Page 21 of Wild Sanctuary

June claps her hands once, the sound cutting through the chatter. “Alright, everyone. Dinner’s ready. Find your seats, and for the love of God, Colt, if you touch that breadbasket, I will end you.”

And with that, the chaos of seating begins.

6

DAISY

June runs Sunday dinner like a general commanding troops. No survivors.

“Colt, you’re between West and Rhett. Maggie, end of the table—no, the other end, you’re still covered in cow.”

“I showered!” Maggie protests, but she’s already moving to the far seat. “Mostly.”

“You have hay in your hair.”

The voice belongs to West, leaning in the doorway with the quiet stillness I remember—tall and lean, with those green eyes that miss nothing, so like Wyatt’s.

Maggie flips him the bird before reaching up to find the offending piece to flick at his head. “Snitch.”

“Daisy…” June pauses, a smile playing at her lips that I don’t quite trust. “You’re next to Wyatt.”

Because of course I am.

I freeze halfway to the chair I was aiming for. “I can sit anywhere, really⁠—”

“Nonsense, honey. Wyatt needs someone to keep him from brooding into his potatoes.” June gestures at the seat to the right of the head of the table. “Go on.”

Wyatt’s mouth presses into a thin line, but he says nothing. Just pulls out the chair at the head of the table and drops into it like a man facing execution.

This should be fun.

I slide into my assigned seat, hyperaware of the inches between us. The dining room hasn’t changed much since I was a kid: the same heavy oak table that seats eight, the same mismatched chairs collected over generations, the same wide windows looking out over the back pasture where the horses are settling in for the evening.

The pot roast sits in the center of the table like a crown jewel, surrounded by bowls of roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, fresh rolls, and a green salad that I suspect no one will touch. Steam rises from everything, carrying the scent of rosemary and garlic.

And home.

Dad’s recipe.

The thought catches in my throat as I inhale deep into my lungs.

“Nobody touches anything until we do the thing,” June announces, taking her seat across from me.

“The thing?” I ask.

“June’s thing.” Colt’s already reaching for a roll. “Don’t fight it.”

June slaps his hand without looking. “Best part of your day. Maggie, you first.”

Under the table, Wyatt shifts, and his knee brushes against mine.

The contact is brief—barely a whisper of denim against my bare leg—but it hits like a live wire. I glance at him, but he’s staring straight ahead, shoulders ramrod straight.

He doesn’t move his leg away. Neither do I.

“Delivering those breech twins safely.” She reaches for her wine with a smile. “That’s hard to beat.”

“West.”