Page 50 of Wild Sanctuary

“Wyatt—”

“I said drop it.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment, her expression shifting from confusion to something that looks uncomfortably like disappointment. Then she shakes her head.

“Fine. But whatever you did, you better fix it before tonight.” She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “She’s scheduled for the bachelorette auction at eight. So you’ve got until then to smooth things over.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

I stand there in the silence of my office, the smell of her shampoo still lingering in the air, the echo of her voice playing on repeat in my head.

I wouldn’t want to be a distraction.

I told myself one more day. One interview, and then I could go back to keeping my distance.

Instead, I burned it all down.

12

DAISY

I’ve changed outfits three times. For a woman who doesn’t care, that’s at least two times too many.

The first was fine. Jeans, a nice peach top, and a pair of comfortable ankle boots. Perfectly acceptable for a Friday night fundraiser in a town where dressing up essentially means tucking in your shirt. But I looked at myself in the cabin’s small bathroom mirror and saw a woman trying very hard to be invisible, and the stubborn part of me—the part that’s been running the show since I was old enough to have opinions—outright refused.

The second attempt was worse, in the form of a sage-green slip dress I packed for no good reason. Far too Denver for Blackstone Creek. I spent a solid fifteen minutes pacing the cabin floor until I realized I looked like I was trying too hard, which is somehow worse than not trying at all.

Now I’m back in the jeans and top, sitting cross-legged on the bed as I seriously consider texting June that I’ve come down with a sudden and mysterious illness. Mono, perhaps.

Apparently it’s going around.

I reach for my phone right as it vibrates with an incoming call. June’s name flashes on the screen because, seemingly, she can smell a flight risk from the main house.

“Please tell me you’re getting ready and not sitting on your bed having a crisis,” she says, in lieu of hello.

“I’m getting ready.”

“Liar. I can hear you sitting.”

“You cannot hear someone sitting.” I quickly uncross my legs and push myself off the bed almost guiltily.

“And yet here we are.” Her smugness is audible. “Check your porch. I left you something.”

I frown, phone pressed to my ear, and pad across the cabin to the front door. A paper shopping bag sits on the top step, soft pink tissue paper poking out of the top. I pick it up, surprised at the weight.

“June, what is this?”

“Open it.” I can hear the smile in her voice as I pull the tissue paper aside and note the simple white fabric. I lift it out to reveal a dress with spaghetti straps and a scoop neck, the hem looking to hit around mid-thigh. It’s the kind of cut that looks like nothing on the hanger and everything on a body.

Something heavier sits at the bottom of the bag, so I reach in, my eyes widening when my fingers close around worn leather.

My old cowboy boots. Brown, calf-height. The leather softened from summers of wear. I left them here years ago and forgot them. June didn’t.

“When did you buy this?”

“Yesterday. In town.”

“Yesterday. As in… before you asked me to do the auction?”