“That’s what you took from this?” Wyatt asks.
Wade nods solemnly. “It’s important.”
Wyatt claps Wade on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family.”
Wade’s eyes narrow. “Don’t get sentimental.”
Wyatt’s grin goes sharper. “Just wait until you’re an uncle.”
Wade’s face turns even more serious. “Don’t push your luck.”
Wyatt’s arm slides around my waist, pulling me close like it’s instinct now. Like it’s always been.
Wade looks between us for a long beat, the last of his storm draining away. Then he lets out a long breath.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?” I repeat.
Wade nods once, still pretending he’s not emotional. “Okay. I’m on board. But if he ever hurts you?—”
Wyatt cuts in, calm and absolute. “He won’t.”
Wade holds Wyatt’s gaze, measuring. Then he gives a small, grudging nod. “Good.”
Wyatt’s eyes gleam. “Now sit down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Wade scoffs. “I just hiked for two weeks.”
Wyatt opens a cabinet and pulls out a bag of chocolate-covered almonds I’d stashed away, tossing it to Wade like a peace offering.
Wade catches it and pops a few into his mouth. “Got to get washed up, do some laundry and then book a flight.”
“A flight? Where are you going now?”
My brother’s grin turns up. “Met a girl on the trail. She’s from Sacramento, meeting up with her this weekend.”
“Woh—really?”
He waggles his eyebrows. “I guess love is in the mountain air.”
Wyatt breaks into laughter. “You? In love? God help us all.”
Chapter 8
Ellie
The storm doesn’t leave the way it arrived. It lingers, sulking over the mountain, making the cabin feel like an island. The next morning the world outside is white and quiet, the kind of quiet that usually feels peaceful until you realize quiet can also meanwatching.
Wyatt moves through the cabin like he hasn’t slept. Not frantic. Not sloppy. Controlled in that way that makes my skin prickle because control this tight always has teeth under it.
He checks the back door twice. He checks the windows. He checks the locks. Then he checks the tree line through the glass like he can burn holes in it with his eyes. Jake follows him like a loyal shadow every step of the way.
I stand in the doorway of the bedroom in his flannel, arms crossed, trying to pretend my pulse isn’t still racing from the sound last night—metal against wood—like someone testing my boundaries the way Graham used to, only this time the boundary is Wyatt’s door.
“You’re pacing,” I say.
Wyatt doesn’t look at me. “I’m thinking.”
