Page 14 of Wild Sanctuary

“Few weeks. She’s writing an article.”

Rhett nods, continuing to work beside me for a while without saying anything else.

“She know her way around still?” he questions. “Or do I need to keep an eye on gates?”

“She grew up here.”

“People forget.” He checks a buckle, adjusts it, and moves on. “Three years is a long time.”

He’s not talking about gates. But he’s not going to say what he’s actually talking about either, and I’m not going to ask.

“She’ll be fine,” I mutter.

“Didn’t say she wouldn’t.”

We work in silence after that. Rhett moves to the next stall while I finish the bridle and start on the saddle rack. The horses settle around us, and the morning gets on with itself.

“Feels good, though,” Rhett remarks finally. “Having part of Tom back at the ranch.”

The words hit harder than they should. Because Rhett’s right. Tom would be thrilled she’s here. Tom would be standing right beside us, already figuring out how to rope Daisy into evening chores, how to make her feel like part of things again.

And he’d see straight through me, same as he did six years ago.

“Yeah,” I manage.

“He talked about her all the time. How proud he was.” Rhett’s eyes stay on his work. “Makes sense she’d wanna come back and write about the place he loved.”

I don’t answer because I can’t, really.

I turn back to the saddle in front of me and examine the leather with more attention than it requires. The silence stretches between us, comfortable the way silences get between two people who’ve spent enough mornings like this.

Rhett doesn’t push. He never does. It’s one of the things I appreciate most about him—he knows when to talk and when to let the quiet do the work.

But today, the quiet feels heavy and loaded with things I can’t say.

“You good?” he asks finally.

I look up to find Rhett watching me. Hard to tell what he’s thinking. He plays his cards close, same as me.

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t call me on the lie. Just reaches over and claps a hand on my shoulder, once, firm, the way you’d steady a horse that’s thinking about bolting. Then he lets go.

“Sunday dinner’s tonight, right?”

“Six o’clock. Same as always.”

Sunday dinner is the one thing in this family that isn’t up for discussion. Mom built it, June kept it alive after she was gone, and we show up every week because that’s what it was always for. Rhett’s been coming since his first week on the ridge, and he hasn’t missed one since.

“June know I’m comin’?” he asks, eyes on the gelding’s foreleg.

“Christ, you come every week, Cordova.”

“Still.” He pauses. “Like to know she knows.”

I look at him, but he doesn’t look back. I’ve known this man for eight years, and there are still parts of him I can’t get a read on. I’ve learned to leave those parts alone.

“I’ll tell her,” I concede.