Chapter 9 #2
Shelby looks at me. I look at her.
“Coffee,” I mumble. “Black. Thanks.”
She nods and glides off toward the bar, and I sink into the armchair.
The tightness in my chest has nothing to do with Shelby. Or the way she said Wyatt’s name. Or the hopeful little lilt in her voice when she mentioned her divorce.
Nothing. At. All.
Shelby returns with my coffee, and I thank her without quite meeting her eyes. I feel awful, she’s not done anything wrong, but I can’t help it. The moment she’s gone, I pull out my laptop and bury myself in work.
The Henderson ranch. Forty years in the family. Financial trouble that seemed to come out of nowhere. Mountain West Acquisitions paid well below market value, and the Hendersons never saw it coming.
Mountain West.
I’ve been staring at that name on Helena business filings for six months, and now it’s attached to a family I shared more than a decade of Fourth of July picnics with.
I pull up my running list. Whitmore and Associates, the paper firm that handled the Larkspur auction. Mountain West Acquisitions swallowing every other ranch in this valley. One phantom signatory running both. And the Blackwoods at the end of every title.
Names and dates and dollar figures, and not a single face I can attach to any of it. Just patterns.
And a stubborn feeling in my gut that these threads connect somehow. If only I can find it…
My laptop pings with an email from Glen, my editor at Rocky Mountain Magazine, and I click on it immediately.
SENDER: Glen Calloway glen.calloway@
RECIPIENT: Daisy Monroe daisy@
RE: Glacier Ridge + other
How are the interviews going? June issue waits for no one. Send me what you’ve got when you’re ready.
Re: the other thing, I called in a favor at the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Office. They’ll pull records if you can give them something concrete. Names, dates, specifics. Patterns aren’t enough. Get me the ranching piece on deadline and the staff job is yours.
Glen’s been in my corner since my first internship—the kind of editor who takes a chance on hungry freelancers and remembers what it’s like to chase a story that matters.
When I told him about Dad’s death and the fifty thousand dollars and the patterns I was finding, he didn’t tell me I was chasing ghosts. He told me to go to Montana.
I haven’t given him anything concrete yet. Just patterns and gut feelings. But Glen’s right. I need a thread. One name, one connection, one piece of evidence that turns coincidence into story.
I type a quick reply.
SENDER: Daisy Monroe daisy@
RECIPIENT: Glen Calloway glen.calloway@
RE: Glacier Ridge + other
Interviews going well. Feature is shaping up. Nothing concrete on the other thing yet, but I’m getting closer. Will send pages by end of week.
Short, vague, and optimistic. The freelancer’s holy trinity.
I’m neck deep in county records when my phone begins to buzz.
Felix.
I stare at the incoming video call for a moment as a weight settles on my shoulders. I haven’t responded to his last three texts, and with the promotion up in the air, I don’t want to do anything that could rock the boat.
Like continuing to dodge him.
I answer the video call and prop my phone against my coffee cup. “Hey.”
“There she is.” Felix’s face fills the screen, all sharp jawline and perfect hair. His voice is on. The one he uses in client meetings. “Starting to think you forgot about me, babe.”
I let the babe go because picking at it means an argument, and an argument on this side of the article means no shot at the staff job.
“Sorry. It’s been busy here.”
“I know. Your article.” He says it the way he always does. Like it’s a hobby I’ll grow out of eventually. “When are you coming home?”
“A few more weeks, I guess.”
He winces theatrically. “Figured. Listen, that’s actually why I’m calling.”
Here it comes.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the past two weeks. About us.” He leans closer to the camera, softening his voice into the version I used to fall for. “About how good we were together.”
About how good we looked together, because you’ve never seen the difference.
“We’re good as friends, Felix—”
He holds up his palm and rushes on. “I’ve cleared this weekend to fly out to see you. We’ll talk and fix this, babe.”
My stomach almost falls out my butt, and I shake my head frantically. “Felix, no. I’m working, and besides, you flying out here doesn’t fix anything.”
“It fixes us.” He flashes his brightest smile. “You miss me. You won’t admit it, but I know you do.”
I barely manage to stifle an eye roll when I catch Wyatt leaving the bar, his long stride carrying him toward the exit.
His eyes find me immediately. Take in the phone propped against my coffee cup, Felix’s face filling the screen, the conversation I’m clearly in the middle of.
“—take you to a nice hotel.” His voice drops, and his smile gets that lazy edge I used to find charming. “You can wear that red dress for me. You know the one.” He winks, innuendo dripping from his voice. “It wrecks me every time, babe.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I’m acutely aware that Wyatt has gone utterly still at the counter. He doesn’t turn around, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s heard.
I clench my jaw, barely holding it together as I grit, “Felix, what—”
“Love you, babe.” Felix winks, completely oblivious to the rage that’s flowing through me. “Call me later.”
The screen goes dark before I can respond.
I set the phone face down carefully as my face continues to burn. Wyatt’s gaze meets mine for a second, just long enough that I can see his green eyes darken slightly.
“Marcus is ready for you.” His voice is completely flat. “In the bar.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I gather my things, hyperaware of the way his gaze is fixed on some point over my shoulder, his spine rigid.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fine.”
He turns to go just as Shelby steps into his path, coffee pot in hand like she just happened to be passing through.
“Sneaking out without saying hi?” She tilts her head with a bright smile. “I’m offended, Hartley.”
And Wyatt—closed-off, stone-faced, hasn’t-cracked-a-smile-in-a-week Wyatt—actually smiles back.
It’s small. Just a slight curve of his mouth, a softening around his eyes. But it’s there.
“Hey, Shelby.” His voice is warmer than I’ve heard it all day. “How’ve you been?”
I stand there, laptop bag half on my shoulder, watching them chat like I’ve suddenly become invisible.
So he can smile.
He just doesn’t want to smile at me.
I don’t know why that bothers me so much. It shouldn’t bother me at all. The man’s allowed to be friendly with whoever he wants. We’re barely even friends.
“I should—” I gesture toward the bar. “Marcus is waiting.”
Wyatt nods without turning around. “Mm.”
I walk toward the bar, Shelby’s bright laugh following me all the way as I remind myself that I came here for answers. That’s all.
The ache in my chest when he smiled at her says otherwise.
And that’s a problem I wasn’t planning on having.