"Kept the whole line. Lucky's bloodline is one of our strongest."
We looked at each other across the table, and for a moment, it was just us. No anger, no hurt, just the shared memory of a freezing night when we'd worked together to save something small and precious.
"That's beautiful," Tyler said, shattering the moment. "You've got quite a history here, Ivy."
"Ancient history," she said quietly, looking away.
The rest of dinner passed with forced normalcy. Stories were told, jokes were made, Mom's apple pie was praised to the heavens. But there was an undercurrent of tension, like everyone was carefully navigating around land mines.
As plates were cleared and people started dispersing, I noticed Ivy lingering, helping Mom and Maggie clean up. Tyler had finally gotten the hint and left with the other hands, though not before extracting a vague promise from Ivy to "think about that dinner” before she slipped away to the barn.
Dad and Clay had moved to the fire pit with their whiskey. Liam was making his evening rounds. Hunter had disappeared to check on a sick calf.
I should have gone to my cabin. Should have maintained the distance I'd been trying to keep all week.
Instead, I found myself walking to the barn.
She was in the tack room, humming something low and sweet while she organized bridles that didn't need organizing. She'd always done that—found busy work when she was thinking too hard, when she needed her hands occupied so her mind could wander.
"I don't remember you humming," I said from the doorway.
She didn't jump, didn't turn. Just continued working. "I don't remember you being jealous."
"I'm not—" I stopped, because what was the point? We'd never been able to lie to each other about the things that mattered. "Tyler's too young for you."
She snorted. “He's persistent."
"He's annoying.” Was half-tempted to fire him, but jealousy wasn’t a good enough reason.
"That too." She turned then, leaning against the workbench. "But at least he's straightforward about what he wants."
I crossed my arms over my chest, frowning. “And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just that some people say what they mean instead of sending mixed signals."
I scoffed. “Mixed signals? You want to talk about mixed signals?"
"I want to talk about why you're here, Wyatt. What do you want from me?"
The question hung between us, and I didn't have an answer. Or rather, I had too many answers. I wanted her to leave. I wanted her to stay. I wanted to understand why she'd run. I wanted to forget she'd ever existed. I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to never touch her again.
“This ranch,” I said instead, choosing the safest truth I could find, “it runs smoother when you’re here.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “It’s only been a week and a half.”
“Doesn’t matter. The hands respect you. The systems you’ve implemented are already showing results. Even the cattle seem calmer. I shouldn’t have messed with your embryo schedules.”
Her brows lifted. “Is that an apology I hear, Wyatt Blackwood?” She tilted her head, that teasing smile breaking through her professional mask. “Who are you and what did you do with Wyatt?”
My mouth twitched before I could stop it. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said softly, but her eyes lingered on mine, full of that same ache I’d been trying to drown all week.
Silence settled between us, thick as molasses.
“You always did give me too much credit,” she added finally, her tone quieter now, something fragile under the teasing.
“No,” I said, voice low. “I gave you exactly the right amount. You just never believed it.”
