The breeding committee meeting was running long, stretching through the morning like molasses in January. I sat at the far end of the conference table in the main house, trying to focus on the projections Ivy was presenting instead of the way the morning light caught the gold threads in her hair. She'd pulled it back in some complicated twist that left her neck exposed, and I could see the faint mark there—a small scar just below her ear that she'd gotten falling off a horse when she was sixteen. I'd kissed it once, told her it looked like a crescent moon.
I shifted in my chair, the wood creaking under my weight, angry at myself for remembering. Angrier still for caring.
"As you can see from these numbers," Ivy was saying, her voice that perfect professional tone that sounded nothing like the girl who'd whispered my name in the dark, "the initial investment will be recouped within eighteen months, with profits increasing substantially by year three."
The committee members—mostly neighboring ranchers Dad respected—were eating it up. Jim Richardson kept nodding like a damn bobblehead. Sarah Chen from the Triple C Ranch was actually taking notes. Even old Chuck Garrett Sr., who hadn't changed his breeding methods since the Carter administration, looked interested.
She was good. Better than good. She commanded that room like she'd been born to it, fielding every question with a combination of scientific knowledge and practical understanding that impressed even me. When Richardson challenged her on the embryo transfer success rates, she didn't just quote statistics—she explained the variables, acknowledged the risks, and outlined contingency plans.
But all I could think about was last night. The way her hands had worked so gently with that breech calf, sure and steady despite the blood and mess. The way we'd moved together without needing words, like our bodies remembered a dance our minds had tried to forget. The way she'd looked at me under those harsh floodlights, exhausted and filthy and absolutely beautiful, saying we made a good team.
Always did.
Those two words had been echoing in my head all morning, making it hard to breathe normally. Making me want things I had no business wanting.
"Wyatt?" Dad's voice cut through my spiral. "You have anything to add about the infrastructure changes?"
Everyone turned to look at me. Ivy's eyes met mine across the table, and for a second, I saw something soft there. Something that might have been hope.
I crushed it.
"The infrastructure's solid," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "We'll make whatever changes are necessary for the program to succeed."
Short. Clipped. Professional. Nothing like the way I'd talked to her last night, when I'd almost told her about the years of emptiness, about how seeing her again was killing me and saving me at the same time.
Ivy's expression shuttered, that professional mask sliding back into place. "Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. I appreciate the support."
Mr. Blackwood. Like we were strangers. Like she hadn't worn my old rodeo shirt to deliver a calf. Like I hadn't seen her in it and felt my heart crack open all over again.
The meeting dragged on for another hour. I spent it cataloging everything I shouldn't be noticing—the way she gestured when she got excited about genetic markers, the little furrow between her brows when she concentrated, the way she absently touched between her collarbones. I was pathetic enough to hope that she was reaching for the horseshoe necklace I still kept in my nightstand.
By the time everyone finally filed out, shaking hands and making promises to review contracts, I was wound tighter than new barbed wire. I needed to get away from her. From the way she smiled at Jim Richardson's stupid jokes. From the way she fit so easily back into our world, like the leaving had been the aberration and not the staying.
"Wyatt," Dad called as I tried to escape. He was standing by the door, and something in his expression told me I wasn't going to like what came next. "Need you to take Ivy out to the north pasture."
"I've got other work?—"
"The fence line needs finishing before we move the herd tomorrow." His tone was mild, but his eyes held that stubborn glint that meant arguing was pointless. "It's a two-person job."
"Jimmy could?—"
"Jimmy's working the sale barn today. Take Ivy."
I could feel her watching us, probably seeing right through Dad's casual tone. He wasn't just asking me to fix a fence. He was pushing us together, the way my parents had been doing all week in little ways. Having her present at family dinners. Assigning us adjacent work areas. Now this.
"Fine," I bit out.
Dad's hand landed on my shoulder as I passed, his grip firm. "Sometimes," he said quietly, low enough that only I could hear, "the fences that need mending aren't made of wire and posts."
I shrugged off his hand and his meaning, annoyed and heading for my truck without looking back.
Ivy followed a few minutes later, after changing into work clothes. She climbed into the passenger seat with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times before, and muscle memory had her reaching for the radio before she caught herself, hand dropping to her lap.
We'd always fought over music. She liked country; I preferred rock. We'd compromised on old blues, Stevie Ray Vaughan and B.B. King filling the spaces between conversations. But now thesilence stretched between us like a living thing, heavy with everything we weren't saying.
The drive to the north pasture took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of her perfume mixing with the leather and diesel smell of my truck. Twenty minutes of her knee inches from the gear shift, close enough that I had to be careful not to brush against her when I changed gears. Twenty minutes of peripheral glimpses—her profile against the window, the way she absently rubbed her thumb against her palm when she was thinking.
"You've been quiet," she finally said as I parked by the fence line. The afternoon sun was already brutal, making the horizon shimmer like water. "Even for you."
