All I saw was myself. And the envelope on the passenger seat stared back at me like a loaded gun.
I didn’t want to call Wyatt.
I didn't want to need him.
I didn't want him to see me like this.
But as I drove home, one truth settled deep and cold in my bones. Colin wasn’t just angry, he was escalating.
Twenty-Two
Wyatt
Holt and I were supposed to be fixing the bearings on the stock trailer. The morning air was crisp, tasting of mountain runoff and dry grass, but the sun was already starting to bake the grease into my skin.
Instead of working, I was staring at the same rusted bolt for five minutes, the wrench heavy and useless in my hand. Something had been crawling under my skin since yesterday, a prickly, restless feeling that usually preceded a summer storm or a predator in the brush.
“Tighten it or kiss it,” Holt muttered from where he was hunkered down by the axle, his face streaked with oil. “Pick one, Wyatt. I’m losing circulation in my legs.”
Before I could answer, he straightened, squinting past my shoulder toward the long, gravel drive. “Uh oh.”
I turned, the wrench falling to the dirt with a dull thud.
A tiny, mud-splattered hatchback was rattling up the drive, its engine whining in protest. Dust boiled behind it like a smoke screen. It didn't slow down for the cattle guard, hitting the metal bars with a bone-jarring clatter.
Dani.
The car hadn't even fully stopped before the door swung open. She stepped out, her pink hair a shock of neon against the muted browns of the ranch. Her sunglasses were too big for her face, hiding her eyes, but the way she marched toward us, shoulders squared, chin tilted, radiated a kind of frantic determination.
“Did you invite her?” Holt asked, wiping his hands on a rag, his eyes fixed on Dani.
“Yeah, no,” I said, my gut tightening. “And I don’t like the look on her face.”
“Looks like she’s gonna set fire to something.”
“Probably me.”
She slammed the car door, a sound like a gunshot in the quiet valley, and marched over, pointing a finger at me like I’d committed a felony.
“We need to talk,” she snapped. “Now.”
Holt whistled low under his breath, leaning back against the trailer. “Someone woke up spicy.”
Dani shot him a look sharp enough to cut tempered steel. Holt, a man who’d been stomped by rodeo bulls and broken wild colts without flinching, actually straightened his posture and took a half-step back.
Interesting. But I didn't have time to process it. I jerked my chin toward the heavy timber doors of the barn. “Inside.”
I didn't wait to see if she followed. I led the way into the shadows of the barn, where the air was cooler and smelled of sweet alfalfa and leather. Dani stomped in behind me, her heels clicking on the hard-packed dirt. Holt trailed after us, his curiosity clearly overriding his concept of self-preservation.
Dani spun around, her shaky hands diving into the pockets of her denim jacket—another bad sign. She wasn’t confident today. She was vibrating with a fear she was trying to mask with aggression.
“I don’t know how to say this without breaking some kindof girl code,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word. “But Tessa is not okay, Wyatt.”
My whole body went still. Every muscle, every nerve ending, went on high alert. “What happened?”
She swallowed hard, her throat working. With trembling fingers, she pulled a thick manila envelope from her purse and held it like it was radioactive.
I saw the name written on the front. Tessa. Underlined twice in a jagged, angry hand.
