I toss him a grin. “You just don’t want goats in our kitchen anymore.”
“Damn right.” He points at Maisie. “This one’s fine. The gremlin herd? No.”
Maisie wags, smug.
I reach for my tea and accidentally rub the shoulder Clarissa’s man grazed months ago. Wyatt notices instantly—he always notices—and his whole body tilts toward me. Not tense. Just aware. Ready.
“Shoulder hurting?” he asks quietly.
“A little. Cold makes it cranky.”
He presses a warm thumb to the muscle and kneads gently. “Better?”
I melt like butter on a stove. “Yeah. Thank you.”
My nerves were like tripwires after the kidnapping. The first few nights, I woke gasping, and he pulled me into his chest without a word, palm steady on my spine until the world stopped spinning. Now the nightmares come less often… but he still reaches for me in his sleep, like his body keeps watch even when his mind rests.
We step outside with fresh mugs. The sun glints off the snow, promising a spring it hasn’t entirely delivered. Wind whistles through the trees. Somewhere across the field, the goats scream like tiny demons.
Wyatt slides an arm around my waist. “Shay texted. Max said ‘Sadie’ this morning.”
I grin. “He likes me.”
“He likes anyone who feeds him biscuits.”
I elbow him. He grunts. I smirk. He bends to kiss my temple—that quiet, grounding touch he still gives me when shadows flicker behind my ribs.
After a moment, he asks, “You doing okay today?”
He means:
Any panic? Any nightmares? Is Clarissa’s trial next week making you spiral?
Instead of asking all that, he just gives me space to choose.
“I’m okay,” I say honestly. “Nervous, but… good. The statements are done. Harry—Agent Hawk—said the evidence is solid, and Clarissa won’t see daylight for a long time.”
Wyatt exhales slowly, tension draining from his shoulders. “Good.”
“Tex still texting you photos of drones?” I ask.
Wyatt huffs. “He’s trying to convince me to install a perimeter system around the new house.”
“Are you going to?”
He shrugs. “Probably. Tank volunteered to dig trenches for the wiring.”
I laugh. “He just wants an excuse to use the backhoe.”
A long silence settles, comfortable and sun-warmed. The kind that didn’t exist in my life before him.
“We made it,” Wyatt murmurs. “Three months ago, we weren’t sure we would.”
“But we did.” I squeeze his hand. “And now we get to live. How long do you think till the house is done?”
“That depends on how often you distract me during construction,” he teases.
I raise an eyebrow. “Can’t help it if my husband is the hottest thing in jeans and flannel.”
