Chapter 3 #2
Where’s the kid who used to follow her dad around the barn, asking a thousand questions?
Or the gangly teenager who begged me to teach her how to drive stick and nearly gave me a heart attack grinding the gears?
Or even the college freshman who talked too fast about journalism and changing the world, all elbows and enthusiasm and unbrushed hair?
Where did that girl go?
Because the woman standing in the doorway sure as hell ain’t her.
This woman has curves I’ve never noticed, shoulders I’ve never seen bare, and wears that damn dress like a dare. Her hair falls in loose golden waves instead of the messy ponytail I’m used to, and when she laughs at something June says, I lose my train of thought completely.
And I can’t tear my eyes off her.
She stomps snow off her boots and shrugs out of her coat, and Colt’s already moving to take it from her, saying something that makes her laugh again. She swats his arm, easy and familiar, then hugs Maggie, compliments June on something that smells amazing, and kisses my father on the cheek.
She belongs here. She’s always belonged here. But tonight she looks like she knows it, like she’s finally grown into the space she’s always occupied.
Get a grip on yourself.
I take a long pull of whiskey and try to ignore the sudden tremble in my hand.
She’s twenty years old. I’m almost thirty. And she’s Tom Monroe’s pride and joy.
Tom.
Who’s standing fifteen feet away, beaming at her like she hung the moon. Who trusts me with everything. Who would put me in the ground if he knew what I was thinking right now.
Which is nothing. I’m thinking nothing.
And the fact I can’t pry my eyes away from her means exactly that.
Nothing.
I’m going to finish this drink and go check on the horses and forget that I ever looked at Daisy Monroe.
“Wyatt!”
Too slow, idiot!
She’s spotted me lurking by the window like some kind of antisocial gargoyle, and now she’s crossing the room with a bright smile that makes my pulse quicken dangerously.
“Merry Christmas, Wyatt.” She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light and floral that doesn’t belong to the Daisy I remember. “You’re hiding.”
“Not hidin’. Drinkin’.”
“You can do both.” She tilts her head, studying me with those warm brown eyes. “You okay? You look… I don’t know. Tense.”
I’m not tense. I’m losing my goddamn mind.
“Long week,” I manage, sounding surlier than intended.
“It’s Christmas Eve. You’re supposed to relax.”
“Cattle don’t know it’s Christmas.”
She laughs—that new laugh, the rich one—and my hand tightens on the glass.
“Same old Wyatt.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “Would it kill you to have fun for one night?”
Same old Wyatt.
That’s what she sees. A grumpy family friend. The guy who’s always working, always serious, always treating her like the kid she used to be.
Better that than the truth.
“Fun’s overrated.” I drain the rest of my whiskey. “I should go check the horses.”
Her smile falters. “Now? But we haven’t even—”
“Merry Christmas, Daisy-girl.”
The nickname comes out rough. A wall built from the only tools I have—distance and gruffness. I don’t know where it came from, I just know I need it.
She opens her mouth, but I’m already moving, grabbing my coat from the hook, and I’m out the door before she can respond.
The bitter cold hits the second I step outside, and I welcome it.
By the time I make it to the barn, I almost feel human again. I rest a hand on the nearest gelding’s neck, taking a beat to breathe in the familiar scent of horse, hay and old leather.
The barn door creaks open behind me, and I don’t have to turn to know it’s Tom.
Slowly and deliberately, he stomps the snow from his boots before walking down the row of stalls. When he reaches the one over from me, he leans against the wall and pulls a flask from his coat, passing it to me without a word.
I take it, mostly to have something to do with my goddamn hands.
“That dress threw you, didn’t it.”
The words alongside the fact that it’s a statement, not a question, make the whiskey burn my throat as I swallow.
“Didn’t notice.”
“Son.” Tom takes the flask back. “I’ve known you your entire life. I know your tells. Saw you go white as a sheet across the room just now.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
“Listen to me, Wyatt.”
I make myself look at him, guilt eating right through my guts.
“That’s not a girl you date. That’s a girl you marry. And she’s too young to know what that means yet.”
She’s only twenty, just starting out.
“And she’s got dreams, son. She’s been chasing them since she could talk. A journalist in a big city. She’ll do it, too.” Tom looks me dead in the eye, not a hint of anger in any part of him. “Don’t be the thing that stops her.”
I’d rather lose a hand.
But I don’t say the words. Instead, I just hold his gaze before nodding solemnly. He reaches across to pat my shoulder, brief and firm.
“You’re a good man.”
And then he’s gone.
The barn is quiet aside from the horses shifting in their stalls, and I’m left with a promise I’d rather die than break. He didn’t tell me to leave her be, he didn’t have to.
He reminded me of who she is and what she needs.
And that’s all she can ever be.
* * *
I stayed in the barn until I knew everyone had gone to bed, and I didn’t see her again before she left. Two days later, she was back in Denver, and I spent months telling myself it was for the best.
I might have kept telling myself that forever, except Tom died, and she came back for the funeral.
And when she stood at that graveside in a black suit that didn’t fit right, her face pale and lost, all I wanted was to pull her against my chest and hold her together.
To promise her that everything would be okay, even though nothing was.
Even though I was drowning in my own grief and could barely keep my head above water.
But I’d made a promise to both Tom and myself that Christmas. So I shook her hand for the space of half a heartbeat and mumbled something about condolences. And I watched the hope die in her eyes before she turned away. She thought I didn’t care.
That might’ve been easier.
I spent three years burying it after that. Three years of getting real damn good at pretending the feeling was gone.
Then she opened the cabin door, and I understood that six years hadn’t fixed a damn thing. I’d just gotten better at not looking.
I throw an arm over my eyes, blocking out the darkness that doesn’t help anyway.
One night. She’s been back one night, and already the walls are cracking.
I’m so screwed.