"Nothing." He reaches for a halter. There’s a slight wince when the movement pulls at his shoulder. "Just family drama."
Family drama that's got him coiled tighter than a rattle snake in a tin can.
He looks at me. "Thought I might go for a ride, but on second thought…” His gaze searches mine like he needs a soft place to land. “Want to get out of here?"
Seventeen
I'M SCARED OF THE ANSWER HE'S GOING TO GIVE ME, BUT I WON'T BACK AWAY FROM IT.
KINSLEY
Complicated or not, I’m going with Wyatt tonight.
Any reservations I have about him seem to disappear the moment he pins me with his stare. It’s like my good sense is no match for him.
"I need to stop at the feed store, then we can see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
The invitation catches me off guard—not because he asked, but because of the way he asked. Like he needs me to say yes.
And I want to say yes.
"Of course," I say, and watch something ease in hisshoulders.
Wyatt nods. “Good.”
He steps outside the barn and calls to Billy, asking him to take care of Ace as I put Rebel up for the night.
Wyatt waits for me to join him, and we walk toward his truck. He slips his hand in mine, and I can’t help but think how glad I am that it’s me he’s reaching for.
The truck is a beauty—gleaming black Chevy with chrome details that catch the dying light, sponsor decals telling the world Wyatt’s one of the best at what he does.
He opens the door, and I climb in. The cab smells like leather and pine, with a St. Christopher medal hanging from the rearview mirror. Wyatt gets in and starts the engine, the rumble vibrating through the floorboards. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel as he backs out of the drive like he’s reliving whatever just happened.
And whatever it is, it's taken him right to the edge of something he's not sure he can come back from. I can feel the anger humming under his skin.
When he blows through the first stop sign, I reach over and cover his hand with mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm, but more than that—it seems to unlock something in him.
"What’s going on?" I ask softly. For a moment I think he's going to deflect, give me another easy smile and pretend everything's fine.
Instead, he exhales like a man who's been holding his breath for hours.
"They put survey flags on our land." The words come out rough and bitter. "Thirty-six of them, running right through the section Gritstone Ranch offered tobuy from us."
My stomach drops. "The Whitmores were on your property?"
"Staking it out like they already own it." Tension coils through his voice, sucking the air from the cab. "Dad found them when we were checking the eastern fence line. Ripped every last one out of the ground like he was pulling weeds."
The truck lurches as he takes a curve too fast, and I tighten my grip on his hand. The St. Christopher medal hanging on his rearview swings with each turn, catching the light like a prayer.
"What did your father do?" I'm scared of the answer he's going to give me, but I won't back away from it.
"Pounded on Whitmore’s door and threw the flags at him." Wyatt's laugh holds no humor. "Told him to stay off our land. Would've done worse if Eleanor hadn't pulled on Maxwell’s leash."
The pieces click together in my mind—Oscar's temper plus the hundred-year feud between their families boiling over into something that can't be taken back.
"And then?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.
"Then Dad and I had it out on the ride home." He spits the words out like a sour confession and accusation all in one. "Same old fight. I should be here, doing what he tells me to do, and he doesn't need or listen to me so why would I stick around?"
