I give him a sickly-sweet smile, one that doesn’t match the sneer that follows. “Okay,Bryan. You want to play pretend cowboy? Do it somewhere else.” I make a point of looking at his boots. Boots that are entirely too clean for this to not be his first day. Snickers erupt, and I whip my head toward the rest of thegroup. “That goes for the rest of you boys, too. If that-” I point towards the pen, “ever happens again, I will shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be sittin’ sideways at Sunday service.”
My eyes dart around the group, and I watch as faces blanch and brows shoot up. When no one responds, I bite out, “Got it?”
A chorus of “yes ma’am’s” rings out. I straighten, rolling back my shoulders. When I glance at the only one who stayed silent through my outburst, I truly wish I hadn’t. Because Wyatt is watching me. A beautiful, stupid smirk on his face. If I thought Wyatt shirtless, or in grey sweatpants, or in a tight T-shirt was hot, Wyatt in a cowboy hat isdevastating. It isn’t lost on me that he didn’t tell me I was overstepping when this is his ranch–his men. But he clearly doesn’t give a shit. Not with the way his eyes are shining… almost like there’s a little pride mixed in with that same heated expression he gave me this morning.
I turn to walk away, and I swear I hear one of the guys mutter “bitch.” When I turn back, Bryan’s flat on his ass with Wyatt’s face in his.
Chapter Eleven
WHITNEY
“Ready to go?”
My words trail off as I come to stand beside Vivienne. Her hip rests against the hood of her car and she half-hums, half-shakes her head in response. I follow her gaze.
In the pasture, a cluster of riders push a large herd of cattle across the field—probably moving them for grazing or because of a broken fence. I don’t know. Hell, I don’t care. Because Wyatt is among them, unmistakable even from a distance, and moving with his horse like silk through water.
I barely glance towards Haden or the others—until the mustang beneath one of Wyatt’s men rears back violently. Vivienne gasps beside me, one hand flying up to her chest while the other shoots out to wrap around my bicep. My own anxiety flares as my eyes fly to catch up with the chaos rapidly unfolding. Something must have spooked the horse. I’ve seen them out a time or two, and he’s never reacted this way before.
Before the man can hit the dirt, Haden is there—swooping in like he saw it coming a mile away. Haden grabs him by the collar mid-fall, dragging him out of the danger zone just in time to avoid being trampled.
My eyes jump to the stray horse, knowing his unpredictability could get one of the other men or cattle hurt if he isn’t soothed quickly. Wyatt must be thinking the same because he swings off his own horse in one fluid motion. The large animal doesn’t slow until his rider hits the ground. Wyatt sprints alongside the runaway mustang, then jumps—launching himself onto the horse's back in a running mount so smooth, so impossibly seamless, it looks choreographed.
For a split second, the chaos turns graceful. Wyatt’s hips move with the horse. His balance is perfect, and that damn hat is still in place. He rides like he’s part of the animal—like they were cut from the same, wild cloth. The cowboy doesn’t even reach for his stirrups as he reins the mustang in with nothing but leg strength and quiet authority.
I blink, forcing myself to look away before he can catch me watching. The last thing I want is to give him the satisfaction of seeing me impressed. My sister, though, she’s still staring, eyebrows pinched in a way I don’t understand. I reluctantly follow her gaze again. Wyatt is perched on the now tame horse with his back to us, talking to Haden and the man who fell. Or trying to, anyway. Haden’s barely listening—his eyes are locked on Vivienne.
When he sees us both watching him, his jaw visibly tightens and he looks away. “What’s all that about?” I ask, tilting my head toward her.
“Nothing.” She mutters back, not sparing Haden another glance. “Let’s go.”
I hum, not completely convinced, but I follow her anyway. We walk past the gate to the ranch and onto the road that leads towards Wesley and Blake’s house. It’s a two, maybe three-minute walk, and we make it in silence. Vivienne’s mind seems to be elsewhere as we stroll upon the cobblestone walkway toClover-Hills Therapeutic Center. Can’t say mine is any different. I’m still reeling from the events of today.
Blake’s on the porch with a phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, while she flips through some kind of magazine. Light bounces off her sun-kissed hair, and when her brown eyes spot Vivienne and I, she abruptly tears the phone from her ear and bounds down the porch steps. “Whitney!” she greets, leaning in to envelope me in a hug. I wrap my arounds around her, squeezing back. “I’m so happy to see you,” she adds. “Little B, okay?”
She started calling Brinley “Little B” shortly after she was born. It melts my heart, because it’s so very similar to the nickname I gave Blake when we were younger. She came back from New York over a year ago, reconciled with her high school sweetheart, and has been in Clover-Hills ever since. She was a huge help during my pregnancy, and I’m forever grateful for having a friend like her in my life. Making Blake my daughter’s godmother was the easiest decision I’ve ever made. She loves my little girl like her own, and Brinley adores her as much as she does Vivienne. She’s going to be a flower girl in her and Wesley’s wedding next week.
Before I can respond to either of her sentences, she’s spewing another my way. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around a lot-” I quickly cut her off with a wave of my hand. “Hey. No, it’s okay. You’ve been super busy. Brinley is great. We’ll make plans when you get some free time.”
She nods, glancing at Vivienne before giving me a sympathetic smile. “Any news on the fire?”
“No,” I shake my head. “Not yet.”
It’s a bit outrageous considering how small this town is. I should have heardsomethingby now. If I don’t get answers soon, I’ll have to go looking for them. Blake nods along before shoving her phone in her pocket and rolling her magazine totuck under her arm. “Well, there’s pizza inside on the counter. Let’s go eat before you two go back to working like a couple of dogs.”
We head towards the front door, Vivienne passes us and mutters something about being so hungry she could lick the grease off a pizza box. Blake falls back and pulls a sheet of folded paper from her back pocket. She unravels it. “I wanted to give this to you.” She hands me the bright pink flyer. “It’s a mom group. They meet every other Sunday.”
I go to open my mouth, to protest or to steer the topic in a different direction—I don’t know. But Blake beats me to it. “I know, I know. Just think about it, okay? All the women are really great. I think you should come check it out sometime, maybe meet a mom friend or two. Share your story. Listen to theirs.”
I just give her a tight-lipped smile in return, and say, “I’ll think about it.”
That seems to please her enough because she follows Vivienne, yelling after her best friend, “Don’t eat all the Hawaiian slices, asshole!”
Chapter Twelve
WYATT
Mom
