“That's about it,” he said as we remounted after checking a particularly remote pasture. His voice had changed, become carefully neutral in a way that immediately put me on alert.
We rode in silence for another ten minutes, following a trail I didn't remember. Then we crested a ridge, and below us, in a clearing surrounded by oak trees, sat a cabin.
It was perfect. That was my first thought. A log cabin that looked like something out of a dream, with a porch that wrapped around two sides and windows that caught the morning light like fire. There was a garden plot to one side, though it had gone wild. A swing hung from a massive oak tree. Everything about it screamed home in a way that made my chest ache.
"It's beautiful," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Who's it for?"
Wyatt's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. “It’s mine. Built it a few years back."
He didn't say more. Didn't have to. Because I knew—with the kind of bone-deep certainty that comes from knowing someone down to their soul—that he'd built it for me. For us. For the life we'd planned in breathless whispers and desperate promises.
The realization hit like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my eyes burn. I stared at that cabin, at physical proof that he'd held onto our dreams even after I'd shattered them. He'd built our future and then had to live with it empty.
Three bedrooms—I could tell from the window placement. One for us, two for the kids we'd talked about. The porch faced east because I'd said I wanted to drink coffee and watch the sunrise. The garden, because I'd wanted to grow my own vegetables, even though I'd never successfully grown anything. The swing, because we'd talked about sitting there when we were old, watching our grandchildren play.
He'd built it all. Every dream. Every promise. Every word of love I'd whispered against his skin in the dark.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could barely breathe around the guilt and regret crushing my chest.
He should have kept riding. Should have left me there to stare at the monument to what I'd destroyed. But he waited, patient and silent, while I struggled to process the magnitude of what he'd done. What I'd cost him. What we'd lost.
When I finally looked at him, the years fell away. We weren't consultant and ranch manager. We weren't strangers dancing around shared pain. We were just Wyatt and Ivy, two kids who'd loved each other with everything they had until everything wasn't enough.
His green eyes held mine, and for just a moment, his mask slipped. I saw the hurt, the anger, the confusion, and underneath it all, something that might have been longing. Or maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see, what I needed to see to justify the choice that had brought us here.
I couldn’t stop the quiver in my chin, the welling of tears. "Wyatt…" His name came out weak like a plea, like an apology, like all the words I couldn't say.
But he was already turning his horse toward home, shoulders rigid, walls slamming back into place.
"We should head back," he said, his voice rough. "Storm coming in this afternoon."
I looked at the clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight, but didn't argue. There were different kinds of storms, and the one between us had been brewing for years. And I knew once it hit, it would be catastrophic.
The ride back was silent, heavy with unspoken words and questions neither of us was ready to ask or answer. But that cabin stayed with me, burned into my mind like a brand. Evidence that Wyatt Blackwood had loved me enough to build a future even after I'd destroyed the present.
When we reached the barn, he dismounted quickly, efficiently, and handed his reins to Jimmy without looking at me.
"That covers the tour," he said, still not meeting my eyes. "You have what you need?"
"Yes," I managed, though what I needed and what I had were two very different things.
He nodded once and strode away, leaving me standing there holding Honey's reins and the weight of my guilt that threatened to buckle my knees.
"You okay, Ms. Ivy?" Jimmy asked gently, and I realized he'd probably watched this whole drama unfold. Everyone had. Small towns didn't keep secrets well.
"I'm fine," I lied, handing him the reins. "Thank you for asking."
I made it back to my cabin before the tears came. Sat on my bed and cried for the girl who'd run, for the boy who'd built a house for ghosts, for the future that existed only in wood and stone and broken dreams.
Outside my window, I could see storm clouds building on the horizon. So Wyatt hadn't been wrong about that. But the storm outside would be nothing compared to the one raging in my chest, built from regret and longing and the terrible realization that I might have made the biggest mistake of my life.
And worse, that it might be too late to fix it.
Chapter 7
Ivy
I woke to the hum of Copper Creek—the windmill creaking in its eternal rotation, cattle lowing their morning complaints, the smell of fresh hay drifting through my open window. It was nothing like Dallas, where I'd wake to car alarms and construction noise, the air filtered and recycled until it tasted like nothing at all. Here, every breath told a story. Here, the morning had texture and weight and purpose.
