Chapter 5
WYATT
The walk to the main house feels longer than it should. The air’s warm and smells like whatever June’s been cooking all afternoon, and I hear them before I reach the porch.
Laughter.
Colt’s, loud and infectious, followed by June’s lighter giggle and then hers.
Daisy.
She’s laughing—really laughing—and I’m not ready for what that does to me.
For a moment, I consider turning around and walking back to the barn. Saddling up and riding out into the darkness until the sound of her joy stops echoing in my chest.
Instead, I take a deep breath and climb the porch steps.
The front door is open to catch the evening breeze, and through the screen I can see into the living room.
June is arranging wildflowers in a mason jar on the sideboard, standing on her toes to reach the top shelf, her pale blonde ponytail swinging as she works.
Mom used to do that same thing on Sunday afternoons.
Colt is sprawled across the couch with his usual disregard for furniture, gesturing expansively while he tells some story that’s probably only half true.
He learned to make it look easy the year he quit the circuit and moved into one of the larger cabins about half a mile down the south track.
I’m fairly sure I’m the only one who sees the cost behind it.
And Daisy.
She’s standing by the window with her back half-turned, and wearing a blue sundress that has no business looking the way it does on her.
Strappy. Simple.
And somehow worse for it.
The thin straps sit on her bare shoulders like an invitation I didn’t ask for. The neckline dips just enough to show the ridge of her collarbone and the soft hollow at her throat where her pulse is probably steady—unlike my goddamn own.
Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves down her back, brushing the bare skin between her shoulder blades where the straps cross. My hand tightens on the screen door frame before I even register the impulse.
She shifts her weight to one hip, moving the skirt of that sundress against her thighs, and I go half-hard on the goddamn porch like a teenager.
Motherfucker!
I clench my jaw and stare at my boots, waiting for my goddamn cock to get the memo that this can’t happen. Eventually I run out of reasons not to look at her, and cuss myself for it, because when I do, all I can think is that she looks like she belongs here.
Because she does belong here.
She’s been part of this place since she was six years old, trailing after Tom through the barn and asking why the Montana sky never seemed to end.
She’s the person Tom loved most in this world.
And I made him a promise.
That’s the whole goddamn problem. Because every time I look at her now, that promise gets heavier.
She’s a five-foot catastrophe with her father’s eyes and a body that makes me hate myself for noticing.
Nine years between us. When she was learning to ride, I was breaking horses. When she was graduating high school, I was burying my mother. We’ve shared the same dirt for twenty years but never the same world.
Daisy Monroe is not mine to want.
And she never will be.
The screen door creaks when I push it open, and every head in the room turns toward me.
“There he is,” Colt announces, not bothering to sit up. “We were starting to think you’d gotten lost between the barn and the house.”
“Thought about it,” I mutter, hanging my hat on the hook. “Changed my mind.”
“Dinner’s in twenty minutes.” June doesn’t look up from her flowers. “You can help me set the table.”
“Can’t wait.”
I make myself walk into the room like my blood isn’t running hot, like she isn’t the only thing in it I see. My hands are steady when I reach for the stack of plates because I will them to be. My stride is even because I force it to be.
My eyes go to the table, the chairs, the cutlery—anywhere but the strip of bare skin on her back. Anywhere that isn’t the way that dress clings to her waist like it was made for my goddamn hands.
I’ve spent thirty-five years perfecting this poker face, and one Sunday dinner isn’t going to break me.
Then Daisy Monroe looks at me and smiles, soft and easy, like she has no idea what she’s doing to me, and that poker face damn near shatters.
“Wyatt,” she murmurs. “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
“Told you dinner wasn’t optional.”
She grins brightly. “For me. I didn’t realize that applied to you too.”
Her eyes dance with humor. Or maybe a challenge. The same defiance I saw yesterday when she corrected me about her name, like she’s daring me to treat her like a child again.
Fuck, she’s pretty when she’s determined.
“House rules,” I manage. “June’s rules, specifically. Skip Sunday dinner and face the consequences.”
“The consequences being a guilt trip that lasts until the following Sunday,” Colt supplies helpfully. “Sometimes longer, if she’s really feeling creative.”
June throws a dish towel at his head. He catches it without looking, still grinning.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Daisy grins. Her eyes are still on me, warm and curious, before her phone chimes a notification in her hand. She glances down at the screen, and her lips draw tight for a moment until she smooths her expression before I can read it.
“Someone important?” Colt asks, because my brother has never met a boundary he didn’t want to stomp all over.
Daisy shrugs, tucking the phone into her pocket. “Just my ex. Checking in. We’re doing the friend thing, or whatever.”
The friend thing?
My back locks up.
As in friends… with benefits?
The kind of friend thing where they talk on the phone about how their days were? The kind who still gets her in bed when she’s home and lonely?
My grip on the plates goes hard as I force my thoughts down, filing it all away with everything else that isn’t my problem.
“Oh yeah?” Colt’s grin widens. “Denver guy? Let me guess—finance bro? Tech startup? Crypto enthusiast who won’t shut up about blockchain?”
“Marketing, actually.” Daisy laughs. “He works for a tech startup, so half credit.”
“What’s his name?”
“Felix.”
I busy myself with the plates, arranging them around the table with more precision than the task requires. Behind me, June is asking Daisy about her drive from Denver, and Colt’s already moved on to complaining about the potholes on Route 287.
Every muscle I own has a violent opinion about Felix from marketing.
I already don’t like him.
Some slick city guy who got the years I didn’t. Who got to know her. To touch her. To have her.
And from the sound of that friend thing, maybe he still gets to.
The plate in my hand clinks too hard against the table.
