He left before I could respond, the door closing with a soft click that sounded like judgment.
I stood alone in the cabin that smelled like fresh linens and chocolate chip cookies and grace I didn't deserve. Through the window, I could see the barn where Wyatt had disappeared. Was he in there now, working himself to exhaustion like Clay said? Was he thinking about me at all, or had he already dismissed me as just another complication to be managed?
As the sun climbed higher, turning the morning into afternoon, I unpacked slowly. My clothes looked absurd in the simple closet—silk blouses next to empty hangers, designer jeans that had never seen real dirt. My laptop and files looked alien on the rustic wooden desk, all that corporate efficiency out of place in this world of honest work and simple truths.
Evening came slow and golden, the way it only did in Texas. Through the window, I watched the ranch come alive with evening chores. Cowboys—ranch hands, though Louisa had always insisted on calling them cowboys—moved between barns and pastures with the easy rhythm of people who knew their work and did it well. I could see Owen talking to someone by the breeding barn, his hands moving as he explained something. Clay's truck pulled up to the main house, and Hunter's mechanic truck was already parked there.
And then I saw him. Wyatt emerged from the barn, leading a black horse that had to be Tempest—Owen had mentioned him as their prize stallion. Man and animal moved together with an understanding built over the years. Wyatt's hat was pushed back, and the evening light caught his profile—sharp and perfect and achingly familiar.
He paused at the pasture gate, one hand on Tempest's neck, and for a moment, he looked in my direction. Even from a distance, even with the sunset in my eyes, I felt the weight of his gaze. Then he turned away, leading Tempest toward the north pasture with the determined stride of a man with somewhere to be.
I knew where he was going. The same place he'd always gone when he needed to think, to be alone, to find peace.
The creek. Our place.
"You can do this," I whispered to the empty room, to the approaching darkness, to the girl I used to be who'd been brave enough to love him but not brave enough to stay. "You have to do this."
Tomorrow would bring the meeting, the work, the professional distance I could hide behind. But tonight, I was just a woman in a borrowed cabin, watching the lights of a life that had gone on without me, knowing that the hardest part wasn't coming home.
The hardest part was realizing I'd never really left.
Chapter 4
Wyatt
The family gathered around the long oak dining table at seven sharp, because Blackwoods were nothing if not punctual. This table had been our boardroom for three generations—deals made, plans hatched, futures decided over Mom's coffee and Dad's stubborn will. Today, it would be where Ivy Garrison stood up and told us how to run our ranch better.
The thought made my jaw clench so hard my teeth ached.
I took my usual seat, back to the window so I could watch everyone else. Clay sprawled in his chair like he didn't have a care in the world, but his fingers drummed against the table—his tell when he was nervous. Maggie had her laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard, probably pulling up spreadsheets and financial projections. Always prepared, our Maggie. Hunter sat quiet as always, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, watching everything with those thoughtful eyes. Liam had taken the seat next to me, a silent show of support I didn't ask for but appreciated anyway.
Mom bustled around, setting out pastries and refilling coffee cups even though everyone had told her to sit down. It's what she did when she was anxious—fed people, fussed over them, tried to smooth rough waters with food and maternal energy. Dad stood at the head of the table, his usual spot, talking quietly with Luke, who'd driven in from Dallas for this. The baby of the family at twenty-five, but he had a sharp mind for business that would probably take him far from ranch life.
And then she walked in.
Time in Dallas had polished Ivy Garrison into something that barely resembled the girl who'd run barefoot through our pastures. She wore slacks that probably cost more than most people'smonthly salary and a silk blouse the color of cream. Her hair was pulled back in some complicated style that looked effortless but probably wasn't. She carried a leather portfolio and a laptop like weapons, and her face was a mask of professional calm.
But I saw the tell-tale signs. The way her fingers tightened on the portfolio when she saw me. The slight hitch in her breath when our eyes met for half a second before she looked away. The careful way she moved, like she was walking through a minefield.
Good. She should be nervous.
"Morning, everyone," she said, her voice steady and professional. Nothing like the girl who used to whisper my name in the dark.
Everyone murmured greetings. Mom pulled her into a quick hug that Ivy accepted stiffly, like she'd forgotten how to be hugged by someone who meant it. The contrast between them was stark—Mom all warmth and worn denim, Ivy all sharp edges and expensive fabric.
"Let's get started," Dad said, ever the businessman. "Ivy, the floor is yours."
She moved to the head of the table with a confidence that was new, setting up her laptop with efficient movements. When she turned it toward us, the wall behind her lit up with a projection—she'd set that up earlier, apparently. Of course, she had. Probably came in at dawn to make sure everything was perfect.
"Thank you for this opportunity," she began, and her voice had taken on a slight accent I didn't recognize. Not quite Dallas, not quite anything. Like she'd scrubbed the Copper Creek out of her voice and replaced it with something generic and forgettable. "I've spent the last week reviewing your current operations, and I'm impressed with what you've built here."
Flattery. Starting with compliments to soften us up. I'd seen enough consultants to know the playbook.
"However," she continued, clicking to the next slide, "there's significant room for improvement in several key areas."
And there it was. The 'however.' The part where she told us everything we were doing wrong.
But then she surprised me. Instead of tearing down what we'd built, she showed how to enhance it. Her presentation was a masterclass in cattle genetics and ranch management. Breeding maps that looked like art, showing optimal pairings based on genetic markers I'd never even heard of. Embryo transfer timelines that could triple our conception rates without losing the bloodlines Dad had spent decades cultivating. Data analytics that could predict everything from birth weights to market values with scary accuracy.
