Every word between us was carefully measured, like we were afraid that speaking naturally might break some spell and send us tumbling back into the past.
He explained the feeding schedules, the breeding rotations, and the health protocols they'd implemented. I asked clarifying questions, made suggestions that he actually considered instead of dismissing outright, and slowly, incrementally, the tension eased from unbearable to merely uncomfortable.
The feed sheds were next, massive structures that could hold enough hay and grain to last through a bad winter. He showed me their inventory system—still paper-based, which I made a note to digitize—and explained their relationships with various suppliers.
"We source local when we can," he said, running his hand along a beam that looked new. "Keep the money in the community."
"Your father always believed in that," I said without thinking, then immediately wanted to take it back. We weren't supposed to acknowledge that I knew these things, that I'd been part of these conversations once.
But Wyatt just nodded. "Still does. Says a ranch is only as strong as the community around it."
We moved through the equipment barns, the maintenance shops, the original barn that had been converted to storage. Every building had a story, an upgrade, an improvement that had been made in the years I'd been gone. The ranch had evolved, grown, become something even more impressive than it had been. And Wyatt knew every inch of it, every detail, every plan for the future.
He was magnificent in his element, and I had to keep reminding myself not to stare. The boy I'd loved had become a man who commanded respect, who led by example, who'd turned his pain into purpose. His hands still moved as he talked, those same hands that had once traced every inch of my skin now pointing out drainage improvements and structural reinforcements.
"The horses are in the south barn," he said as we finished the facilities tour. "We'll need to ride out to see the pastures properly. Unless you've forgotten how."
There was a challenge in his voice, the first hint of anything personal he'd allowed.
"I haven't forgotten," I said quietly, meaning more than just riding.
Something flickered in his eyes—there and gone too fast to identify.
The south barn smelled like sweet feed and horse, a combination that immediately transported me back to being seventeen and sneaking rides with Wyatt when we should have been doing chores. He moved down the line of stalls with the easy confidence ofsomeone who'd spent his life around horses, finally stopping at two already saddled and waiting.
"This is Honey," he said, indicating a golden palomino mare with a white blaze. "She's gentle but responsive. Figured she'd suit you."
The mare was beautiful, well-proportioned, and alert. I approached slowly, let her smell my hand, and ran my palm down her neck. She whickered softly, already accepting me.
"She's perfect," I said.
Wyatt swung up onto a bay gelding with the fluid grace of a born horseman. I took a bit longer, muscles protesting that they hadn't done this in far too long. But once I was in the saddle, it all came back. The feel of the reins, the rhythm of the horse's movement, the subtle communication between rider and mount.
We rode out past the immediate buildings, into the vast expanse of Blackwood land. The morning had heated up, but there was a breeze that kept it bearable. Wyatt led, I followed, and for a while, we just rode. The silence wasn't comfortable exactly, but it wasn't hostile either.
"How many head are you running now?" I asked as we paused at the top of a rise overlooking a pasture dotted with Black Angus.
"About twelve hundred breeding stock, another eight hundred for market." He shifted in his saddle, scanning the herd with an experienced eye. "We rotate them through sixteen pastures, trying to maintain grass quality."
"What about water access?"
He actually looked at me then, surprise flickering across his features. "We installed solar pumps at strategic points. Every pasture has at least two water sources."
"Backup systems?"
"Windmills at three locations, and we can truck water if needed."
I made notes as he talked, genuinely impressed by the operation. They'd thought of everything, planned for contingencies, builtredundancy into critical systems. It was ranching at its finest—respectful of tradition but embracing innovation.
"Your soil rotation schedule?" I asked, pen poised.
"Seven-year cycle, with periodic testing. Maggie handles that side—she's got it down to a science."
We rode on, and he answered every question thoroughly, professionally. He knew his operation inside and out, and despite everything between us, I found myself impressed.
The sun climbed higher as we covered more ground. We stopped to check fence lines, inspect water stations, examine stands of native grass that were encouraging. At each stop, Wyatt dismounted with easy efficiency, and I tried not to notice the way his jeans fit or how his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he bent to examine something.
Professional. I was being professional.
