"Goodnight, Wyatt," she said softly, and this time she did move, sliding past me in the doorway, careful not to touch.
"Night, Ivy."
I stayed in the barn after she left, breathing in leather and hay and the lingering scent of her perfume. That smile—hers and mine—had cracked something open. Made it harder to hold onto the anger that had been my armor for so long.
Tomorrow, I'd probably rebuild those walls. Tomorrow, I'd remember all the reasons I needed to keep my distance.
But tonight, for just a moment, we'd been Wyatt and Ivy again. Not who we'd become, but who we'd been.
And God help me, I'd missed us.
Chapter 11
Ivy
The call came at 2 AM, my phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand. I fumbled for it, still half-asleep, squinting at the screen. Jimmy.
"Ms. Ivy? We got a heifer in trouble. First-timer, and the calf's positioned wrong. Wyatt's already there, but he said to call you."
The fact that Wyatt had specifically asked for me sent something warm through my chest. I was out of bed before Jimmy finished talking, pulling on yesterday's jeans and boots, not bothering to change out of the old t-shirt I'd slept in—one I'd stolen from Wyatt years ago and never returned, though I'd never admit that to anyone.
The barn was lit up when I arrived, floodlights creating harsh shadows that made everything look like a painting. I could hear the heifer's distressed lowing before I even got inside, the sound pulling at something primal in me. Birth and death—the two constants on a ranch, the things that stripped away pretense and left only what mattered.
She was in the birthing stall, a beautiful Black Angus with wide, frightened eyes. The sweet smell of hay mixed with the earthier scents of birth—blood and amniotic fluid and that particular musk of laboring animals.
Wyatt was already there, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, kneeling beside her in the straw. His hair was messed from sleep, sticking up in ways that made my fingers itch to smooth it down. His shirt was hastily buttoned—missed one, I noticed—and half-tucked into jeans he'd obviously thrown on in a hurry. He looked up when I entered, and for once, there was no anger or confusion in his eyes—just focus and concern and something else. Relief, maybe, that I was there.
"Breech?" I asked, dropping to my knees beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
"Worse. One leg forward, one back. Calf's stuck at the shoulders."
I could hear the frustration in his voice, the worry. He cared about every animal on this ranch and took losses personally. It was one of the things I'd loved about him—that huge heart he tried to hide behind gruff efficiency.
I washed my hands in the bucket of disinfectant Jimmy had ready, the cold liquid shocking against my sleep-warm skin. Then I gently examined the heifer, trying to project calm. She was young, maybe two years old, sides heaving with exhaustion, eyes rolling white with fear. She'd been at this too long already.
"Okay, sweet girl," I murmured, running a soothing hand along her flank, feeling her muscles trembling under her hide. "We're gonna help you. You're not alone."
"I've tried repositioning," Wyatt said, and I could hear the self-recrimination in his voice. He hated not being able to fix things, especially when lives hung in the balance. "Can't get the back leg forward without losing grip on the front."
"We'll do it together." I met his eyes, trying to convey confidence I didn't entirely feel. "You maintain traction on the front leg, I'll work the back one forward. We've done harder than this."
Something flickered in his expression at the reference to our past. "That was a long time ago."
"Not so long that I've forgotten how you work." The words came out more intimate than I'd intended. "I mean—how we work. Together."
He nodded, and we moved in synchronization, muscle memory from dozens of difficult births taking over. Our bodies remembered this dance even if our hearts were still stumbling. This wasn't consultant and ranch manager—this was just two people trying to save lives, falling into a rhythm as old as our history.
"Easy, Mama," I crooned to the heifer as I worked, my arm inside her up to my elbow, feeling for the trapped leg. The heat of her body, the powerful contractions—it was visceral, real in a way spreadsheets never were. "You're doing so good. Just a little more."
"Got it?" Wyatt asked. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool night, and I had the absurd urge to wipe it away.
"Almost... there." I felt the leg shift, the calf's position changing under my guidance. My fingers brushed against Wyatt's hand inside the birth canal, both of us working the calf, and even in this crisis, that touch sent electricity through me. "Now, gentle traction on both. Let her contractions do the work."
We worked together, our breathing synchronized without thought, both of us covered in birth fluids and sweat, neither caring about anything except the task at hand. The heifer bellowed, a sound that seemed to come from the earth itself, primal and powerful.
"That's it," Wyatt encouraged her, his voice low and soothing, the same tone he used to use with me when I was scared. "You're doing perfect, Mama. Just a little more."
Our eyes met over the laboring heifer, and time seemed to slow. Here in this barn, in this moment, we weren't two people separated by years and hurt. We were partners, working toward something bigger than ourselves.
