Page 105 of Wild Sanctuary

He shares it without ceremony or hesitation. Just hands me access to his entire life the way he’d hand me a coffee mug, and I don’t think he realizes what he’s done.

I pick up the phone, type it in, then tap the text to open a group chat named Hartley’s Hellions.

I resist the almost overwhelming urge to laugh, knowing without a doubt that Colt is behind the name. “Maggie’s on her way back from Sage Harbor with Miguel. Foal’s stable.”

I scroll further. “Colt says he and Rhett are finishing up the fence line. And West’s got the cabin door sorted.”

Wyatt nods once, eyes firmly on the road, and every piece accounted for.

“So, what do we know about Alma in all of this?” he asks.

And just like that, we’re partners.

25

DAISY

The county road unfurls west toward town, and for the first time all day, I can hear myself think.

“All of them ended up with Silas Blackwood.” Wyatt says it out of nowhere, like we were in the middle of a conversation. “Which is the part I keep catching on.”

“Me too.”

“If Silas is running Mountain West, why bother?” He glances at me, then back at the road. “Man’s got the money to buy any of those places in broad daylight at auction. Nobody’d blink. That’s just what Blackwoods do.”

“So it’s not his.”

“Doesn’t fit. Blackwoods don’t hide.”

“Then Mountain West exists to hide someone else.” I watch the road unspool. “Someone who couldn’t be seen doing the work Silas benefits from.”

“Like what?”

“Picking out which ranches are close to going under. Timing the squeeze. Moving the paperwork through a notary who wouldn’t ask questions and a law firm that doesn’t exist. Handing Silas the deeds at the end of it so his hands stay clean.”

“A middleman.”

“A middleman.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Someone close enough to the valley to know which families are bleeding.”

I don’t name anyone. Neither does he.

Wyatt’s hand moves to the back of my headrest as he checks the mirrors, scanning the road behind us before settling forward again. He’s been doing it since we left the ranch. Casual glances that aren’t casual at all.

“You expecting someone?”

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes still on the road as he murmurs, “That’s the problem.”

Then, as though he’s not spoken, he asks, “And what about Alma?”

I take a breath. “Umm, Danny’s in the hospital. Alma’s been running Sky Country Books alone. My editor Glen tracked her down for me, but I didn’t want to approach her until I had enough of the chain to ask the right questions.”

“What makes you think she’ll talk?”

“Her father notarized documents for a shell company that I can tie to land fraud. Either she knows something and she’s scared, or she doesn’t know but she’ll want to.” I tuck my phone back in my pocket. “Either way, I’m not going in as an investigator. I’m going in as a journalist writing a feature on ranch families in the Blackstone Creek valley. Friendly. Curious. No pressure.”

He shoots me a look. “You’ve done this before.”