"Evelyn!" I reprimand, but there's no heat behind it.
She shrugs innocently. "What? Someone had to say it."
Mom sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Enough. Go cool off, Willow. And remember what I said."
I nod and then quickly escape the kitchen, practically running up the stairs. I throw myself on my bed, every nerve ending sparking, every thought tangled up in Wyatt, every fear as alive as it's ever been.
Several hours pass, but the afternoon drags. I spend most of it pacing my room, peeking out the window at the ranch entrance every five minutes, and praying Wyatt's truck will appear.
By the time the sun starts to slip behind the rolling hills, the house is bustling again. The kids thunder through the halls, the smell of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes fills the air, and the kitchen hums with chatter.
I look at my phone again.
Me: Are you coming back soon?
There's no reply.
My nervousness ticks higher.
The dinner bell rings, and I leave my room. I descend the stairs, picking at the edge of the banister, and listen to everyone laughing.
Where is he?
Worry eats at me. Wyatt's injured, whether he wants to admit it or not. He needs rest. But I know him well enough to know that no matter how bruised and sore, he'll work out until his bones are on the verge of breaking if something is bothering him.
And I gather his talk with Jagger didn't go well.
Dinner starts without him. I sit at the far end of the table, pushing food around my plate, barely tasting a thing. The room echoes with jokes and stories. The only ones not engaging are Dad, Jagger, and me.
Ava gives me a sidelong look and murmurs, "You gonna eat that or just play with it?"
I force a smile. "I'm not hungry."
She arches an eyebrow. "You were always a terrible liar."
I ignore her and stand, gathering my plate. "I'm going to the Butterfly House."
Paisley's eyes go wide. "At night?"
"It's not like the butterflies are going to mug me," I deadpan.
I avoid Dad's narrowed gaze.
I scoop a generous portion of chicken, mashed potatoes, and roasted carrots onto a new plate, adding a warm roll and a slab of butter. I wrap it all in foil and then tuck it under my arm.
"Feeding the enemy?" Jagger asks snidely.
I glare daggers at him, snapping, "Don't."
He scowls, giving me the same betrayed look he wore when he arrived at the Butterfly House.
I slip out the door.
The evening air bites with cold. Stars prick the dark sky. A sliver of the moon appears over the hill. Each breath clouds in front of me. My boots crunch across the frost-tipped grass as I cross the wide yard and head down the path to the guesthouse.
When the holiday lights come into focus, I pause, my heart hammering.
His truck isn't here.
