Chapter 4
WYATT
I’m dressed before the sun even thought about rising. Gave up on sleep around four and spent the hours since reviewing inventory reports, responding to emails, and doing anything other than thinking about Daisy Monroe.
It didn’t work. Not even close.
But at least the ranch books are up to date.
I step outside into air cold enough to cut, and for a second, my head actually shuts the hell up.
My boots crunch on the gravel path. The main barn looms ahead, over a hundred years old and built by my great-great-grandfather when he first staked his claim on this valley. The foundation stones came from the creek bed, the timber from the trees on the hills.
Five generations of my family have held this land, and from long before I drew breath, Silas Blackwood’s been waiting, ready to step in at the least sign of opportunity. Dad warned me about it before he ever taught me to ride. Said Blackwoods don’t take.
They wait.
And when the moment comes, they ensure you hand it over and thank them for the favor.
It hasn’t happened yet. It won’t happen on my watch.
Not a hope in hell.
I’m reaching for the barn door when my Top Hand appears at my shoulder.
I don’t startle easy and never have, but in eight years, I still haven’t heard that man coming once. Eventually I stopped trying to figure out how someone that size moves that quiet and filed it under things about Rhett Cordova that don’t have a satisfying answer.
He’s already dressed for work in faded jeans, a worn flannel, and boots that have seen better days. His dark hair is damp from showering, pushed back from his face in a way that reminds me how much time has passed since Dad brought him home.
Eight years. Worked his way from ranch hand to Top Hand in three, which might be a record on this property. He’s part of the crew now, part of the family in all the ways that matter.
“You’re up early.”
He shrugs, falling into step beside me as I push open the barn door. “Couldn’t sleep.”
The animals shift in their stalls as we walk in, morning light coming through the high windows.
“Makes two of us,” I admit.
Rhett doesn’t say anything, just moves to the first stall and starts checking on Jasper, one of our older geldings. His hands are sure and gentle as he runs them down the horse’s legs, checking for heat or swelling.
We fall into the rhythm of morning chores.
Rhett heads toward the east stalls, and I take the west, no discussion required.
When I reach for the hay cart, he’s already pushed it to the end of the aisle.
When he needs the hoof pick, I toss it without looking up and hear him catch it one-handed. Eight years’ll do that.
The work keeps my hands busy. Doesn’t do much for my head.
It keeps circling back to her.
“Heard Daisy Monroe came back.”
My grip tightens on the leather of the bridle I’m checking.
I glance up to find Rhett watching me with those dark, steady eyes, one shoulder propped against the stall door like he’s been waiting to bring it up.
“Yeah.” I pause. “Arrived yesterday.”
“Staying long?”
“Few weeks. She’s writing an article.”
Rhett nods, continuing to work beside me for a while without saying anything else.
“She know her way around still?” he questions. “Or do I need to keep an eye on gates?”
“She grew up here.”
“People forget.” He checks a buckle, adjusts it, and moves on. “Three years is a long time.”
He’s not talking about gates. But he’s not going to say what he’s actually talking about either, and I’m not going to ask.
“She’ll be fine,” I mutter.
“Didn’t say she wouldn’t.”
We work in silence after that. Rhett moves to the next stall while I finish the bridle and start on the saddle rack. The horses settle around us, and the morning gets on with itself.
“Feels good, though,” Rhett remarks finally. “Having part of Tom back at the ranch.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because Rhett’s right. Tom would be thrilled she’s here. Tom would be standing right beside us, already figuring out how to rope Daisy into evening chores, how to make her feel like part of things again.
And he’d see straight through me, same as he did six years ago.
“Yeah,” I manage.
“He talked about her all the time. How proud he was.” Rhett’s eyes stay on his work. “Makes sense she’d wanna come back and write about the place he loved.”
I don’t answer because I can’t, really.
I turn back to the saddle in front of me and examine the leather with more attention than it requires. The silence stretches between us, comfortable the way silences get between two people who’ve spent enough mornings like this.
Rhett doesn’t push. He never does. It’s one of the things I appreciate most about him—he knows when to talk and when to let the quiet do the work.
But today, the quiet feels heavy and loaded with things I can’t say.
“You good?” he asks finally.
I look up to find Rhett watching me. Hard to tell what he’s thinking. He plays his cards close, same as me.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t call me on the lie. Just reaches over and claps a hand on my shoulder, once, firm, the way you’d steady a horse that’s thinking about bolting. Then he lets go.
“Sunday dinner’s tonight, right?”
