"Wyatt? We need to talk about the support beam measurements."
I step back quickly, releasing her. She slides down the post, legs unsteady, fumbling to straighten her clothes. Her hair is mussed from my hands, her lips swollen from my kisses, and she looks so thoroughly ravaged that every man in the county would know exactly what we were doing.
"Coming," I call down, my voice hoarse.
Emmy grabs her coat with shaking hands, not meeting my eyes. Hay clings to her sweater, and I reach out automatically to brush it away. She jerks back like my touch burns.
"This was..." she starts, then stops, shaking her head.
"A mistake," I finish, though the words taste like ash.
Her eyes flash. "Right. A mistake."
She pushes past me toward the ladder, boots clattering on the rungs as she climbs down. I follow more slowly, watching the rigid set of her shoulders as she heads for the barn doors.
"Emmy, wait."
She pauses at the threshold, hand on the frame, but doesn't turn around. "The foal needs those new stalls, Wyatt. Soon."
Then she's gone, disappearing into the snowy morning, leaving me alone with Matty's questioning looks and the taste of her still on my lips.
"Everything okay up there?" Matty asks, eyeing the hay in my hair.
"Fine." I brush the straw away, trying to ignore the way my hands still shake. "Let's get back to work."
But as I listen to Matty drone on about load-bearing calculations and foundation repairs, all I can think about is the way Emmy felt in my arms, how right it seemed despite everything wrong about it.
And how badly I want to feel it again.
The Christmas lights blink steadily outside the barn doors, cheerful and persistent, like a promise I'm not sure I'm ready to keep. But for the first time in months, the idea of Christmas doesn't feel like something to endure.
It feels like something worth hoping for.
Chapter 4
Emmy
Ispend the morning trying to forget the taste of Wyatt Callahan's mouth and failing spectacularly.
The storm rolls in faster than anyone expects, dark clouds gathering like bruises across the Montana sky. By noon, the radio crackles with weather warnings, and I'm restocking the emergency kit in my truck when my phone buzzes with a text from Matty.
Matty
Road to the ranch is washing out. Can you check on the animals before it gets worse? Wyatt's radio isn't working.
I stare at the message, my pulse hammering. Going back to Dry Creek means seeing him again, and after what happened in the barn yesterday, I'm not sure I trust myself around him. The memory of his hands sliding under my sweater, the way he lifted me like I weighed nothing, makes heat pool low in my stomach.
But the animals need checking, and that's what matters. At least that's what I tell myself as I drive through the first fat raindrops toward his ranch.
The Christmas wreaths on Main Street flutter wildly in the wind as I pass, and the Salvation Army Santa rings his bell with determined cheer despite the approaching storm. Mrs. Peterson waves from behind the window of Peak Produce, probably wondering why the new vet is heading toward Dry Creek in weather like this.
By the time I reach the ranch gates, rain pounds the windshield in sheets. I spot Wyatt by the cattle pens, a dark silhouette against the pale stretch of pasture. He doesn't wave. He never waves. But something about the rigid set of his shoulders tells me he's been watching for my truck.
I grab my veterinary bag and sprint through the downpour, boots splashing through puddles already forming in the gravel. The cold rain soaks through my coat in seconds, plastering my hair to my head.
"Matty said your radio was down," I call over the storm as I approach, trying to keep my voice professional despite the way my heart races at seeing him again.
Wyatt turns, and those storm-gray eyes lock on mine with an intensity that steals my breath. Water drips from the brim of his hat, and his shirt clings to his chest, outlining every muscle. I force myself to look away before I do something stupid.
