Page 17 of Wild Sanctuary

Wyatt?

I know you’re reading this.

I shove the phone back in my pocket without responding. Then I wash up at the barn sink, scrubbing trail dust from my hands and splashing cold water on my face. The mirror above the sink shows me a man who looks every one of his thirty-five years. My eyes are hollow and tired, my face needs shaving, and there’s dirt still clinging to my collar. The old scar on my chin stands out white against the sunburn, but Dad always said it made me look like I’d earned my place.

Right now I just look tired. And not a damn thing like the kind of man a twenty-six-year-old woman looks twice at.

Not that I want her to look.

Fuck, I’m in so much trouble.

I grab a clean shirt from my locker, something June insisted I keep here for exactly this situation, and swap it with the one I’ve been sweating in all day. The new one is dark blue, and worn soft from a hundred washings.

It’s not fancy. Nothing about me is fancy.

But at least I don’t smell like horse anymore.

5

WYATT

The walk to the main house feels longer than it should. The air’s warm and smells like whatever June’s been cooking all afternoon, and I hear them before I reach the porch.

Laughter.

Colt’s, loud and infectious, followed by June’s lighter giggle and then hers.

Daisy.

She’s laughing—really laughing—and I’m not ready for what that does to me.

For a moment, I consider turning around and walking back to the barn. Saddling up and riding out into the darkness until the sound of her joy stops echoing in my chest.

Instead, I take a deep breath and climb the porch steps.

The front door is open to catch the evening breeze, and through the screen I can see into the living room. June is arranging wildflowers in a mason jar on the sideboard, standing on her toes to reach the top shelf, her pale blonde ponytail swinging as she works. Mom used to do that same thing on Sunday afternoons.

Colt is sprawled across the couch with his usual disregard for furniture, gesturing expansively while he tells some story that’s probably only half true. He learned to make it look easy the year he quit the circuit and moved into one of the larger cabins about half a mile down the south track. I’m fairly sure I’m the only one who sees the cost behind it.

And Daisy.

She’s standing by the window with her back half-turned, and wearing a blue sundress that has no business looking the way it does on her.

Strappy. Simple.

And somehow worse for it.

The thin straps sit on her bare shoulders like an invitation I didn’t ask for. The neckline dips just enough to show the ridge of her collarbone and the soft hollow at her throat where her pulse is probably steady—unlike my goddamn own.

Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves down her back, brushing the bare skin between her shoulder blades where the straps cross. My hand tightens on the screen door frame before I even register the impulse.

She shifts her weight to one hip, moving the skirt of that sundress against her thighs, and I go half-hard on the goddamn porch like a teenager.

Motherfucker!

I clench my jaw and stare at my boots, waiting for my goddamn cock to get the memo that this can’t happen. Eventually I run out of reasons not to look at her, and cuss myself for it, because when I do, all I can think is that she looks like she belongs here.

Because she does belong here.