Page 97 of Wild Sanctuary

“I can see it. You’ve been lying here all night building a case for why last night was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t a mistake.” The words are spoken slowly and carefully like he’s rehearsed this part. “But it can’t happen again.”

I sit up swiftly, and his shirt slips off my left shoulder. His eyes flick to it and away so fast I almost miss it. Almost.

“Why?”

“Someone broke into your cabin while we were at dinner. I should have cleared it the minute we got back. Instead, I had you against the goddamn front door.” He sits up too, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so he’s facing away from me. Giving me his back like that’s going to make this easier.

I don’t think so, pal.

“I was supposed to be keeping you safe. And I wasn’t⁠—”

“Wasn’t what?” I’m not letting him finish that sentence the way he wants to. “Kissing me like your life depended on it? Making me come so hard I couldn’t stand? Coming in your pants while you watched it happen?”

His back goes rigid and I keep going because screw it. He doesn’t get to flinch away from this.

“Which part are you punishing yourself for, Wyatt? Because I was there for all of it and I’m not sorry about a single second.”

His shoulders tighten. I see the muscles shift under his shirt and I want to shake him.

“You make me careless.”

The words hit me right in the heart.

“And last time I was careless, people died.”

The room goes deathly silent.

“What do you mean?”

“The morning your dad and mine died.” His eyes are fixed on the wall. “I was supposed to be in that truck. But the bank called. Some flag on the operating loan, and I stayed back to deal with it while they drove out to the east ridge. Twenty minutes. That’s all it took.”

“I didn’t know that.”

He still doesn’t look at me. “It was nothin’. The flag. The teller couldn’t even explain why it was raised. Twenty minutes on the phone over something that shouldn’t have existed, and by the time I hung up⁠—”

He stops. His hands grip the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles turn white.

And the journalist in me goes very, very still.

“Wyatt.” I move across the bed until I’m sitting beside him. Not touching. Close enough. “Did anyone ever explain where the flag came from?”

He looks at me for the first time since this conversation started. I can see him trying to figure out where I’m going.

“No. Bank teller said it was a flag on the operating loan.”

“A flag that just happened to come through at the exact time Dad and Bill were driving out to the ridge.”

He stares at me for a beat before a frown begins to form on his brow.

“Someone needed you off that truck. Not off the property. Off that road. Out of the way.”

“Daisy, what are you⁠—”

“I’m telling you what I came here to tell you.” I pull my knees up, tuck my feet under me, and face him fully. I’m done carrying this alone. “The article is real, but it’s not the main reason I’m here.”

His head turns, and he looks at me for the first time since this conversation started.