She squeezed my hand, and I knew in my bones—the way you know the sun will rise, the way you know seasons will change, the way you know some things are just meant to be—that she was home for good.
The ranch sprawled before us, full of possibility. The breeding program she'd built would transform not just our operation but the entire region. The cooperative would create connections, build success that lifted everyone. And maybe, with time and patience and the kind of love that survives even fourteen years of winter, we'd build something too.
Something permanent. Something real. Something worth all the pain it took to get here.
"Dinner!" Clay called from inside. "And Mom made pie!"
Ivy laughed, the sound carrying across the pasture like music. "We should go in."
"In a minute," I said, not ready to let go of her hand, of this moment, of the promise of all the moments to come.
The sun continued its descent, the ranch settled into evening rhythms, and Ivy Garrison—the girl who'd run, the woman who'd returned, the future of Copper Creek's legacy—stood beside me like she'd never left.
Like she never would again.
Chapter 19
Ivy
Main Street had been transformed into something from a dream. String lights zigzagged overhead like captured stars, casting everything in a warm golden glow that made even the hardware store look magical. The annual Copper Creek Summer Dance had taken over downtown—booths lined the street sellingeverything from fresh lemonade to handmade leather goods, the smell of barbecue and funnel cake mixing in the warm evening air.
Fiddle music spilled from the makeshift stage in front of the courthouse, where the Broken Spoke Band was working through their repertoire of Texas swing and classic country. Couples two-stepped in the cordoned-off street, kids ran between the booths with sticky faces and prizes from the ring toss, and it seemed like everyone in three counties had come out to celebrate.
I stood near the pie booth with Maggie and Sophie, a cold beer sweating in my hand and something light in my chest I hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever.
“So then Hunter says—completely serious, mind you—‘It’s not broken, it just needs percussive maintenance,’” Maggie was saying, gesturing with her fork like a preacher with a sermon. “And proceeds to beat the ever-loving hell out of the tractor with a wrench until it starts.”
Sophie snorted so hard she almost dropped her lemonade. “No. Way.”
“Oh, it worked,” Maggie said, laughing. “It always works. Man’s basically a redneck wizard. If it’s metal and it moves, Hunter can fix it—with violence and profanity.”
I grinned. “So he’s not a mechanic, he’s an exorcist.”
Maggie laughed so hard she had to set her fork down. “Exactly. He lays hands on it, cusses a little, and boom—salvation.”
Sophie leaned in, her dark eyes still dancing. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. So does Hunter Blackwood, apparently.”
We all cracked up, the kind of laugh that leaves you breathless and a little teary.
This was new—this easy rhythm, this warmth. In Dallas, I’d had colleagues and networking contacts and people who smiled strategically at charity galas. But this? This was friendship. Real and messy and loud. The kind that comes with inside jokes and unspoken loyalty.
“Oh, hell,” Sophie murmured suddenly, glancing over my shoulder. “Incoming. Tommy Barrett, twelve o’clock.”
Maggie groaned, already trying to duck behind the pie table. “No, no, no. That man’s been orbiting me for months. If I hear one more line about my ‘pretty blue eyes,’ I’m gonna throw pie.”
“Which flavor?” I asked.
“Whichever one stains worst,” she muttered.
The crowd shifted, laughter and music weaving through the night air, and then—there he was.
Wyatt leaned against his truck at the edge of the square, half in shadow, half in the amber glow of the string lights. One boot heel hooked on the running board, a beer dangling from his fingers, the label dark with condensation. He’d dressed up, though he’d never admit it—dark jeans that fit him indecently well, a black shirt rolled to the elbows, his good hat pulled low. Controlled power. Lethal calm.
And those eyes—locked on me.
He’d been watching. I felt it now, retroactively—every prickle at the back of my neck since I’d arrived, every warm pulse under my skin when I laughed, the way my body had somehowknownI was being seen.
Every time I laughed, his gaze sharpened. Every time someone leaned in close, his jaw flexed. And when our eyes met across the square, it hit like contact.
