Page 123 of Wild Sanctuary

He glances at me then, quick and warm, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Me. Mostly.”

Then he slides a plate of scrambled eggs and toast across the counter to me and leans against the opposite side, arms folded, watching me eat with an expression that borders on smug.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just glad you’re here.”

He holds my gaze across the counter, and I have to look down at my plate before my face gives me away.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” I murmur gently, and I mean it with everything I have.

He grabs his own plate, and we eat at the counter, our shoulders almost touching. He steals a piece of my toast, and I let him because the look on his face when he thinks he’s gotten away with it is worth the loss.

“Colt nearly got kicked this morning,” he says between bites. “Heifer took exception to being redirected. He rolled out of the way and came up grinnin’ like it was the best thing that happened to him all week.”

“Was it?”

“Knowing Colt? Probably.” He shakes his head. “Meanwhile Rhett just quietly fixed the whole boundary fence by himself while the rest of us were chasin’ cattle.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Man doesn’t talk, but he gets more done before breakfast than the rest of us manage in a whole damn day.”

I bump his shoulder with mine. “Remind you of anyone?”

He gives me a look but doesn’t take the bait.

“Shelby stopped by earlier.” I slowly chew my last bite of toast. “She was looking for June.”

“Mm.”

“She mentioned her sister Lauren works at the bank. Do you know her?”

“Lauren Reynolds?” He nods between chews. “Yeah, you know everyone knows everyone in Blackstone Creek.”

“Yeah, well, she works at the bank in commercial accounts. Transferred from Bozeman about four years ago.” I watch his face. “That puts her at the counter well before our dads died.”

Wyatt sets down his fork and thinks it through, turning it over before he responds.

“I’ve known Lauren Reynolds my whole life. A quiet girl, two years behind me in school. Married Bobby Diaz out of high school, divorced him three years later. Then she got her banking certification and moved to Bozeman.” He shakes his head, returning to his plate. “She’s not the type.”

“The type to what?”

“To make a call that gets people killed.”

“Wyatt.” I set down my coffee. “Nobody’s the type. That’s the whole point. People get pressured into things every day. They get scared, or they get leveraged. They do things they never imagined they would be capable of because someone with more power puts them in a position where the only option is to say yes.”

The words linger in the space between us while he watches me with that careful, steady gaze. “You’re not just talkin’ about Lauren.”

“I’m not talking about any one person. That’s why I didn’t tell a soul about my evidence when I came back here. Not you, not June, not the family.” I set down my coffee. “Because the person who made that call lives in this town. They go to the same diner and shop at the same store. They gossip with the same people on Main Street and go to charity fundraisers for their neighbors. And I had no way of knowing who it was. I still don’t.”

Wyatt is quiet for a long time, then, “That’s a hell of a thing to carry around.”

“Welcome to investigative journalism.”

He stands, pushes back from the counter, and pulls me into him. My feet barely skim the floor as his arms close around me, and I’m completely engulfed. All I can see is flannel, all I can smell is mud and Wyatt, and his chin settles on the top of my head like I was built to fit right here.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it. It vibrates again.