“Plates, not frisbees, mister,” June chides. “Gentle.”
“Sorry.” The word comes out rougher than I intend.
Get a motherfucking grip, idiot.
Daisy Monroe is an old family friend writing an article. Nothing more, nothing less. And absolutely nothing I’ve got a right to want.
Don’t be the thing that stops her.
With Tom’s words in my ears, I immediately lock everything down where it belongs. It never used to be this damn hard, but then again, she never used to be standing ten feet away in a blue sundress, close enough to touch.
Close enough to destroy me given half the chance.
“Though I have to say,” Daisy continues, and I can feel her eyes on me even though I refuse to look up, “the threat of June’s guilt trip isn’t exactly a hardship. Something smells incredible.”
“Pot roast.” June looks up with a smile. “Your dad’s recipe.”
Daisy’s expression shifts, and just for a heartbeat, raw pain flashes through her eyes before she smooths it away.
“He always said nobody made it like you do,” she answers quietly, smoothing out a non-existent crease on her dress.
June’s smile wobbles. “I learned from watching him. He was the real cook. I just followed instructions.”
Nobody says anything for a minute. Nobody needs to.
West appears in the doorway, quiet as always, and the tension breaks. He nods at Daisy, then moves to help June with something at the stove. Those two have always had their own language, communicating in glances and half-gestures that the rest of us can’t quite follow.
I clear my throat. “Table’s not going to set itself.” The move is graceless, but has the desired effect. June hands me a stack of napkins, directs Colt to fetch the good glasses, and the moment passes, replaced by the comfortable chaos of dinner preparation.
Colt’s phone vibrates, and he glances at it with a smirk. “Beckett says hey. And that I still owe him fifty bucks from the Super Bowl.”
“You bet against the Chiefs?” West asks, incredulity hanging from every word.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Colt shrugs, pocketing his phone. “He’s threatenin’ to fly out here and collect in person.”
“That’d be good.” June smiles. “We haven’t seen Beck since Christmas. How’s he doing?”
“Burnt out, overworked, the usual. Chicago’s eating him alive, but he won’t admit it.” Colt stretches his arms above his head. “Keeps talkin’ about taking a break, but you know Beck. He’d rather run himself into the ground than admit he needs help.”
The back door bangs open, cutting off whatever June was about to say.
Maggie comes through looking like she’s been through a war, her dark hair escaping its ponytail, her boots muddy, and what I sincerely hope is just dirt smeared across her cheek.
Beau barrels in behind her, all two hundred pounds of German Shepherd-Great Pyrenees mutt making a beeline for the nearest human.
“Sorry I’m late.” My sister doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. “Calving emergency at the Peterson ranch. Twins, both breech. Took me three hours to get them sorted.”
“Both survive?” West asks.
“Yup, sure did. Mama’s doing fine, too. Now I need a shower and a very large glass of wine.” She spots Daisy and her tired face breaks into a genuine smile. “Holy shit. Daisy Monroe, as I live and breathe.”
Beau has already found his target, shoving his massive head into Daisy’s chest with an enthusiasm that threatens to knock her over. She laughs, dropping to her knees to accept his affection.
“Hello, gorgeous,” she coos, scratching behind his ears. “Aren’t you the handsomest boy? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Beau’s tail achieves a velocity that threatens the nearby lamp.
“He has no manners.” Maggie grins. “And neither do I, apparently. Get the hell over here.”
She pulls Daisy into a fierce hug despite her exhaustion, and Daisy practically disappears into her.
Maggie got the Hartley height so Daisy’s honey-blonde head barely comes up to my sister’s chin.
The tension in my shoulders loosens as I watch them.
Maggie’s never met a living thing she couldn’t comfort—two-legged or four.
If anyone was going to make Daisy feel welcome, it was going to be her.
“You look amazing.” Maggie pulls back to study Daisy’s face. “City life agrees with you.”
A shadow flickers across Daisy’s features—there and gone too fast to read. “Thanks, you too.” She pauses, taking in the muddy boots, the exhaustion behind the smile. “You finished vet school?”
“Just last spring.” Maggie shrugs, but there’s pride underneath the casual tone.
“Took over Doc Harrison’s practice when his arthritis got too bad for large animal work.
There’s one other large animal vet in the county but he’s based out of Helena, so I get most of the calls.
It’s exhausting, but I love it. Even when it means spending my days elbow-deep in a cow’s uterus. ”
Daisy laughs. “Some things never change. You always said you were going to be a vet.”
“And you always said you were going to be a journalist. Look at us, living the dream.”
They share a giggle as the back door opens and Rhett steps in, hat in hand.
June glances up from the stove. Just for a second. The kind of glance you give someone whose presence settles the room.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
“Hey,” he answers.
That’s all. She goes back to stirring. He hangs his hat, catches my eye across the kitchen, and nods once before heading to wash his hands.
I look away and find myself taking in the whole room at once.
Because that’s the thing about this family. We absorb people. Pull them in and don’t let go.
Dad did it with Tom. With June. With Rhett.
We all do it, in our own ways.
Looking at Daisy now, watching her laugh at something Maggie says while Beau leans against her legs like she’s his new favorite person, I realize we did it with her, too. Fifteen summers of treating her like family, and somewhere along the way, she became family.
Which is exactly why I need to lock down whatever the hell I’m feeling and throw away the key.
I just need to keep reminding myself of that until I actually believe it.
June claps her hands once, the sound cutting through the chatter. “Alright, everyone. Dinner’s ready. Find your seats, and for the love of God, Colt, if you touch that breadbasket, I will end you.”
And with that, the chaos of seating begins.