I watched him go for exactly one second longer than necessary, then turned to my brother. "What's up?"
Wyatt rubbed the back of his neck. Tell number one that he was about to say something that cost him. "I looked at your numbers."
"And?" I kept my voice neutral, but my heart was hammering. I’d been waiting for this moment, preparing for it ever since Ivy told me she left the plans on Wyatt’s desk.
Wyatt squinted at the horizon like it held the answers to life's harder questions. "They weren't bad."
Coming from my brother, that was a fucking standing ovation.
"The three-year profitability timeline is aggressive," he continued, "but I ran the numbers myself and the margins hold. Especially if you're right about the demand for ranch-bred working stock."
"I am right about the demand."
"I know." He said it simply. No argument. No qualifier. Just I know. And something in my chest cracked open a little.
"What are you saying, Wyatt?"
He met my eyes. "I'm saying put together a formal proposal. Realistic budget, timeline, everything. The cattle expansion will eat our capital for the next eighteen months, but if the horse program can be phased in alongside it—" He held up a hand before I could interrupt. "I'm not promising anything. But I'm listening. That's what I'm saying. I'm listening."
I stood very still, because if I moved, I might do something undignified like cry or hug him or both.
"The Fort Worth auction," I said carefully. "Next month. There's a stallion?—"
"Raven Spur line. Yeah, Ivy mentioned that too." The ghost of a smile. "She's been thorough."
I arched a brow, my lips curving with an unstoppable smile. “She’s been meddling."
"She's been advocating. There's a difference." Wyatt shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable with his own sincerity. "I should have asked sooner what you needed. Instead of just assuming you were fine with waiting."
There it was. Not a grand apology. Not a dramatic reversal. Just my brother, standing in the morning light, admitting he hadn't been paying attention.
It was enough.
"I'll have the proposal on your desk by Friday," I said.
"Make it Thursday. Dad's coming to dinner, and I want him to see it."
I nodded. Swallowed hard. "Wyatt?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He looked at me for a long moment, something tender and guilty and proud all tangled up in his expression. Then he did the most Wyatt thing possible—squeezed my shoulder once, nodded, and walked away before either of us had to feel anything too deeply.
I stood in the yard and let myself breathe.
For the first time in two years, the horse program wasn't just a file on my laptop I opened at midnight. It was a conversation. A possibility. A door cracked open instead of locked shut.
I wanted to tell someone.
My brain, helpful as ever, immediately supplied the image of Jack's face when I'd told him about the stallion auction. The way his eyes had sharpened with interest. The way he'd talked about the Raven Spur line like it mattered to him, too.
Later, I told myself. Professionally. During a work-appropriate conversation about breeding stock.
My brain snickered at "breeding stock."
I told my brain to shut the hell up.
