Page 6 of Wild Sanctuary

Every thread I pull from eight hundred miles away leads to the same place. A wall. And walls, in my experience, exist because someone built them.

The Hartleys don’t know about any of it. Not yet. I can’t walk back into their lives after three years of silence and have my hunch blow up their world. Not without proof I can show them.

Not without evidence.

So I came here to write an article. Or that’s the cover story, and it’s even technically true. My editor approved the pitch, we negotiated the word count and the deadline, and if it does well, there’s a staff position waiting for me on the other side. No more pitching into the void.

A real job with a real salary and benefits and the kind of stability I’ve been chasing since graduation.

Multigenerational ranching families and the struggle to preserve tradition in a changing world. It’ll be a good piece. Important, even. Written by the woman who couldn’t hold on to her own family’s land long enough to do anything with it.

There’s a joke in here somewhere…

A knock on the cabin door makes me jump so hard I knock my laptop sideways, barely catching it before it slides off the desk. I close the files so fast, you’d think I’d been caught watching porn.

Then I cross to the door and open it to find Wyatt standing on the porch.

His flannel shirt is blue-and-gray check, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to display forearms that should, frankly, be illegal. His hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead. His boots are dusty, his jeans are dusty, and there’s a smear of something on his jaw that might be dirt or dried sweat, and I have an absolutely unhinged urge to reach up and wipe it away.

His face is unreadable.

Classic Wyatt.

“Daisy-girl.” His tone is curt. “You made it.”

The nickname hasn’t lost any of its bite. Still the same gut-punch it was that Christmas. Like I’m something precious and fragile that needs the diminutive. Like no time has passed. Like too much has.

Or like I’ll always be the foreman’s kid to him, no matter how many years pass.

And I hate that I’ve spent this much time analyzing two syllables.

“Just Daisy,” I correct, keeping my voice level. “I’m not twenty anymore.”

He blinks several times. “No,” he answers slowly, his gaze moving over my face like he’s cataloging changes. “You’re not.”

Heat crawls up my throat as we stare at each other, the sun low enough to catch every line on his face.

He’s taller than I remember. Or maybe I just forgot how much neck it takes to look this man in the eye when you’re five foot nothing, but he’s six foot four and solid enough to block out the porch light.

The years have been annoyingly kind to him.

And I need to stop looking at him. Any second now, I will stop looking at him.

Wyatt Hartley is exactly as I remember.

Scratch that—he’s actually worse.

“Your cabin’s stocked.” He finally fills the silence. “Fridge has the basics. Milk, eggs, bread. Towels are in the bathroom cabinet. If you need anythin’ else, June does her grocery run Wednesdays.”

“Thanks for letting me stay. I know it’s an imposition.”

“It’s not.” He pauses, and his expression shutters. “Your dad would’ve wanted—” He stops, his jaw clenching ever so slightly. “Just don’t get in the way of work.”

“You said that in your email.”

“Figured it bore repeatin’.”

And there he is. Grumpy, guarded Wyatt Hartley, already shutting down like I’m a threat that needs containing.