Page 33 of Wild Sanctuary

I’m through the door and halfway to the paddock before I let myself breathe.

The thing that gets me—the thing I’m still thinking about when I should be checking the water troughs in the south pasture—isn’t what happened.

It’s what didn’t.

My hand was right there. One inch from her skin. Close enough that I swear I could feel the heat coming off her shoulder, the warmth of her seeping across that gap like touching her was inevitable and the inch of air between us was just buying time.

But I didn’t touch her, and now some broken, starving part of my brain won’t stop running the math on what it would have felt like if I had.

Because Christ, I wanted to.

I avoid the barn for the rest of the afternoon. Or try to. The horses don’t care about my personal crisis, and by late afternoon the work drags me back whether I like it or not.

I’m coming out of the barn when she finally catches up to me.

“Wyatt.”

I turn, and there she is leaning against the paddock fence like she’s been waiting. Which she probably has, because I’ve been dodging her since noon and she’s not stupid.

Her notebook is tucked under her arm, and there’s that determined set to her jaw that makes my blood run hotter than it should.

“Daisy.” The word comes out steady. Bored, even. Which is a goddamn miracle considering what the fuck is happening in my chest.

“I’ve interviewed Old Dave, Miguel, Sarah, and both of your brothers.” She pushes off from the fence and walks toward me, closing the distance I’ve been carefully maintaining. “June and Maggie have been impossible to pin down—something about a wedding in Bozeman and a colicky horse in Helena. And Marcus is on your schedule, not mine.” She tilts her head, a smile toying at the edges of her lips. “Which just leaves you.”

“Been busy.”

“I noticed. And before you count this morning as a conversation, a man nearly flattening me with a saddle and then running away doesn’t qualify as an interview.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You were in the paddock before I finished my sentence.” She stops a few feet away—too close, not close enough—and I can see the amber flecks in her brown eyes. “But that’s just the latest example. You’ve been like this all week, Wyatt. Almost like you’ve got a sixth sense for when I’m nearby and somewhere else to be.”

There’s no accusation in her voice. But underneath the lightness, there’s a flicker of hurt she’s trying to cover with humor.

It makes me feel like a complete asshole.

“Ranch doesn’t run itself.”

“Mmm.” She’s not buying it. “So it’s just a coincidence that every time I walk toward the barn, you’re suddenly needed at the south pasture. And when I head to the stables, you’ve got urgent business in your office.”

“Sounds like you’ve been keepin’ track of my schedule.”

“Journalist.” She taps her temple. “I notice patterns.”

I should walk away. Give her a time, keep it short, get back to work.

“And what patterns have you noticed?” The words come out before I can stop them—lower than I intended, closer to a challenge than a question.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. The late afternoon sun slants gold across her face, catching the amber in her eyes.

“The kind that could make a girl feel unwelcome.” There’s no teasing this time. Just honesty. And her words land like a blow. Because she thinks I don’t want her here.

She has no idea that wanting her here is exactly my problem.

My hand twitches at my side—the same hand that hovered an inch from her skin four hours ago.

“Friday.” I step back before this goes somewhere it shouldn’t. “Meeting Marcus tomorrow.”