Chapter 2 #2
People weren’t giving me anything. So I turned to investigating land instead.
That’s when I traced the holding company that bought the Millers’ ranch.
Mountain West Acquisitions.
Same Helena profile as Whitmore. But where Whitmore dissolved cleanly, Mountain West went quiet—no new filings, no new transfers, just enough paperwork every year to stay registered.
Still on the books, sitting on a P.O. box that mail still gets delivered to.
Then I pulled every property in the valley over the last decade that had changed hands under financial duress and found Mountain West on four of them.
All below market.
All closed within weeks of the family going under.
And every one of those properties ended up in Blackwood hands.
When I laid Whitmore’s articles of incorporation beside Mountain West’s, the signatory name was the same. The same phantom person, with no trace that I could find, organized both companies. And Whitmore is listed as Mountain West’s registered agent.
Two Helena shell companies with no phone numbers, no physical offices, and a paper tie between them.
Every thread I pull from eight hundred miles away leads to the same place. A wall. And walls, in my experience, exist because someone built them.
The Hartleys don’t know about any of it. Not yet. I can’t walk back into their lives after three years of silence and have my hunch blow up their world. Not without proof I can show them.
Not without evidence.
So I came here to write an article. Or that’s the cover story, and it’s even technically true. My editor approved the pitch, we negotiated the word count and the deadline, and if it does well, there’s a staff position waiting for me on the other side. No more pitching into the void.
A real job with a real salary and benefits and the kind of stability I’ve been chasing since graduation.
Multigenerational ranching families and the struggle to preserve tradition in a changing world. It’ll be a good piece. Important, even. Written by the woman who couldn’t hold on to her own family’s land long enough to do anything with it.
There’s a joke in here somewhere…
A knock on the cabin door makes me jump so hard I knock my laptop sideways, barely catching it before it slides off the desk. I close the files so fast, you’d think I’d been caught watching porn.
Then I cross to the door and open it to find Wyatt standing on the porch.
His flannel shirt is blue-and-gray check, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to display forearms that should, frankly, be illegal.
His hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead.
His boots are dusty, his jeans are dusty, and there’s a smear of something on his jaw that might be dirt or dried sweat, and I have an absolutely unhinged urge to reach up and wipe it away.
His face is unreadable.
Classic Wyatt.
“Daisy-girl.” His tone is curt. “You made it.”
The nickname hasn’t lost any of its bite. Still the same gut-punch it was that Christmas. Like I’m something precious and fragile that needs the diminutive. Like no time has passed. Like too much has.
Or like I’ll always be the foreman’s kid to him, no matter how many years pass.
And I hate that I’ve spent this much time analyzing two syllables.
“Just Daisy,” I correct, keeping my voice level. “I’m not twenty anymore.”
He blinks several times. “No,” he answers slowly, his gaze moving over my face like he’s cataloging changes. “You’re not.”
Heat crawls up my throat as we stare at each other, the sun low enough to catch every line on his face.
He’s taller than I remember. Or maybe I just forgot how much neck it takes to look this man in the eye when you’re five foot nothing, but he’s six foot four and solid enough to block out the porch light.
The years have been annoyingly kind to him.
And I need to stop looking at him. Any second now, I will stop looking at him.
Wyatt Hartley is exactly as I remember.
Scratch that—he’s actually worse.
“Your cabin’s stocked.” He finally fills the silence. “Fridge has the basics. Milk, eggs, bread. Towels are in the bathroom cabinet. If you need anythin’ else, June does her grocery run Wednesdays.”
“Thanks for letting me stay. I know it’s an imposition.”
“It’s not.” He pauses, and his expression shutters. “Your dad would’ve wanted—” He stops, his jaw clenching ever so slightly. “Just don’t get in the way of work.”
“You said that in your email.”
“Figured it bore repeatin’.”
And there he is. Grumpy, guarded Wyatt Hartley, already shutting down like I’m a threat that needs containing.
I used to think he just didn’t like me. Then I got older and realized he’s like this with pretty much everyone. It’s nothing personal. It’s just Wyatt.
You’re only lying to yourself, Monroe.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” I promise, and I mean it. Mostly. As much as I can mean it while also planning to dig into every dark corner of this ranch’s history. “I’m just here to write an article.”
His eyes narrow slightly. I feel like he’s seeing past my very reasonable cover story and straight through to everything I’m not saying.
“That’s what you said in your email.”
I can’t help quirking a brow as I feed him his own words. “Figured it bore repeating.”
For just a second the corner of his mouth twitches, but it’s gone before it gets anywhere. Then his expression locks back down and he turns to leave.
“Sunday dinner’s at six,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Attendance ain’t optional.”
“Wyatt, I have to work—”
But he doesn’t stop. I watch him walk back toward the main house, his stride long and unhurried, and I can’t help noting his shoulders are stiff, almost like he’s carrying something he never seems to put down.
Does he even know how?
Sunday dinner. With the Hartleys.
My mind wanders toward what that means as his figure grows smaller in the distance. Sitting across from people I haven’t seen in years, people who knew me when I was all knobby knees and endless questions. People who watched my father get buried and never heard from me again.
I try to picture them all as they are now, not as the sun-bleached memories I’ve been carrying.
Colt, with his easy grin and complete inability to take anything seriously.
West, who communicates mostly in silence and somehow still makes himself understood.
Maggie, who has never once softened a truth just because it would’ve been kinder to.
And June, who came to this family with nothing at age ten and somehow became the heart of it.
I used to envy them growing up. The chaos of their dinners, the way they argued and laughed and drove each other crazy but always—always—showed up for each other.
My parents’ house was quiet after the divorce.
Polite and careful. The Hartley house was loud and messy and full of people who would die for each other without hesitation.
And now I’m supposed to sit down at their table and pretend I’m just here for an article.
I close the door and lean against it, pressing my palms flat against the cool wood.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I’m just here to do a job—two jobs, technically. My editor knows about both. There were leads I couldn’t chase without his contacts, calls I couldn’t make on my own. Which makes him either my co-conspirator or my conflict of interest, depending on how this plays out.
So I’ll write my article, I’ll find my answers, and I’ll leave before Wyatt Hartley has to use more than ten words at a time in my presence.
Simple. Easy. Totally achievable.
I push off the door and drop into the chair at the desk. My reflection in the window looks skeptical, and true to form, I choose to ignore it.
Outside, the light is fading, the last of it catching the snow still clinging to the mountain peaks in the distance. And through the window, I see a tall figure cross the yard, hat pulled low.
I watch for a moment, then turn back to my laptop and open my files. I came here for the truth about my father.
Everything else I can handle.
Probably.