"Mom—"
"Time and distance don't diminish real love, Wyatt. They refine it. Your father and I are proof of that." She touched my face gently. "Don't waste more years on pride and hurt. You've both suffered enough."
The walk to the barn felt longer than it should’ve. Every step echoed in my chest, heartbeat steady and loud, like the ground itself was warning me—don’t screw this up again.
The doors were open, late light spilling through in dusty streaks that caught the haze of hay and the soft rise of breath from the cattle. And there she was.
Ivy.
Exactly where Mom said she’d be—standing beside one of the pregnant heifers, her hand resting absently on the animal’s flank, her shoulders bowed under invisible weight. Her hair had slipped loose from its braid, golden strands clinging to her cheeks. There was mud on her jeans, dust on her boots, and tear tracks staining her face. She looked like hell.
And still, God help me, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
She looked up when I stepped inside. Her eyes were rimmed red, lashes clumped from crying, but they met mine without flinching.
“Wyatt—” Her voice cracked on my name, soft and uncertain.
“We need to talk,” I said, the words rough but steady. “Really talk. No more secrets. No more running. No more trying to protect each other from the truth.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The only sound was the slow creak of the rafters and the restless shifting of the heifer beside her. Then Ivy nodded, her chin trembling, tears spilling fresh.
“Okay,” she whispered.
I took a breath, long and shaky. Maybe my parents were right. Maybe time and distance hadn’t dulled what we had—just buried it under too much hurt.
Maybe we’d both been running all this time—her from shame, me from pain—when what we really needed was to stop, turn around, and finally face each other.
Maybe, just maybe, we still had a second chance.
Chapter 16
Ivy
Morning crept into my cabin soft as forgiveness.
Light filtered through thin curtains I’d forgotten to close, turning the air gold, dust motes swirling like ghosts set free. My whole body ached—not from ranch work, but from everything that had come undone yesterday. The diner. My father’s hands. Wyatt’s fists. The truth, laid bare for the whole damn town to see.
For the first time in fourteen years, the secret wasn’t mine alone. It should have felt like freedom. It didn’t. It just felt raw.
The ranch woke around me, alive with the sounds of morning—roosters shouting their glory, the metallic clang of tools in Hunter’s shop, cattle lowing somewhere beyond the house. The world kept moving even when I didn’t quite know how to.
I dressed without thinking: worn jeans, soft blue shirt, boots that had molded to me after weeks of use. No lipstick. No armor. Just me.
The walk to the main house was bathed in early light, the grass jeweled with dew, the air smelling of clover and sun-warmed earth. My boots left dark imprints behind me—a quiet trail of where I’d been, where I was trying to go.
Inside, Louisa was already at the stove, humming something low and old. The kitchen smelled like butter and biscuits, safe and steady.
“Coffee’s fresh,” she said without turning, like she always knew when someone was standing behind her, heartbroken. “Biscuits’ll be ready in five.”
I poured a cup, letting the heat of the mug settle the tremor in my hands. “Where is everyone?”
“Workin’. It’s what Blackwoods do when they’re hurtin’. Beats punchin’ walls.” She turned, soft eyes assessing me the way onlyshe could—seeing the truth without needing it spoken. “How you holdin’ up, honey?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, sinking into a chair. “I feel like I’ve been scraped raw. Like everyone can see what’s left underneath.”
“Truth’ll do that,” Louisa said, setting a biscuit in front of me. Steam curled up in the morning air. “Especially when it’s been bottled up for too damn long. But you did the right thing.”
I blinked back tears. “I don’t know how to fix any of this. Wyatt, me... It’s just such a mess.”
