Page 11 of Wild Sanctuary

I take a long pull of whiskey and try to ignore the sudden tremble in my hand.

She’s twenty years old. I’m almost thirty. And she’s Tom Monroe’s pride and joy.

Tom.

Who’s standing fifteen feet away, beaming at her like she hung the moon. Who trusts me with everything. Who would put me in the ground if he knew what I was thinking right now.

Which is nothing. I’m thinking nothing.

And the fact I can’t pry my eyes away from her means exactly that.

Nothing.

I’m going to finish this drink and go check on the horses and forget that I ever looked at Daisy Monroe.

“Wyatt!”

Too slow, idiot!

She’s spotted me lurking by the window like some kind of antisocial gargoyle, and now she’s crossing the room with a bright smile that makes my pulse quicken dangerously.

“Merry Christmas, Wyatt.” She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light and floral that doesn’t belong to the Daisy I remember. “You’re hiding.”

“Not hidin’. Drinkin’.”

“You can do both.” She tilts her head, studying me with those warm brown eyes. “You okay? You look… I don’t know. Tense.”

I’m not tense. I’m losing my goddamn mind.

“Long week,” I manage, sounding surlier than intended.

“It’s Christmas Eve. You’re supposed to relax.”

“Cattle don’t know it’s Christmas.”

She laughs—that new laugh, the rich one—and my hand tightens on the glass.

“Same old Wyatt.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “Would it kill you to have fun for one night?”

Same old Wyatt.

That’s what she sees. A grumpy family friend. The guy who’s always working, always serious, always treating her like the kid she used to be.

Better that than the truth.

“Fun’s overrated.” I drain the rest of my whiskey. “I should go check the horses.”

Her smile falters. “Now? But we haven’t even⁠—”

“Merry Christmas, Daisy-girl.”

The nickname comes out rough. A wall built from the only tools I have—distance and gruffness. I don’t know where it came from, I just know I need it.

She opens her mouth, but I’m already moving, grabbing my coat from the hook, and I’m out the door before she can respond.

The bitter cold hits the second I step outside, and I welcome it.

By the time I make it to the barn, I almost feel human again. I rest a hand on the nearest gelding’s neck, taking a beat to breathe in the familiar scent of horse, hay and old leather.