Page 37 of Wild Sanctuary

I nod, not trusting my voice. Then I take a breath and start walking again before the memories can pull me under.

We pass a yoga studio that definitely wasn’t here before, and a craft brewery with a chalkboard listing beers named after mountain peaks. New arrivals threaded through the old. The town’s moved on a little, though not enough to feel different.

“And here we are.” June sweeps her arm toward the Blackstone Inn. “Your home for the next couple of hours. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

Inside, the inn is exactly what I expected, all dark wood and leather chairs. The smell of old whiskey and lemon polish. A staircase curves up to the rooms above, and through a wide archway I can see the bar, dim and quiet at this time of day.

“Bar’s through there,” June instructs as she points her index finger. “That’s where you’ll meet Marcus. But you’ve got time to kill, so let’s get you settled.”

She steers me toward a soft leather armchair in the lobby when a beautiful woman appears from behind the front desk with long dark hair and flawless makeup.

“Perfect timing!” She pulls June into a hug. “I just got off the phone with the florist. Centerpieces are sorted.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” June squeezes her arm. “I don’t know how I’d be doing this without you.”

“You’d manage. But it would be a lot less fun.” Shelby grins, then her eyes land on me.

June follows her gaze. “Sorry, Shelby, this is Daisy. She’s staying out at Glacier Ridge for a few weeks. Daisy, Shelby. Her family owns the inn.”

“Nice to meet you.” Shelby’s smile is polished but entirely genuine. Then her gaze drifts toward the bar. “Wait—is Wyatt here? I thought I heard his voice in the bar.”

“He’s meeting with Marcus.” June shrugs. “Business stuff.”

“Oh.” Shelby tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile brightening in a way that feels just a little too intentional. “I’ve been meaning to call him, actually. See how he’s doing. It’s been a while since we caught up, and now that the divorce is final, I’ve got more free time, so…”

She trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

I suddenly become very interested in my fingernails. Because they matter way more than her intentions toward Wyatt Hartley.

June doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll let him know you said hi. Hey, could you get Daisy a coffee while she waits? I’ve got errands to run, but I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Of course.” Shelby’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’ll take good care of her.”

June squeezes my arm. “See you in a little bit.”

She disappears out the front door before Shelby can say anything else.

Shelby looks at me. I look at her.

“Coffee,” I mumble. “Black. Thanks.”

She nods and glides off toward the bar, and I sink into the armchair.

The tightness in my chest has nothing to do with Shelby. Or the way she said Wyatt’s name. Or the hopeful little lilt in her voice when she mentioned her divorce.

Nothing. At. All.

Shelby returns with my coffee, and I thank her without quite meeting her eyes. I feel awful, she’s not done anything wrong, but I can’t help it. The moment she’s gone, I pull out my laptop and bury myself in work.

The Henderson ranch. Forty years in the family. Financial trouble that seemed to come out of nowhere. Mountain West Acquisitions paid well below market value, and the Hendersons never saw it coming.

Mountain West.

I’ve been staring at that name on Helena business filings for six months, and now it’s attached to a family I shared more than a decade of Fourth of July picnics with.

I pull up my running list. Whitmore and Associates, the paper firm that handled the Larkspur auction. Mountain West Acquisitions swallowing every other ranch in this valley. One phantom signatory running both. And the Blackwoods at the end of every title.

Names and dates and dollar figures, and not a single face I can attach to any of it. Just patterns.