Page 66 of Wild Sanctuary

Somehow, I missed everything.

16

WYATT

The post driver rings off the cap and the impact shudders up through my palms and into my shoulders. I drive it again before Rhett can tell me it’s already in, because the alternative is standing still, and standing still means thinking.

And thinking means her.

The warmth of her face against my palm.

The way she turned into it, just enough.

The sound she made when her fingers curled into my shirt…

Christ.

I drive it again, but my mind won’t fucking quit.

The damn inch of space between us that was about to become nothing at all before the world lit up in white and took it from me.

She got in the car with him.

Doesn’t matter what came before.

Motherfucker.

I drive the post again.

“I think it’s in, Boss.” Rhett’s voice comes from somewhere behind me.

I look down and notice the post is a solid four inches deeper than it needs to be.

“Good depth,” I mutter with a shrug.

He doesn’t answer that. Simply picks up the wire spool and moves to the next section without comment, which is the only response I need.

It’s also the precise reason I texted him from Dawson’s orchard at nine-thirty last night.

ME

Heading to Elk Creek to get an early start in the AM. You coming?

I walked out and kept walking, picked him up on the way. Rhett Cordova has never once in eight years asked me a question he knew I didn’t have an answer for, and right now I don’t have an answer for a damn thing.

Elk Creek runs loud beside us, fast with snowmelt off the upper ridge, filling the whole upper pasture with a low continuous roar that presses into the space between your ears and crowds everything else out. My dad used to say anyone who could hear himself think over Elk Creek in May had something wrong with his hearing, and I came here counting on that. It’s working for maybe thirty seconds at a stretch, which is twenty-nine seconds longer than the drive out here was giving me, so I’ll take it.

I pull the next flagging tape from my pocket and mark the post at the end of the section.

“Next section’s worse.” Rhett appears alongside me with the wire spool under one arm and the pliers in his hand as he squints up the line. “Wrong gauge wire, by my estimate.”

“I know.” I work the first staple free with a sigh. “Wrong order came in last fall and I didn’t check the delivery myself the way I should have.”

Rhett looks at the wire, then back up the line. “Supply budget’s been running short for a while.”

“Sure seems like it has.” I nod as I move to the next staple. “I need to carve out some time to sit down with the books and figure out where in the hell it’s going.”

He makes a sound of agreement and crouches at the nearest post, working the staples free with the methodical patience that makes him the best hand I’ve ever worked beside. In all the time he’s been here, I’ve never seen him rush a job or cut a corner or complain about the kind of work that nobody thanks you for doing. He just shows up, gets it done, and comes back the next morning for more of the same.