Page 10 of Wild Sanctuary

“June?”

“Over Colt, I mean.” His mouth twitches. “Unless you want Daisy getting the ‘Colt Hartley Experience.’ Complete with his greatest rodeo hits and phone numbers of at least six women who’d be more’n happy to vouch for his character.”

Despite everything, I almost smile. “June’s an infinitely better choice.”

“Less chance of property damage or paternity tests.” West pushes the door open. “Just a thought.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the lingering smell of coffee and one less problem than I’d had five minutes ago.

* * *

Two hours. I’ve been staring at my goddamn ceiling for two hours. The farmhouse creaks and settles around me the way it has every night for thirty-five years, and none of it is enough. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.

Just her. All of her. Standing there like she never left.

I’m not twenty anymore.

No. She’s fucking not.

That’s the whole goddamn problem.

I turn onto my side, punching my pillow into submission, like I can beat the thought of her out of my head, and try—oh Lord, do I try—to think about cattle prices. Feed costs. The north fence line that needs checking before the summer heat warps the posts.

Anything but the way Daisy looked standing on that cabin porch, close enough to touch if I was stupid enough to try.

But my mind won’t cooperate. It keeps drifting back to another evening six years ago when a red dress changed my life.

* * *

The ranch house is loud with holiday chaos. June’s directing traffic in the kitchen, Colt’s arguing with West about something pointless, and Maggie’s threatening to put coal in everyone’s stockings if they don’t stop getting in her way.

Dad’s got the fire roaring too hot and the tree so covered in lights it’s probably a fire hazard. Our second Christmas without Mom, and we all know he’s overcompensating. It’s as though if he fills the house with enough light and heat, nobody will notice the cold spot where she used to sit.

As I nurse a whiskey by the window, watching snow fall over the valley, the front door opens.

And then she steps inside.

Daisy Monroe in a red dress.

And I almost don’t recognize her.

That’s the thing that catches me off guard. I’ve known this girl since she was six years old, and for a split second, I don’t know who’s walking through my own front door.

Where’s the kid who used to follow her dad around the barn, asking a thousand questions? Or the gangly teenager who begged me to teach her how to drive stick and nearly gave me a heart attack grinding the gears? Or even the college freshman who talked too fast about journalism and changing the world, all elbows and enthusiasm and unbrushed hair?

Where did that girl go?

Because the woman standing in the doorway sure as hell ain’t her.

This woman has curves I’ve never noticed, shoulders I’ve never seen bare, and wears that damn dress like a dare. Her hair falls in loose golden waves instead of the messy ponytail I’m used to, and when she laughs at something June says, I lose my train of thought completely.

And I can’t tear my eyes off her.

She stomps snow off her boots and shrugs out of her coat, and Colt’s already moving to take it from her, saying something that makes her laugh again. She swats his arm, easy and familiar, then hugs Maggie, compliments June on something that smells amazing, and kisses my father on the cheek.

She belongs here. She’s always belonged here. But tonight she looks like she knows it, like she’s finally grown into the space she’s always occupied.

Get a grip on yourself.