Chapter 3
WYATT
Three years. I’ve had three years to prepare for the possibility that Daisy Monroe might come back, and I still wasn’t fucking ready.
As I stand at the kitchen sink, watching water run cold over my hands, I try to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Simple mechanics I’ve been doing my entire goddamn life without once thinking about it, until Daisy stepped out of that beat-up Honda and knocked the ground out from under me.
Again.
Seeing her shouldn’t have knocked me clean off my axis. But here I am.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
I hate how fast that thought comes. Like it’s been sitting there waiting.
I’ve got no business noticing it. No business holding on to it. But it’s there all the same.
And it’s not the makeup or the clothes. It’s the way the sun caught her hair, and the freckles across her nose, and the lift of her chin when she saw me, like she wasn’t about to let me get under her skin.
Her eyes are the same warm brown as Tom’s were, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Tom was patient. Steady as the trees. Daisy looks like she hasn’t stood still a day in her life, and I can’t decide if that makes me want to run the other way or step closer.
I spent twenty years working alongside Tom Monroe. Knew him better than I’ve known most people. Never once imagined I’d be standing at my own kitchen sink trying to talk myself out of wanting his daughter.
Shit!
I turn off the water and grip the edge of the sink, staring out the window at the guest cabin.
The lights are on, meaning she’s settling in.
Making herself at home in a place that holds a thousand memories of summer evenings when she was just a kid trailing after her dad, trying to keep up with his stride.
She should feel like a memory, but she doesn’t. She feels a whole lot like trouble.
That horse left the barn a long time ago, you sorry ass son of a bitch.
I’m still standing there, trying to get my shit together, when I hear boots on the kitchen floor behind me.
“You look like you’re tryin’ to strangle the faucet.”
I don’t turn around, simply snort in his general direction. “Colt.”
My brother drops into a chair at the kitchen table, props his boots up on the one beside him, and tilts back until he’s balanced on two legs, that cocky grin already in place.
At thirty-one, he’s still the best-looking Hartley by a mile, and he knows it, which is the goddamn most irritating thing about him.
“So, Tom’s girl rolled in.” He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Didn’t realize she’d turned into such a knockout.”
I keep my expression neutral. “She’s here to write an article, is all.”
“Uh-huh.” His grin widens. “You think she’d want a tour of town? I could show her around. The Rusty Spur’s got half-price appetizers on Thursdays.”
Over my dead body.
“She spent her summers here for years. Pretty sure she knows where everything is.”
“People change. Towns change.” He shrugs. “Besides, she might appreciate a friendly face. Someone to help her remember the good times. I was thinkin’ I could take her to—”
“Don’t you have cattle to move?”
“Finished an hour ago.” Colt’s sharp blue eyes study me. “You got a problem with me bein’ neighborly?”
“I got a problem with you sniffin’ around Daisy Monroe like she’s another belt notch.”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me, brother. Maybe I’ve reformed. Maybe I’m looking for something real this time.”
I shrug, leaning back against the counter. “She’s Tom’s daughter. Show some goddamn respect.”
“I am showing respect. And respect looks like makin’ sure she feels welcome. Can’t have her spending all her time cooped up in that cabin waitin’ to ask you boring questions about herd rotation and the Elk Creek fence line you’ve been putting off since the snow melted.”
“I’ll get to the damn fence line.”
“Sure you will.” He drops the chair back to all four legs with a thunk before fixing me with narrowed eyes. “Unless you want to be the one to show her around?”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“So do I. And yet somehow I still find time to be social.” He stands, stretching lazily.
“Guess I’ll just have to be the welcomin’ committee all on my lonesome.
Might take her to the summer fair in a couple of weeks.
They’ve got that band she used to like, the one that plays all the old country covers. ”
Of course he remembers what band she liked.
Because Colt Hartley has always paid attention to things like that, filed them away for exactly this kind of moment when he’s turning on the charm.
And as much as it kills me to admit, Daisy would be perfect for him. She’s bright, warm, and matches his energy. Two people who actually know how to smile without it looking like it pains them.
She’d probably laugh at his jokes and lean into him as though she belongs at his side.
