I was so deep in contentment, so lost in the peace of the last few days, that I'd completely forgotten about the outside world. Dallas felt like another lifetime. The breeding program presentation was ready, but it felt unimportant compared to what I'd found here.
Which is why, when I woke Sunday morning to the sound of car doors slamming and looked out to see a black town car parked in front of the main house, my blood went cold.
Doug stepped out first, his city suit absurdly out of place against the ranch backdrop. Then two board members I recognized—Harold Williams and Patricia Pope, both looking around like they'd landed on Mars.
And then Mark.
Mark, in pressed khakis and a polo shirt that probably cost more than most people's entire wardrobe. Mark, with his perfect hair and perfect smile and perfectly wrong presence in this place that had become sacred to me.
They were here. The visit I'd completely forgotten about in the peace of the last few days.
And I was standing in my pajamas—actually Wyatt's old t-shirt I'd stolen—with hair that hadn't seen a brush since the cattle drive and the complete inability to remember why I'd ever thought Dallas was where I belonged.
Through the window, I saw Wyatt emerge from the house, taking in the visitors with narrowed eyes. Even from here, I could see his shoulders tense, his hands clench.
My two worlds had just collided, and I had no idea how to keep them from destroying each other.
Chapter 17
Ivy
The black SUV sat in front of the main house like an oil spill on canvas—sleek, expensive, and completely wrong for this place. I'd thrown on the most professional outfit I could find in three minutes flat: black slacks that needed pressing, a silk blouse that had seen better days, and boots I'd hastily wiped clean. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail that did nothing to hide the fact that I'd been sleeping under stars and working cattle for two days.
Doug stepped out first, his charcoal suit so crisp it could cut paper, his smile the one he used for difficult clients—all teeth, no warmth. He surveyed the ranch like a king reviewing his holdings, and I wanted to tell him he had no claim here, no right to that proprietary gleam in his eye.
"Ivy!" he called, too loud, too cheerful for a Sunday morning. "This place is exactly as quaint as you described."
Quaint. Like the Blackwood ranch was a tourist attraction instead of a working operation that had survived four generations.
Harold Williams and Patricia Pope emerged next, both board members who held my future in their manicured hands. Harold squinted in the morning sun like it personally offended him. Patricia was already taking photos with her phone, probably for some corporate newsletter about "investing in rural America."
Then Mark stepped out.
He'd dressed down for the occasion—khakis and a powder blue polo that brought out his eyes, boat shoes that would be ruined the first time he stepped in anything organic. His smile was the one I'd once thought charming, the one that had fooled me into thinking comfortable was the same as content.
"There she is," he said, coming toward me with arms open like we were still together, like I hadn't ended things definitively before leaving Dallas. "God, I've missed you."
I stepped back before he could embrace me, extending my hand instead. "Mark. Welcome to Blackwood Ranch.”
His smile flickered but held. "Doug thought I should see the operation firsthand, given our international expansion plans." He took my hand but held it too long, his thumb stroking my palm in a way that made my skin crawl. "You look...rustic."
"It's a ranch," I said, pulling my hand free. "Rustic is part of the package."
Behind me, I heard the screen door open. Wyatt's presence filled the porch before he even spoke, that particular electricity that announced him like thunder before lightning.
"You must be the visitors from Dallas," he said, his voice polite but edged with something dangerous. He'd cleaned up too—fresh jeans, a button-down shirt that made his eyes look impossibly green, his good hat. But there was dust on his boots and his knuckles were still wrapped, and he looked exactly what he was—a man who belonged here in ways these city people never would.
"Wyatt Blackwood," he said, coming down the steps with the controlled grace of a predator. "Ranch manager."
“Doug Johnson," my boss said, shaking hands while obviously trying not to wince at Wyatt's grip. "This is quite an operation you have here."
"It's been in the family for generations," Wyatt said, his eyes finding mine for just a moment. "We're particular about who we trust with it."
The warning was subtle but clear. Mark either missed it or chose to ignore it.
"Mark Winters," he said, stepping forward with his hand extended and that salesman's smile. "Ivy's boyfriend. We're practically partners in everything—life, work, you name it."
The lie hung in the morning air like a bad smell. I saw Louisa appear in the doorway, Owen behind her, both taking in the scene with sharp eyes.