“Six o’clock. Same as always.”
Sunday dinner is the one thing in this family that isn’t up for discussion. Mom built it, June kept it alive after she was gone, and we show up every week because that’s what it was always for. Rhett’s been coming since his first week on the ridge, and he hasn’t missed one since.
“June know I’m comin’?” he asks, eyes on the gelding’s foreleg.
“Christ, you come every week, Cordova.”
“Still.” He pauses. “Like to know she knows.”
I look at him, but he doesn’t look back. I’ve known this man for eight years, and there are still parts of him I can’t get a read on. I’ve learned to leave those parts alone.
“I’ll tell her,” I concede.
“Appreciate it.”
We spend the morning on the north fence line, patching what we can and flagging three posts that need full replacing.
The Elk Creek boundary has been on the list since before the snow melted.
Colt brought it up again yesterday, same as he does every few weeks.
He’s not wrong. There just aren’t enough hours.
Once the summer herd is moved, it’s next.
We move a section of cattle to fresh pasture, and the animals complain the whole way but that’s nothing new.
At the creek crossing, Boone, my chestnut quarter horse, walks straight through without breaking stride.
Rhett’s mare, Thyme, a dappled gray with more opinions than sense, plants her hooves at the bank and refuses to budge.
Rhett swears under his breath.
“Need a hand?” I ask, not bothering to hide the grin.
“She’s testin’ me.”
I attempt and fail to keep the smile from my voice. “Seems like she’s winnin’.”
He gives me a look that would curdle milk, then dismounts, walks into the creek up to his shins, and leads her across by hand. She follows him like a lamb.
Of course she does.
“Not a godforsaken word,” he mutters when he swings back into the saddle, boots squelching.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We ride the next mile in silence. I’m still smiling and he knows it. Neither of us mentions it.
I should be thinking about the fence line. Or the herd.
Instead I’m thinking about the way Daisy looked at me yesterday.
By the time I ride back into the barnyard, the sun is low and I’ve earned my dinner. The lights are already on in the main house.
Where Daisy is.
I pull Boone to a stop outside the barn. Take my time dismounting. Then I spend longer than necessary cooling him down, brushing until his coat gleams and he’s giving me looks that clearly say he’d like to be turned out now, thank you very much.
Afterwards, I check tack that doesn’t need checking. I reorganize the feed room. I do everything I can think of to delay the inevitable moment when I have to walk into that house and pretend I’m fine.
As though putting it off can make a bit of difference.
Finally, there’s not a damn thing left to do.
Shit.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession, which can only mean the Hartley Hellions group chat. Which means someone’s either dying or Colt’s done something stupid.
I pull it out.
JUNE
Dinner in 20. Daisy’s here. Where’s everyone?
COLT
Already in the kitchen.
JUNE
Stealing my good cheese is not “in the kitchen.”
COLT
I’m keeping it company. It was lonely.
JUNE
The cheese was not lonely.
COLT
You don’t know that. You don’t speak cheese.
MAGGIE
On my way. Long day. Save me the good wine.
JUNE
Already poured.
MAGGIE
This is why you’re my favorite.
COLT
Excuse me?
MAGGIE
Did I stutter, motherfucker?
Despite myself, my mouth twitches.
WEST
Walking over now.
COLT
Weston! Use more words. We want to know your thoughts. Your feelings. Your hopes and dreams.
WEST
No.
MAGGIE
Never change, West.
JUNE
Wyatt, you joining us or are you planning to sleep in the barn?
COLT
He’s probably reorganizing the tack room for the fourth time this week.
I steal a glance at the tack room I just reorganized. Twice in the last hour.
JUNE
Wyatt?
I know you’re reading this.
I shove the phone back in my pocket without responding.
Then I wash up at the barn sink, scrubbing trail dust from my hands and splashing cold water on my face.
The mirror above the sink shows me a man who looks every one of his thirty-five years.
My eyes are hollow and tired, my face needs shaving, and there’s dirt still clinging to my collar.
The old scar on my chin stands out white against the sunburn, but Dad always said it made me look like I’d earned my place.
Right now I just look tired. And not a damn thing like the kind of man a twenty-six-year-old woman looks twice at.
Not that I want her to look.
Fuck, I’m in so much trouble.
I grab a clean shirt from my locker, something June insisted I keep here for exactly this situation, and swap it with the one I’ve been sweating in all day. The new one is dark blue, and worn soft from a hundred washings.
It’s not fancy. Nothing about me is fancy.
But at least I don’t smell like horse anymore.