his beer bottle.
The band switched songs, the fiddle sliding into something slow and sweet. A waltz, of all things. Couples moved together on the makeshift dance floor, bodies close, the summer night wrapping around them like a blessing.
Wyatt set his beer on his truck hood, then extended his hand. "Dance with me, Ivygirl."
The old nickname, the one only he had ever used, made my breath catch. I hesitated only a heartbeat before sliding my hand into his.
He led me into the crowd of dancers, then pulled me close—closer than friends would dance, closer than taking it slow suggested. One hand splayed across my lower back, the other holding mine against his chest, where I could feel his heartbeat racing to match mine.
We moved together like we'd never stopped dancing, like the fourteen years between our last dance and this one had been a pause, not an ending. My body remembered his—the way we fit, the way he moved, the way his thumb stroked small circles on my back that sent shivers down my spine.
"I've been trying to stay away," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Give you space. Let you settle in without pressure."
"I know."
"It's killing me."
My lips curved with a hint of a smile. ”I know that too."
He pulled back enough to look at me, and the heat in his eyes made my knees weak. "Tell me to back off. Tell me we need more time. Tell me something, Ivy, because I'm about five seconds from doing something that definitely isn't taking it slow."
Around us, couples swayed and turned, the town celebrated, and life went on. But in our bubble, time had stopped. The world had narrowed to just us—the heat between our bodies, the memory of every kiss we'd shared, the promise of what could be.
"I don't want slow," I whispered.
His hand tightened on my back. "Ivy..."
The words that had been on the tip of my tongue for weeks finally came out. ”I want you. I've wanted you since I came back. Since before that. Since always."
The song ended, but we didn't move. We stood there in the middle of the street, bodies pressed together, breathing the same air, trembling on the edge of something inevitable.
"Let's get out of here," he said, voice low and rough.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He took my hand and led me through the crowd. I caught Maggie's knowing smile, Louisa's approving nod, but they felt distant, unimportant compared to the heat of Wyatt's hand in mine, the purpose in his stride.
His truck was parked at the edge of the festivities. He opened my door, helped me in with a hand on my elbow that lingered, burned. Then he was in the driver's seat, starting the engine, pulling away from the curb with controlled urgency.
The road out of town was quiet, empty. His headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the familiar path—past the Hendersons' ranch, past the old water tower, past all the landmarks of our shared history.
Every mile felt like falling—not the terrifying plunge of our youth, but the deliberate choice of adults who knew the cost and were choosing to pay it anyway.
"Where are we going?" I asked, though I already knew.
"Where do you want to go?"
The sign for the Blackwood ranch flashed by, caught in the headlights for just a moment. Blackwood Ranch, established in 1892. Four generations of history, tradition, stubborn resilience.
I looked at him—this man who'd been my boy, who'd waited fourteen years, who'd built our dreams alone and lived in them like a ghost. His profile was sharp in the dashboard light, jaw tight with restraint, hands gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.
"Home?" I said, making it a question.
He turned to look at me then, quick but intense, and his answer rewrote our future with a single word:
"Always."
The truck turned down the ranch road, gravel crunching under the tires, headlights sweeping across the pastures where our story had started. But this time, we weren't running toward something we couldn't have or from something we couldn't face.
This time, we were simply coming home.
Together.