I doubted that, but I nodded and focused on my breakfast. Louisa's pancakes were perfect—light and fluffy with that slight tang that meant she'd used buttermilk. They tasted like Sunday mornings and belonging and everything I'd run from.
After breakfast, I threw myself into work with the kind of intensity that had gotten me to the top of my field. If I couldn't fix the past, I could at least perfect the future of their breeding program.
The lab was even better than I remembered from the tour—polished stainless steel, spotless counters, the low hum of machines running like a heartbeat. Hunter’s upgrades were seamless, efficient, and—annoyingly—brilliant. My portable setup from Dallas suddenly felt amateur by comparison.
So instead of building my own workspace, I did what any professional worth her salt would do—I adapted. I spent the morning integrating my software with their system, updating protocols, and running side-by-side comparisons of their data with my own. The Blackwoods might have built the hardware, but I had the analytics that could make it sing.
Once everything synced, I lost myself in the rhythm of the work. Processing samples. Running markers. Logging results. Numbers and patterns made sense in a way people rarely did. DNA didn’t lie, didn’t hold grudges, didn’t remember your worst mistakes.
By noon, I had a preliminary report ready. Several of their cows showed exceptional genetic potential for the embryo transfer program. Their bull, Maximillian, had markers that were nothing short of extraordinary—clean, dominant traits that could elevate Copper Creek’s lines to the national level.
I was measuring hormone doses for the afternoon trials when the hands started filtering in for lunch. They’d grown more relaxed around me over the past few days, offering easy greetings instead of wary glances. Out here, respect wasn’t earned with titles or degrees—it was earned by showing up, getting your hands dirty, and proving you could keep pace with the Blackwoods.
"How's it looking, Ms. Ivy?" Jimmy asked, peering at my computer screen with interest.
"Better than looking," I said, turning the screen so he could see the genetic map I'd created. "You've got some exceptional animals here. With the right pairings, we could produce calves that would put Blackwood on the international map."
"We're already on the map," Buck said, but he was leaning in to look too.
"Texas map, sure. I'm talking about buyers from Japan, Australia, Scotland. Premium genetics at premium prices."
I spent the next hour walking them through the basics of what I was seeing in the data, translating the science into practical terms they could understand and appreciate. They asked good questions and made observations based on years of experience that no amount of education could replace.
"So this fancy computer stuff really works?" one of the younger hands asked skeptically.
"It's not magic," I said. "It's just information. You already know which cows produce the best calves, which bulls throw the strongest offspring. This just tells us why, at a genetic level, and helps us make even better matches."
I was deep in explanation about hormone synchronization when I felt him. That particular electricity in the air had always announced Wyatt's presence. He stood in the doorway, backlit by afternoon sun, watching me teach his men about the future of his ranch.
Our eyes met across the space, and for a moment, everything else faded. The hands kept asking questions, but all I could hear was my heartbeat, all I could see was the unreadable expression on his face. But there was that fire in his eyes. The one that told me he was pissed. Wyatt was never one for having someone take over his projects, so I knew having a consultant here rubbed him ten different kinds of wrong. Twenty ways, considering it was me who was doing the consulting.
Then he moved, walking past our little group toward the supply closet. As he passed, his shoulder knocked into mine—deliberately, I was certain. The contact sent sparks down my arm, made my breath catch before I could stop it.
“Watch your step, city girl,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Wouldn’t want you to trip over something you can’t handle.”
Fire flashed through me—anger or something else, I wasn’t sure. Both burned hot enough to sting.
“I grew up on this dirt just like you, Wyatt,” I fired back, my voice just as quiet but sharp as glass. “I know exactly where to step.”
He paused, his back to me, shoulders tightening beneath his shirt. For a second, the air between us sizzled—thick, charged, alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t just old hurt or stubborn pride. It was something wilder. Dangerous.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmured over his shoulder.
My hands curled at my sides. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The rest of the barn remained silent. Waiting with bated breath for what would come next, just like I was.
Wyatt turned, just enough so I could see his face when he said, “Just know you tend to bolt when things get hard.”
The words stung like a slap. I opened my mouth to respond, but a hand cleared his throat, and the moment broke.
Jimmy awkwardly asked another question about genetic markers, and Wyatt kept walking. I forced my focus back to the task at hand, pretending my hands weren’t shaking, pretending my skin didn’t still hum from where he’d touched me.
Fine. He could smolder all he wanted from across the barn; I had work to do. If he wanted to play cold, I could play colder. I’d built an entire career out of composure. I’d faced boardrooms full of men just like him—only none of them had ever known how to kiss me breathless or make my pulse forget how to behave.
Fuck him.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of focus sharpened by fury. I measured hormone doses for the synchronization protocol, labeled samples, drafted breeding recommendations for Owen to review. Professional. Efficient. Absolutely, one hundred percent,notthinking about the way Wyatt’s shoulder had felt against mine or the gravel in his voice when he’d challenged me.
By the time the sun started its descent, painting the pastures gold and red, I packed up my equipment with careful precision. Tomorrow, we’d begin the embryo transfer protocol—the culmination of months of research and the next phase of my reputation. Tomorrow, I’d prove that I was here for the science, not the man who kept trying to make me forget that.
