Page 86 of Wild Sanctuary

Wyatt shifts his chair exactly one inch and sets his jaw for the camera with the expression of a man having a perfectly adequate time.

I keep smiling. It feels appropriate.

Across the dining room, Colt is at a corner table with his auction date, the polished brunette in her forties who paid seven hundred dollars for the privilege. She’s leaning in, one hand on her wine glass, laughing at something he’s said with the easy familiarity of a woman who followed his rodeo career before he walked away from it. Colt is doing that thing he does where every person within his radius feels like the only one in the room. The Gazette photographer drifts that direction, and Colt doesn’t even notice. Or doesn’t care.

“Your brother’s having a good time,” the feed-store guy says to Wyatt.

Wyatt glances over. His jaw tightens for half a second before he smooths it out.

“He usually does.” He’s already looking back at his plate.

Dessert arrives. Some kind of berry crumble with cream that I eat without tasting. Wyatt shifts the candle between us six inches to the left without comment, and the flame stops catching in my eyes where it’s been flickering for the last twenty minutes.

He doesn’t look at me when he does it. Doesn’t seem to register he’s done it at all, so I just look down at my plate.

After dessert, June appears at the dining room entrance with the particular energy of a woman about to redirect a room.

“If everyone would like to make their way out to the terrace, we have a few activities set up courtesy of Shelby and the Blackstone Inn.” She pauses, timing it. “Including a mechanical bull.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the tables. Colt’s date looks at him with an expression that suggests she didn’t pay all that money to watch from the sidelines.

Wyatt pushes his chair back and offers me his hand. I take it. He lets go the moment I’m on my feet and walks beside me toward the terrace doors, his palm settling on my lower back to guide me through the threshold before falling away.

The same place his hand landed when he steered me out of the auction tent and into the orchard. The same gesture. Except that night his fingers had spread wide and warm and stayed, and tonight they barely land before they’re gone.

Pathetic, Monroe.

The terrace is strung with lights. Hay bales line the edges in clusters, and the mechanical bull sits in the center ringed with padded mats. Off to one side there’s a lasso station with a roping dummy, and beyond that three barrels mark out a short racing course on the flat stretch of grass past the patio. The evening air is warm and carries the smell of cut grass and the faint sweetness of the wildflower border June must have coordinated with the florist.

The Gazette photographer is already repositioning in readiness.

And Shelby Reynolds is standing by the bull, clipboard in hand. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and she looks as show-stopping as ever.

My stomach drops, and suddenly my dinner isn’t sitting so pleasantly.

She looks up when we come through the doors. Her eyes light up as her warm smile finds Wyatt first. It’s the smile of a woman who has nothing to prove and no reason to guard herself around this man.

“Wyatt.” She touches his arm familiarly. “Glad you made it. How was dinner?”

“Good. June outdid herself.”

“She always does.” Shelby’s eyes move to me. “Daisy, so lovely to see you. You look gorgeous tonight.”

“Thank you.” My voice doesn’t crack, and I silently celebrate the win.

She turns back to Wyatt to explain something about the schedule for the bull, and her hand settles on his forearm while she talks. The move is sure and casual in the way you touch someone you’re comfortable with.

And my mind fills in the rest without permission.

Because of course it does.

Shelby squeezes his arm once and steps away toward the bull to greet the next group coming through the doors.

Wyatt turns to me. “You want to look around?”

He sounds like he’d rather chew on a cactus, and is only asking because it’s expected.

“Sure.” I completely ignore the nausea that stirs in my belly.