Page 13 of Wild Sanctuary

I’m so screwed.

4

WYATT

I’m dressed before the sun even thought about rising. Gave up on sleep around four and spent the hours since reviewing inventory reports, responding to emails, and doing anything other than thinking about Daisy Monroe.

It didn’t work. Not even close.

But at least the ranch books are up to date.

I step outside into air cold enough to cut, and for a second, my head actually shuts the hell up.

My boots crunch on the gravel path. The main barn looms ahead, over a hundred years old and built by my great-great-grandfather when he first staked his claim on this valley. The foundation stones came from the creek bed, the timber from the trees on the hills.

Five generations of my family have held this land, and from long before I drew breath, Silas Blackwood’s been waiting, ready to step in at the least sign of opportunity. Dad warned me about it before he ever taught me to ride. Said Blackwoods don’t take.

They wait.

And when the moment comes, they ensure you hand it over and thank them for the favor.

It hasn’t happened yet. It won’t happen on my watch.

Not a hope in hell.

I’m reaching for the barn door when my Top Hand appears at my shoulder.

I don’t startle easy and never have, but in eight years, I still haven’t heard that man coming once. Eventually I stopped trying to figure out how someone that size moves that quiet and filed it under things about Rhett Cordova that don’t have a satisfying answer.

He’s already dressed for work in faded jeans, a worn flannel, and boots that have seen better days. His dark hair is damp from showering, pushed back from his face in a way that reminds me how much time has passed since Dad brought him home.

Eight years. Worked his way from ranch hand to Top Hand in three, which might be a record on this property. He’s part of the crew now, part of the family in all the ways that matter.

“You’re up early.”

He shrugs, falling into step beside me as I push open the barn door. “Couldn’t sleep.”

The animals shift in their stalls as we walk in, morning light coming through the high windows.

“Makes two of us,” I admit.

Rhett doesn’t say anything, just moves to the first stall and starts checking on Jasper, one of our older geldings. His hands are sure and gentle as he runs them down the horse’s legs, checking for heat or swelling.

We fall into the rhythm of morning chores. Rhett heads toward the east stalls, and I take the west, no discussion required. When I reach for the hay cart, he’s already pushed it to the end of the aisle. When he needs the hoof pick, I toss it without looking up and hear him catch it one-handed. Eight years’ll do that.

The work keeps my hands busy. Doesn’t do much for my head.

It keeps circling back to her.

“Heard Daisy Monroe came back.”

My grip tightens on the leather of the bridle I’m checking.

I glance up to find Rhett watching me with those dark, steady eyes, one shoulder propped against the stall door like he’s been waiting to bring it up.

“Yeah.” I pause. “Arrived yesterday.”

“Staying long?”