The image makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
“Do what you want.” My voice is level. “Just don’t interfere with her work.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Colt heads for the door, then pauses, glancing back with that smirk. “You know, for someone who doesn’t care, you sure have a lot of opinions about who Daisy Monroe spends time with.”
He’s gone before I can respond, the screen door banging shut behind him.
I turn back to the window and focus on the view outside. The mountains in the distance are still capped with snow. The cattle are grazing in the far pasture. It truly is a sight for sore eyes, but I’m too busy getting a handle on myself that I don’t really see it.
I don’t know how long I stay standing there, but the cattle have drifted clear to the far fence line by the time Colt’s parting shot finally stops rattling around in my head.
The back door opens and Weston walks in, silent as usual. Whether that comes from working with traumatized horses or from growing up in a house this loud and learning to carve out space in the quiet, I’ve never been sure.
He doesn’t speak much. Not since Mom passed. But when he does, it’s worth listening.
He goes to the coffee pot, pours himself a cup, and leans against the counter to drink it. The silence stretches between us, comfortable and familiar. West has never needed words to communicate.
“She settle in okay?” he asks finally, his voice quiet.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He takes another sip of coffee. “Been a long time since she’s been here.”
“Three years.”
“Longer’n that, really. She stopped coming after that last Christmas.” West studies his cup like it holds answers. “Must be strange for her. Being back without Tom.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
“You gonna help her with that article?”
“If she needs it.”
West nods slowly. “She’ll probably want to interview all of us. Get the full picture of how the ranch operates.” He rinses his cup with the same methodical care he brings to everything. “Might need someone to show her around the property too. There’s been a lot of changes since she was last here.”
The idea sits wrong. Too much time. Too close. And I don’t like where my head goes with that.
“She knows the ranch.”
“She knew the ranch, Wy,” West corrects. “We’ve expanded the training facility, rebuilt the north fence line, and added the new calving barn to name a few. Lots different now.”
He’s got a point. I don’t have to like it, but he’s got a point.
West heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He glances back with the faintest hint of amusement in eyes the same shade of green as my own. “If she needs a tour guide, I’d recommend June.”
“June?”
“Over Colt, I mean.” His mouth twitches. “Unless you want Daisy getting the ‘Colt Hartley Experience.’ Complete with his greatest rodeo hits and phone numbers of at least six women who’d be more’n happy to vouch for his character.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “June’s an infinitely better choice.”
“Less chance of property damage or paternity tests.” West pushes the door open. “Just a thought.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the lingering smell of coffee and one less problem than I’d had five minutes ago.
* * *
Two hours. I’ve been staring at my goddamn ceiling for two hours. The farmhouse creaks and settles around me the way it has every night for thirty-five years, and none of it is enough. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
Just her. All of her. Standing there like she never left.
I’m not twenty anymore.
No. She’s fucking not.
That’s the whole goddamn problem.
I turn onto my side, punching my pillow into submission, like I can beat the thought of her out of my head, and try—oh Lord, do I try—to think about cattle prices. Feed costs. The north fence line that needs checking before the summer heat warps the posts.
Anything but the way Daisy looked standing on that cabin porch, close enough to touch if I was stupid enough to try.
But my mind won’t cooperate. It keeps drifting back to another evening six years ago when a red dress changed my life.
* * *
The ranch house is loud with holiday chaos. June’s directing traffic in the kitchen, Colt’s arguing with West about something pointless, and Maggie’s threatening to put coal in everyone’s stockings if they don’t stop getting in her way.
Dad’s got the fire roaring too hot and the tree so covered in lights it’s probably a fire hazard. Our second Christmas without Mom, and we all know he’s overcompensating. It’s as though if he fills the house with enough light and heat, nobody will notice the cold spot where she used to sit.
As I nurse a whiskey by the window, watching snow fall over the valley, the front door opens.
And then she steps inside.
Daisy Monroe in a red dress.
And I almost don’t recognize her.
That’s the thing that catches me off guard. I’ve known this girl since she was six years old, and for a split second, I don’t know who’s walking through my own front door.