Page 2 of Wild Sanctuary

I ease the car forward, following the gravel drive toward the guest cabin Wyatt said I could use. The tires crunch over small stones, a sound so familiar it makes my throat tight. I used to love that sound as a kid. It meant summer.

It meant Dad.

Now it just means I’m back where I started, with a stalled career and a box of questions I can’t answer.

I’d emailed Wyatt a month ago, in a professional, distant tone, explaining that I was writing an article on multigenerational ranching families for Rocky Mountain Magazine and asking whether the Hartleys would be willing to participate. I’d promised to stay out of everyone’s way, citing that I only needed access and a few interviews. Standard journalism stuff. Nothing personal.

He’d written back two lines:

Cabin’s yours. Don’t get in the way of work.

That’s Wyatt. The man has never used three words when two would suffice, or any words when a grunt and a meaningful stare would do the job just as well.

As I reach the turn-off for the guest cabin, a sharp motion catches my eye in one of the training paddocks.

There’s a man working a horse, a stunning blood bay, coat slick with sweat. Except the horse is having opinions about things, his ears pinned back and body tense with resistance. It spins, fast and sharp, trying to escape the man’s control.

But the man moves with it.

He flows with the horse’s motion like he’s anticipated every move before it happens. His hands are steady on the lead rope, not fighting, just guiding. Then the afternoon sun catches his bare back and I slam the brakes.

The car lurches, making my seatbelt lock across my chest and bite into my collarbone. My pulse catches up a second later.

And just like that, every reason I came here evaporates. All of them, just gone.

Because right there, in that paddock, is Wyatt Hartley.

Shirtless.

Sweaty.

The muscles in his back shifting like a geography lesson I want to study with my hands.

Three years since the funeral, and he couldn’t have the decency to let himself go even a little.

I sit frozen in my stopped car, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, and try to process what I’m seeing. I’ve known this man for twenty years. He’s the one who taught me how to throw a punch when Bobby Andersen tried to kiss me at the summer fair, crouching down to my level with that serious expression and showing me how to make a proper fist. The one who carried me back to the house on his shoulders when I sprained my ankle chasing Colt, the second eldest Hartley, through the creek bed, lecturing me the whole way about watching where I put my feet.

He should feel like an old family friend I can nod at politely and never think about again.

But he has never felt like that. Not at fourteen. Not at twenty. And not now.

Not since I was old enough to understand why my stomach flipped every time he walked into a room.

His shoulders are broader than I remember. Or maybe six years away just made me forget how much space he takes up. The muscles in his arms flex and release as he works the rope. His jeans are riding low on his hips, faded and dusty enough to tell me he’s been out here for hours.

Six years away, except that one week I don’t count, and apparently none of it did a thing to cure me of this stupid, pointless, one-sided thing.

You’ve had colds that were easier to shake, Monroe.

The horse finally gives in, sides heaving as Wyatt’s hand comes up to pat its neck, and I catch myself watching that motion. That gentleness. He rations it so carefully with people and gives it so freely to everything else.

Then he turns, his gaze meeting mine through the windshield, and his entire body goes rigid. One second he’s relaxed, easy in his skin, and the next he’s made of stone.

His hand drops from the horse’s neck, and I slowly raise my hand in a wave that feels stupid even as I’m doing it.

He doesn’t wave back. He just stands there, staring at me in a way that doesn’t require interpretation.

Because Wyatt Hartley has never been happy to see me. He tolerates me because I’m Tom Monroe’s daughter, and he’s an honorable man.