Page 26 of Wild Sanctuary

“Old Dave still asks about it.” Colt wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “Every time he comes by. ‘How’s that roof treatin’ you, Boss?’”

“Dave thinks he’s hilarious.” Wyatt’s voice is completely flat.

“Dave is hilarious. And he saved your life.”

“He saved me from mild dehydration at best.”

“From heatstroke and terminal embarrassment,” Maggie corrects.

“Also,” Colt adds, raising a finger, “it was the same summer Wyatt told us we all needed to ‘take more responsibility around the ranch.’ And then got stuck on a roof for six hours because he wouldn’t ask for help.”

“There’s a lesson there,” West says mildly. “Somethin’ about hubris.”

“I will end this dinner, so help me,” Wyatt warns, but there’s no heat in it.

I’m laughing so hard my eyes are watering. This is what I missed: this chaotic, overlapping, merciless love. The way they dig at each other because they can. Because they’re family.

Maggie smiles into her wine. “Speaking of hubris, Colt, I heard Holden Blackwood was at the Spur last night.”

Colt’s grin sharpens. “Never could resist an audience.”

“Boy never met a stage he couldn’t come second on,” Maggie continues, her smile broadening at Colt’s snort.

June shoots me a wink. “And we all know how Blackwoods handle losin’, don’t we?”

“They don’t handle it.” Colt reaches for another bread roll. “Holden especially. Been gunnin’ for me since we were kids.”

“Blackwoods don’t like it when they don’t get what they want.” West’s voice is solemn.

My smile stays in place even as my brain registers every word, filing it all away. The Blackwoods are dinner table fodder right now, but back in Denver, they gave me month after month of dead ends. Any information I can get on them—on all of them—might be what confirms my hunch.

Dinner winds down slowly, the way good meals should. Second helpings turn into thirds, and June brings out a peach cobbler that makes Colt actually groan with happiness. Coffee is poured, conversations splinter into smaller groups, and the light outside is almost gone.

“Alright, boys.” Wyatt pushes back from the table, and the space beside me goes cold. “Evening chores.”

West, Colt, and Rhett follow suit like it’s rehearsed.

The four of them head for the back door, boots stomping, voices low with the easy rhythm of a routine they could do in their sleep. I watch Wyatt pull his hat from the hook by the door, and the simple motion—the reach, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the easy way his hand finds the brim without looking—lands in my chest.

He pauses at the threshold to glance over his shoulder. For a moment I think he’s going to say something. His eyes find mine across the room, and my whole body answers.

Instead, he just tugs on his hat and disappears into the evening without a backward glance.

And I sit there at June’s table with my wine going warm in my hand, still feeling him everywhere our bodies touched, and I tell myself it meant nothing.

I drain the rest of my wine in one go.

One dinner. One knee brush.

And I’m already a wreck.

Imagine what a full sentence from the man would do to me.

7

DAISY

The door closes behind them, and June lets out a breath.