"I knew she was scared," he said. "I knew she was running from something that wasn't you. And I knew that if I told you that night, you would have gone after her, and maybe that would have made things worse."
"Worse?" I laughed bitterly. "How could it have been worse?"
"I don't know. But she was terrified, Wyatt. Not sad, not conflicted—terrified. And when someone's that scared, there's usually a damn good reason."
His words rearranged something in my chest, but I wasn't ready to examine it.
"Maybe," Liam continued, "this is a chance to finally get answers. To finally understand. To finally move on—either with her or without her, but at least knowing why."
"Or maybe," I countered, "this is just another chance for her to destroy what's left of me."
Liam didn't argue with that. He just clapped me on the shoulder and left me alone with my thoughts and my anger and my fear that seeing her again might undo all the careful walls I'd built to keep functioning.
That night, I sat on the porch of the cabin I'd built on the north pasture—the one I'd started for her and finished for spite. It was exactly what we'd talked about all those years ago. Two bedrooms for the kids we'd planned. A kitchen with windows facing east for morning sun. A porch swing where we could sit and watch our grandkids play.
I'd finished it three years after she left, working myself to exhaustion every night after ranch work. Everyone thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. But I needed to build something, to create rather than destroy, to prove that I could still make beautiful things even with broken hands and a shattered heart.
The irony wasn't lost on me—I'd built her dream house, and now I lived in it alone like some gothic tragedy. The empty rooms echoed with ghosts of conversations we'd never have, children's laughter that would never fill the halls, a life that existed only in the parallel universe where she'd stayed.
I pulled out my phone and did what I'd sworn I'd never do—I googled her.
Ivy Garrison, Summit Range Livestock Consulting.
The photos that came up showed a polished professional in a suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. Her honey-blonde hair was shorter, styled in a way that screamed city sophistication. She stood with other suits in sterile offices, smiling that professional smile that didn't reach her eyes.
But it was still her. Still the girl who'd punched Tommy Faulkner for making fun of me in seventh grade. Still the girl who'd helped birth calves and race horses and dance in barn lofts. Still the girl who'd promised me forever and given me nothing but goodbye.
"You think this'll fix him?" I'd heard Mom ask Dad when they thought I was out of earshot.
"No," he'd replied. "But maybe she will."
They were both wrong. There was no fixing this. No fixing me. But in five days, Ivy Garrison was coming home.
And God help me, part of me—the stupid, hopeful, masochistic part that still went to our spot by the creek—could hardly wait.
Chapter 3
Ivy
The road back to Copper Creek stretched like a lifetime, each mile marker a year I’d been gone, each curve a memory I’d tried to forget.
Before dawn, I’d done what I should’ve done weeks ago.
Mark stirred when I sat on the edge of the bed, his perfect hair a mess for once, his voice rough with sleep. “You’re really leaving today?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly, pulling my suitcase zipper closed. “And… I think that’s probably it, Mark.”
He blinked at me, still half-asleep. “It?”
“It for us.” It came out soft, but steady. “You’re a good man, but this isn’t working. Not for me.”
He laughed under his breath, disbelieving. “You’re just stressed about the trip. You’ll call me in a few days and?—”
“I won’t.”
He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist. “Come on, Ivy. You don’t throw away something that works because of nerves. We’re fine.”
We were fine. That was the problem.
