My breath catches in my throat, andheat floods my chest—not shock, but something raw and primitive that makes my pulse race. Wyatt's fists answered an insult I couldn't.
"Don't talk about her mother," Wyatt says, shaking out his knuckles. "And don't talk about Kinsley like that when you walked away from the best thing that ever happened to you."
Ford wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his stare never leaving Wyatt's face. "You just made a mistake, boy. I won't forget this."
"Good," I hear myself say, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "Maybe you’ll remember you have a daughter for once."
Ford's face goes rigid as his eyes bore into mine. "Don't come crying to me when it all falls apart," he says finally, his voice barely controlled.
He turns and walks out of the store, leaving nothing but the scent of blood and old wounds in the air.
Wyatt's hand finds mine, his knuckles scraped and already swelling. "You okay?"
I stare at the door my father walked through. For the first time in my life, I'm not thinking, I'm just angry. And maybe that's exactly what I need to be.
Brook comes back carrying a couple of horse blankets.
"Let's go," I say, pulling Wyatt toward the door. “Bye, Brook,” I wave at her.
“You okay?” she calls looking at the two of us.
“Yep." I squeeze Wyatt's hand, and he squeezes back. He opens my door, and every instinct tells me to pull him inside with me. The anger still burning in my chest needs somewhere to go, and right now his mouth seems like the perfect solution.
He shuts my door and hurries around to get in.
Wyatt reaches across the console and takes my hand. His knuckles are swollen, proof of his willingness to fight for me, and something fierce and tender unfurls in my heart at the sight.
"I shouldn't have hit him," he says, but there's no real regret in his voice.
"Yes, you should have," I blurt out. The admission surprises us both.
He searches my face in the gathering dusk. "Kinsley—"
"No one's ever stood up for me like that." My voice cracks slightly, betraying emotions I've kept locked away for twenty-seven years. "Fought for me."
Something shifts in his expression, raw and unguarded. Like he's seeing something in me that I've never let anyone see before—the little girl who waited by the window for a father who never came, the woman who learned to fight her own battles because no one else would.
"He's your father. I know that has to—"
"He stopped being my father the day he didn’t give my mom any other choice but to leave.” The words taste like a soured truth that’s been buried too long.
Wyatt pulls over beside a creek that cuts through the valley like a silver ribbon, cottonwoods growing thick along its banks. He rolls the windows down, kills the engine, and suddenly the only sounds are the river moving over stones and wind through leaves. The anger ebbs as I look over at Wyatt, grateful I didn’t have to face my father alone.
"He's a fool if he can't see what he walked away from," Wyatt says, turning to face me fully. He pushes his hat back on his head.
The golden light filtering through the windshield catches in his hair. When he reaches up to trace my cheek with those scraped knuckles, I don't pull away.
"You're not using me," I whisper, needing to hear him say it. Needing to know that what's growing between us is real, not just convenience wrapped in pretty words.
"Baby, I'd be lucky if you used me." His thumb brushes across my lower lip and heaven help me, I believe him "You are incredible. Smart enough to run circles around half of Washington, devastating enough to stop traffic, and somehow you're here with me."
Suddenly I have to have his mouth on mine.
My hands fist in his shirt, and I pull him to me, my lips finding his with a desperation that surprises us both. The taste of him—coffee and something warm—floods my senses as his mouth moves against mine.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, and I make a sound I've never made before. My fingers curl tighter in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him closer. When he breaks away to trail kisses down my throat, my breath comes in short gasps.
"Kinsley," he whispers against my skin, my name rough on his lips.
