But you didn’t fail me, Bells. I made my choice, and it was never yours to carry. You spent your whole life talking people back from the edge, but you never let anyone stand at the bottom to catch you when you fell. You’ve been white-knuckling the rope since your Mom and Dad died, terrified that if you let go, you’ll lose whatever’s left.
I left you Atlas because you need a dog big enough to hold the rope for you. He knows how to keep you anchored when your mind starts telling you it’s safer to go numb. And I willed you my half of this place because I knew you’d never stay for yourself, but you might stay for Wyatt. For Atlas.
My vision blurs, the dark pencil lines running together into a grey smudge. I squeeze my eyes shut, a hot tear escaping and tracking down my cheek. I don’t wipe it away. The six-week numbness I’ve been white-knuckling since the sheriff knockedon my aunt’s door is cracking, the pieces falling away like ice in the spring melt.
He knew. Jesse looked at my controlled city life and saw the prison I built for myself. He saw the survivor’s guilt that kept me behind a phone headset, saving strangers because it was safer than risking love.
The letter continues.Wyatt’s the man who kept Atlas breathing when the shrapnel took his shoulder downrange. He’s a stubborn, quiet bastard who thinks he can survive on work and cold coffee, and who believes his guilt is the only thing keeping him upright. You two are the same kind of broken. You’re both trying to stand guard over graves.
Don’t let each other drown. I’m sorry I couldn’t hold the rope anymore. But I’m leaving you in good hands. Let him anchor you, Bells. Let him carry the weight for you.
Your Big Brother,Jesse.
A ragged breath escapes my throat, a sound that’s half sob, half laugh. I look up through the wet fringe of my eyelashes. Wyatt is watching me, his face pale, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the edge of the desk beside my hip. He looks so much like the man Jesse described—stubborn, quiet, carrying a mountain of debt and ghosts on his broad shoulders, believing he has to do it alone.
“Bella?” His knuckles loosen slightly against the desk.
I turn the paper over. On the back, Jesse’s handwriting is scarcer, the lines shorter, addressed to the man who carried his casket.
My voice cracks as I hold the page out to him. “It’s for you. The rest is for you.”
Wyatt hesitates. His large, scarred hand reaches out, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the paper. The contact is electric, a warm heat that races up the inside of my arm. He holds the page with a strange kind of reverence, his grey eyes scanning the blocky writing.
He doesn’t read it aloud. He reads it silently, his chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged movements. I map every change in his face. The hard line of his jaw jumps as a muscle clenches. The deep grooves at the corners of his eyes tighten. For a second, his breath hitches, a quiet, wounded sound escaping his throat before he chokes it back.
I look down at the page in his hands, reading the words over his shoulder, my chin nearly resting on the rough flannel of his sleeve.
Doc,
If you’re reading this, she didn’t sign the contract. She chose to stand with you.
I know you’re still fighting the war. I know you think every dog you heal and every vet you house in the barn is a debt you’re paying to the guys who didn’t come home. But the shelter was never a cage to hide in. It was the only place we ever built something that was clean.
I’m leaving you Bella because she’s my family, and she doesn’t know how to let someone hold her. She’s spent her life talking people off the ledge, but she’s never had anyone stand at the bottom to catch her.
Don’t let her run.
Take care of Atlas. Take care of each other.
Jesse.
Wyatt’s fingers tremble, a tiny vibration that makes my heart ache. It’s the first time I’ve seen a crack in his armor, the first time the quiet, invincible mountain vet has let his guard down. He folds the paper slowly, his thumb tracing the crease, before he tucks it into his breast pocket, right over his heart.
He looks at me, and the distance between us vanishes. The cold wall he’s been building since this morning is gone, swept away by his dead partner’s words.
“Bella.” Wyatt lets out a gravel-rough sigh, his gaze scanning my face.
He steps into my space, his thighs pressing against my knees. He reaches up, his large hands framing my face. His thumbs are warm, rough with calluses and old scars, as they gently brush the tears from my cheeks. His touch is incredibly tender, a contrast to the sheer size and power of him that makes my breath catch in my throat.
Wyatt locks his grey eyes onto mine with a fierce, burning intensity. “I’m not going to let you run. I don’t care about the debts. I don’t care about Cascade. Jesse willed us this place. He willed us... each other. We’ll find a way.”
My fingers curl into his shirt, the words a promise I’m finally ready to keep. “We’ll find it.”
I reach out, my hands sliding up his chest, my fingers sinking into the heavy wool of his flannel shirt. I pull myself off the desk and into him.
Wyatt wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me slightly off my feet as he pulls me flush against his solid frame. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my collarbone.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding onto him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.
