Page 122 of Wild Sanctuary

28

DAISY

I’m on the porch with my phone and a cup of June’s chamomile tea just before noon, still turning Lauren Reynolds’s name over in my head, when dust rises off the ranch road. Wyatt’s truck comes up the driveway, and he’s out of the cab before the engine’s fully off.

He’s covered in mud, his jeans caked to the knees, and his boots thick with it. His hat is pushed back on his head, and there’s a smear of something across his jaw that might be mud or might be grease.

He looks like the best thing I’ve ever seen.

I set down my tea and stand, but before I can say a word he’s up the porch steps and his hands are on my waist and my feet are off the ground. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, swings me once, and sets me down with my back against the porch post and his body blocking out the rest of the world.

I’m laughing. I can’t help it. Because this is not Wyatt Hartley. Wyatt Hartley does not swing women around on porches. Wyatt Hartley grunts and crosses his arms and communicates through meaningful silences and strategic hat adjustments.

“Who are you and what have you done with my rancher?”

“Had paperwork.” His mouth twitches. “Urgent paperwork.”

“Did you now.”

“Time-sensitive as a matter of fact.” He dips his head and kisses the spot just below my ear, quick and deliberate, and my knees turn to mush. “You doubtin’ me, Daisy-girl?”

“I would never.” My chin tips up to find his eyes, and the full weight of Wyatt Hartley’s attention from this close makes my pulse jackknife. His thumb traces my jaw before he leans down to cover my mouth with his.

The kiss is brief and unhurried, tasting like the outdoors and the morning and him. His other hand settles on my hip, and when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

“Hi.” He smiles.

“Hi.” I reach up and wipe the smear off his jaw with my thumb. Mud. “You have half a pasture on your face.”

He raises a dark brow. “Should see the other guy.”

I laugh again, and his eyes soften in a way that makes my chest throb.

“You hungry?” He hooks an arm around my waist and steers me toward the screen door, holding it open with his boot. “Because I’m starving and you can’t cook.”

“Excuse me, I can cook.”

“Daisy, you burned soup.”

“That was one time. And it was chowder. Chowder is thicker. It sticks.”

“It stuck alright.” He’s guiding me through the hallway with his hand on my lower back, and I let him because the casual authority of it is doing things to me I’m not prepared to examine. “Stuck to the bottom of June’s best pot. She still talks about it.”

“June talks about everything.”

“She’s got a point on this one.” He steers me into the kitchen and toward the counter. “Sit.”

Then his hands encircle my waist, and he deposits me on the counter facing the stove. “I’ll feed you before you burn somethin’.”

He moves through the room with an ease I’ve never seen from him before, cracking eggs one-handed, and starting a fresh pot of coffee without being asked. All the while, I sit on the counter and watch him work because the alternative is helping, and frankly, the view from here is so much better.

“You’re starin’ again.” He hasn’t even looked up from the griddle.

“Becoming a habit.”

“Mm. A real dangerous one.”

My face splits in a smile as I tease, “For who?”