"And I'll love you," he continued, turning me to face him, his hands framing my face like I was something precious, something holy, "when we're old and gray and sitting on the porch of that house I'm gonna build you, watching our grandkids play in this same creek."
I couldn't help it—I was crying now, tears sliding hot and fast down my cheeks. He caught them with his thumbs, his face creasing with concern.
"Hey, hey. What's wrong? If you don't like it?—"
"I love it," I managed, and it was true. It was perfect. He was perfect. And I was about to destroy everything. "I love you."
"Then why?—"
I kissed him instead of answering, pouring everything I couldn't say into the press of my mouth against his. I kissed him like I was trying to brand the taste of him into my memory—summer wheat and spearmint gum and that underlying something that was just purely Wyatt. I kissed him like I was drowning and he was air. I kissed him like it was the last time, because it was.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he grinned. It was that same crooked smile that had been making my heart skip since seventh grade. "If that's how you say thank you for jewelry, remind me to buy you something every day."
"You can barely afford gas for this truck," I teased, trying to find normal ground, trying to pretend this wasn't the last conversation we'd ever have as us.
"I'll figure it out. I'd figure anything out for you." His hand came up to play with the pendant where it rested against my skin. "You know that, right? There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."
And that was the problem. He would. He'd give up everything—his family's ranch that had been in the Blackwood family for four generations, his future as the heir apparent to the cattle empire his daddy had built, his freedom—if he knew the truth about what happened in my house when my daddy got deep in the bottle.
I knew he’d already noticed things, even if he hadn’t brought it up. Bruises I explained away. The way I flinched when voices got raised. How I always had an excuse for why he couldn't come by my house. Last week, after Daddy had been particularly rough and left marks on my wrist that looked exactly like fingerprints, Wyatt had finally asked point-blank if my father had ever hit me. The fury in his eyes when I didn't answer fast enough had scared me more than Daddy ever had.
"Tell me about the cattle auction tomorrow," I said, desperate for some normalcy. It was exactly why I hadn’t told him my plans. I wanted our final moments to be just us. Not teary goodbyes or pleas to stay or offers to follow.
Wyatt launched into plans for which heifers to sell, which bloodlines to keep, his voice taking on that passionate tone he got when talking about the ranch. His free hand gestured as he spoke, painting pictures in the air of the future he saw for Blackwood Ranch.
I made agreeable sounds, but my mind was already walking through the next hours. Wait until he falls asleep, slip out of the truck without waking him, and bike to his house one last time to leave the note where he'd find it. Then home to grab my suitcase and pray Daddy was passed out enough not to hear me leave.
The Greyhound left at 4:47 a.m. By sunrise, I'd be halfway to a new life, watching Texas roll by through smudged windows, turning into someone who'd never heard of Copper Creek.
"You're not listening," Wyatt said softly, his fingers stilling in my hair.
"I am."
"No, you're somewhere else tonight." He studied me in the moonlight, those green eyes that could shift from soft as spring grass to hard as jade, trying to read the secrets written on my face. "What aren't you telling me, Ivygirl?"
Everything. Nothing. Only the things that would destroy us both.
"I'm just tired," I said, hating how easily the lie came. "Senior year was long. All those finals, all that worry about college?—"
"Which you don't need to worry about anymore," he interrupted. "Community college is gonna be perfect for us. We can both take classes and still help with the ranches. Dad's already talked to Jim Richardson about you helping with their breeding program part-time. Between that and what I make at Blackwood, we'll have enough saved to get married by next summer."
Married. Next summer. A little house on Blackwood land. Babies with his green eyes and my stubbornness. Sunday dinners with his family, Louisa teaching me her secret for perfect cornbread, Owen showing our sons how to ride. A life that would be beautiful and suffocating and impossible because you can't build happiness on a foundation of violence, can't bring babies into a world where their grandfather is a mean drunk who uses his fists when words fail him.
"That sounds perfect," I whispered, another lie to add to the pile that would bury us. But it wasn’t a lie. It did sound perfect. But in this life, perfection could only be a dream. And between the two of us, Wyatt was the dreamer, not me.
"It will be." He pulled me back down against him, and I went willingly, selfishly stealing these last minutes, memorizing the way we fit together like we'd grown this way. "We've got the whole summer to figure out the details. And after that, we've got the rest of our lives."
I closed my eyes against the burn of tears, letting him think I was drifting off to sleep. His hand stroked my back in slow, soothing circles, the calluses on his palm catching gently on my skin. He started humming something low and sweet—an old country song his mama used to sing when they were little. The vibration rumbled through his chest into mine, and I had to bite my lip to keep from sobbing.
"Love you, Ivygirl," he murmured, already half-asleep, the words slurred and soft as butter.
"Love you too," I whispered back, meaning it with every broken piece of my heart.
His breathing eventually evened out, deep and trusting. I counted to five hundred, then five hundred again, making sure he was truly asleep. Carefully, I extracted myself from his arms. He mumbled something that might have been my name, his hand reaching for me even in sleep, fingers grasping at empty air before settling on the quilt.
I pulled on my clothes with shaking hands—jean shorts that were frayed at the hems, the tank top he'd peeled off me with such reverence just hours ago. My boots were under the truck, and I had to lie flat on my belly to reach them, tasting dust and oil and the memory of all the times we'd parked here.
The horseshoe necklace bounced as I moved. I touched it once, memorizing its weight, then unclasped it with fingers that felt numb. It pooled in my palm like liquid starlight, still warm from my skin.
