Page 23 of Wild Sanctuary

“So, Daisy.” Colt spears a piece of roast with his fork, and I’m struck, not for the first time tonight, by how much he’s grown into himself. Six years have been generous with his golden-brown hair and sun-kissed jaw. Those bright blue eyes that still look like they’re in on a joke nobody else knows yet. He’s grinning at me from across the table with the easy confidence of a man who’s never once doubted his own charm. “Journalism in Denver. What’s that like? Lots of exciting exposés? Political scandals? Celebrity gossip?”

“More features than headlines,” I admit. “But the kind that pay the bills if you know how to find the story underneath. This article on multigenerational ranching could be good, though. There’s real interest in how family operations are surviving against corporate agriculture.”

“Fascinatin’,” Colt deadpans. “Tell me more about… agricultural economics.”

Maggie throws a roll at his head. He catches it, winks, and takes a bite, utterly unrepentant.

“Daisy’s doing important work documenting a dyin’ way of life, asshat,” she declares. “Show some respect.”

“I’m showing respect! I’m showing so much respect.” Colt gestures with the half-eaten roll. “I’m just saying, if you ever want the real story on rodeo politics, I’m your man.”

“You’re a man who quit at the top,” West observes. “That’s a story.”

“That’s ancient history.” Colt takes another bite of roll, his easy grin firmly in place. “Nobody wants to read about that.”

Beside me, Wyatt reaches for his water glass, and his arm drags slowly across mine, bare skin to bare skin, and I go liquid. Every thought in my head replaced by the single catastrophic awareness of how warm he is and how close he is and how if his arm moves one more inch, I’m going to make a sound that no one at this table needs to hear.

He sets his glass down without drinking from it. His jaw is working, and his eyes are fixed on the far wall like the wallpaper pattern holds the secret to inner peace.

Did he feel that, or am I just sitting here vibrating like a tuning fork next to a man who barely registers my existence?

My eyes drop to the scar on his chin, pale against his tan skin.

I remember when he got that scar.

Clear as day.

* * *

It’s a few days after my thirteenth birthday. I’m perched on the fence rail where I’m not supposed to be. Dad told me to stay by the barn, but Wyatt’s working with a new stallion—a big bay with wild eyes and a mean streak—and I can’t resist sneaking closer to watch.

He’s twenty-two, and I think he’s the coolest person I’ve ever met. The way he sits in the saddle, so easy and relaxed, like the horse is just part of him.

Out of the blue, the stallion rears without warning, twisting midair, and Wyatt comes off hard. His chin catches the edge of the water trough on the way down, and a sickening crack echoes across the paddock.

There’s so much blood.

I don’t remember climbing down from the fence, but suddenly I’m kneeling beside him in the dirt, pressing my small hands to his jaw like I can hold him together. Like I can stop the red from seeping through my fingers if I just press hard enough.

“Daisy.” His voice is calm, even though his face is a mess. “Breathe. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay!” I’m sobbing, hiccupping and snotty, probably making everything worse. “There’s so much blood⁠—”

“Hey.” His hand comes up to cover mine, warm and steady. “Look at me.”

I look. His green eyes are clear, not panicked at all. He takes a slow breath, like he’s showing me how it’s done.

“Scars mean you survived.” His voice is gruff. “Nothin’ wrong with that.”

He ruffles my hair with his free hand, leaving a smear of blood on my forehead.

I don’t wipe it off. Not for hours.

It makes me feel brave.

* * *

“Daisy?”