Page 31 of Wild Sanctuary

They’re sitting on hay bales outside the equipment shed, Daisy’s notebook open on her knee as her pen moves in quick strokes. Dave’s leaning back, arms crossed, holding court the way he loves to do.

“—and there’s Wyatt, stuck on that roof like a treed cat, too proud to holler for help⁠—”

I stop walking.

“I heard this story at Sunday dinner.” There’s already laughter bubbling out of Daisy’s voice. “But I have a feeling your version has details Colt left out.”

“Left out?” Dave slaps his knee. “That boy don’t know the half of it. He wasn’t even there. I was the one who found him.”

“The hero of the hour.”

“Damn right I was.” Dave puffs up with pride. “Had to drive the tractor right up to the house so the bull-headed jackass could climb down into the hay cart. Six hours he was up there. Middle of July. Sunburned red as a tomato, trying to salvage what’s left of his dignity.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Which wasn’t much, let me tell you.”

Daisy’s laugh rings out across the yard, bright and warm and completely at my expense.

I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. Dave’s been telling that story for years, embellishing it more each time. Last version I heard, I was up there for twelve hours and had to be airlifted off by the National Guard.

But the sound of her laughter…

It settles in my chest and loosens a knot I didn’t even realize was there. Even with the heat crawling up the back of my neck, even knowing I’ll never hear the end of this, I can’t quite make myself walk away.

“How bad was the sunburn?” Daisy asks, wiping her eyes.

“Peeled for two weeks straight. June had him slathered in aloe like a glazed ham.” Dave chuckles. “And you know what? Never did get a proper thank you. Three days of him stomping around pretending nothing happened, and when he finally said something, it was so quiet I thought I might’ve imagined it.”

“I said thank you,” I mutter, too quiet for them to hear. In my defense, it’s damn hard to enunciate when your lips are blistered shut.

Daisy’s still laughing, shoulders shaking.

Tom used to laugh like that. Full and easy, like joy was something he had plenty of and didn’t mind sharing.

The thought catches me under the ribs, and I take a step back before I realize I’m moving.

Instinctively, I turn and head for the south pasture, allowing Dave’s voice to fade behind me. I’ve got fences to check. Real work to do. And if I walk fast enough, maybe I can outrun the echo of her laugh in my chest.

* * *

Tuesday is cattle drive day, which means I have a legitimate excuse to be far from Daisy Monroe and her notebook and that laugh.

We’re moving three hundred head to the summer pasture—a full day’s work that requires every hand we’ve got. I’m in the saddle before dawn, Rhett and West flanking me, Colt somewhere behind us cracking jokes that nobody asked for.

The work is hard and good. The kind of work that leaves no room for thinking about anything except the task at hand. Move the cattle. Keep them together. Watch for stragglers. Read the land.

Doesn’t stop my mind from wandering.

I catch myself scanning the valley behind us, looking for a flash of honey-gold hair even though I know damn well she’s back at the ranch. I find myself wondering if she’s talked to Miguel yet. If she’s found Dave again. If she’s laughing at another story about me being an idiot.

I yank my attention back to the herd with more force than necessary.

Rhett pulls Thyme alongside me and Boone as we crest the ridge overlooking the valley—the same ridge that gave our ranch its name. The view hasn’t changed in a hundred years. Probably won’t change in another hundred.

The air’s thinner up here, cooler, and the grass runs silver-green all the way to the tree line.

Below us, the cattle are moving in a dark river, flowing toward the fresh grass of the summer pasture. Once they’re settled up here, the north boundary needs checking. Fifteen miles of fence line past Elk Creek, and if winter took posts down, this herd will drift straight onto Blackwood land inside a week. Rhett catches my eye across the herd and I know he’s thinking the same thing.

We’ll need to ride it before the end of next week.

A red-tailed hawk screams somewhere overhead, and Boone flicks an ear toward the sound but doesn’t break stride. We ride in comfortable silence for a long while. The only sounds between us are the creak of leather, the low calls of cattle, and the distant whistle of Colt directing a straggler back to the herd.