Page 110 of Wild Sanctuary

“Wyatt!” Colt’s voice carries across the yard. “Got a problem with the water line on the north pasture. Need your eyes on it.”

Wyatt closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose, and opens them.

“Your timing,” he mutters under his breath, “is goddamn biblical, brother.”

He opens his door and steps out. I follow on legs that don’t feel entirely steady, and Colt is already climbing out of his truck with that easy grin, his eyes flicking between us with an interest he’s doing a terrible job of hiding.

“Afternoon, Daisy,” Colt drawls, slow grin in place.

His eyes flick to his brother. “Y’all look… busy.”

“Don’t start with me today, asshole.”

He tips his hat in response and looks back at me. “So, how was town?”

“Productive,” I deadpan, and leave it there.

Colt’s grin widens. He knows something happened in that cab the same way a dog knows there’s food on the counter. He can’t see it, but he can smell it.

Wyatt comes around the truck and positions himself beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine, then he looks at Colt expectantly.

“Walk Daisy to the house first.”

Colt’s grin fades. He reads the shift instantly, the way all the Hartleys seem to, and nods once.

“Yes, sir.”

Wyatt turns back to me, and the hunger is still there on his face, banked but burning.

“We’re not done.” His words are quiet, meant for my ears alone.

My breath catches. His eyes hold mine for one more second, dark and steady, and then he turns to Colt like a switch has been flipped.

“And you lay on that horn one more time and I’ll tell every person in this county what’s on your birth certificate.”

Colt goes pale beneath his tan. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

I look between them, completely lost, but Wyatt is already heading for his truck, and whatever just passed between them is filed under Hartley business that I’m not cleared for.

Colt offers me his arm with exaggerated formality, the grin sliding back into place, though it’s missing some of its usual wattage. “Shall we?”

“What’s on your birth certificate?”

“Absolutely nothin’ worth discussing. Ever. With a damn soul.” He steers me toward the porch. “Let’s talk about literally anythin’ else. Weather’s nice, ain’t it?”

I push down on a chuckle as I let him walk me to the door, and when I glance back, Wyatt is standing by his truck watching us. He doesn’t move a muscle until I’m safely inside.

Then I close the door and stand there with my back against it, breathing hard in the silent foyer, while every nerve ending in my body is still humming from the memory of his thumb on my skin.

We’re not done.

God help me, I hope not.

26

WYATT