Page 35 of Wild Sanctuary

9

DAISY

June calls shotgun before I’m even off the porch.

My Honda’s been grounded on Wyatt’s orders. Apparently “check engine” means something very different to ranchers than it does to me.

“Sorry, honey.” She doesn’t look sorry at all as she slides into the passenger seat of Wyatt’s truck. “Bad hip. Need the legroom.”

June doesn’t have a bad hip. June did a full yoga routine on the living room floor this morning while I ate my oatmeal. But before I can point this out, she’s already buckling her seatbelt with a serene smile that dares me to argue.

Which is how I end up wedged in the middle of the bench seat, thighs pressed tight together in a space that was definitely not designed for three adults. The leather is warm and cracked beneath me, smelling faintly of dust and old hay.

Every time Wyatt shifts gears, his knuckles graze my knee and his thigh tightens against mine. Heat seeps through denim and cotton as if the fabric is non-existent. I can smell his soap—clean, simple, unmistakably him—mixed with coffee and the outdoors, and it’s doing things to me it absolutely shouldn’t.

The radio crackles with static before settling into a country song, and June hums along while I focus on the mountains through the windshield, desperately pretending I’m not counting every point where his body touches mine.

“Comfortable?” June asks, all sweetness.

“Peachy.”

Wyatt says nothing. His teeth grind while his eyes remain fixed on the road as he grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. Every time we hit a curve and momentum pushes me closer to him, he somehow manages to take up less space, pressing himself toward the door like proximity to me is something to survive.

The road into town winds through the valley, past pastures dotted with cattle and the occasional farmhouse perched on a hillside. The mountains rise up on either side of us, still snow-capped despite the spring warmth in the valley below.

God, I’ve missed this.

“So.” June twists to look at me. “Big day of interviews.”

“Marcus Donnelly and then Wyatt tomorrow.” I keep my voice light. “Assuming he doesn’t find another fence to check.”

“Fence is fixed,” he mutters, eyes on the road.

“He’ll be there.” June smiles, reaching across my lap to pat his bicep. “Won’t you, Wy?”

“Said I would.”

“See? A man of his word.” June winks at me. “Even if getting that word out of him is like pulling teeth.”

We drive in silence for a few miles, the radio playing low. June hums along to a song about trucks and heartbreak while I try very hard not to think about the warmth radiating from Wyatt’s leg into mine, and how his tanned and rough rancher’s hands grip the wheel.

Eyes forward, Monroe.

Except they won’t stay there. That’s the whole problem. My ex texts me every day and the only thing I feel is exhaustion. This man hasn’t spoken three words to me all morning, and I’m cataloging the veins in his forearms.

Something is deeply wrong with me.

Or maybe something is finally right.

“The Blackstone Inn is right on Main Street.” June blessedly yanks me from my silent spiral with her declaration as we approach town. “Marcus said he’d meet you in the bar around two, after his meeting with Wyatt. That gives you about an hour to kill.”

“I brought my laptop. Figured I’d do some research.”

“Research for the article?”

“Something like that.”

I’ve been digging into the Hendersons’ situation whenever I can find a spare moment because their story doesn’t sit right with me. The timeline, the mysterious holding company that swooped in, the way nobody seems to know exactly what happened.