“Oh? ‘Cuz it looks like you’re a couple.” I glance back at my phone and blink quickly—stopping the tears. I need to make this very clear. I’m not, nor will I ever be, the other woman. And I won’t step blindly into even flirting with him if he has a girlfriend.
He hooks his finger under my chin and brings my eyes up to meet his. “Fans do crazy things all the time. They hide in my truck. They steal my hat. They slip their phone numbers into my gear bag, and they ask me to sign body parts I’d rather not name.”
I cringe at the mental image he paints.
“But I’m standing inyourkitchen making you a salad when you don’t even have ranch dressing in the fridge.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. His sister is his biggest fan—which doesn’t happen unless you’re the kind of brother who is good to her growing up. Horses trust him—which is a big deal in my book. Maybe I’m a fool, but I grab the plates and forks and set the table, telling myself it’s just dinner. “So does your colt have a name?”
Wyatt goes back to chopping. “Bucky.”
I laugh. “It is not.”
He grins. “It fits, right?”
I shake my head thinking of how the horse bucked and reared in the barn.
The timer goes off. “I’ll get it.” I grab the oven mitts out of the drawer. I’m not sure I trust Wyatt, but if this is a mistake, I’m knee-deep into it.
Twelve
DON’T YOU DARE THINK THAT.
KINSLEY
Turns out, Brook makes a killer lasagna.
Wyatt and I sit at the small kitchen table, empty plates pushed aside, and salad bowls forgotten. Wyatt's stretched back in his chair, one arm draped over the back, long legs extended under the table until his boot brushes against my bare ankle. The casual contact sends electricity shooting up my leg, but he acts like he doesn't notice.
Maybe he doesn't. Maybe I'm the only one losing my mind over every accidental touch.
"Tell me about your family," he says, swirling the ice in his sweet tea— Hailey’s special blend. She stopped in this afternoon and made a pitcher while I filled her in on the bag of ice on my skull. "Your mom's got quite the reputation in barrel racing circles."
Pride blooms in my chest. "Callie Rose is extraordinary. She built her training operation from nothing. Best barrel horse trainer in three states, maybe four." I trace the rim of my glass with one finger, remembering countless hours watching her work with horses that seemed impossible to reach. "She taught me that if you want something in this world, you work for it. No shortcuts, no handouts, no excuses."
"What about your father?"
“That’s a lot to unpack.” I consider my options in what I can or should tell him, while Wyatt waits patiently. After Brook filled me in on the whole feuding families thing I realized what a liability my father is to me here. For some reason, I'd rather Wyatt hear from me that my father works for Gritstone Ranch, who, according to Brook, is behind the fire rezoning. There’s no way to soften this or spin it. I have to just get it out. "His name is Bradley Ford."
Wyatt goes completely still. Not just quiet—still, like every muscle in his body has turned to stone. Something cold and dangerous flickers across his face.
"You know him." I'm not asking. Of course he knows him.
"Yeah, I know Ford." The way he says it—just the last name, flat and hard—tells me everything I need to know about my father's reputation.
"I've seen him exactly three times in my life that I remember." The words tumble out unrehearsed. I need him to know I’m not my father’s daughter. "Once when I was seven and Mom had business in town where he was delivering cattle. Once at a rodeo when I was fourteen—he didn'tknow I was there. And once when I was twenty-one and decided I was old enough to introduce myself."
I've never told anyone this—not Jessica, not my college roommates, certainly not any of the men I've dated. I don’t know why I keep talking.
"That last time, I walked right up to him and said,Hi, I'm Kinsley. I think you're my father." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "He looked at me for maybe ten seconds, said 'You've got your mother's eyes,' and walked away."
Wyatt tips his head. "What did you want him to say?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected a tirade or a list of Ford’s sins—not curiosity or interest. "I don't know," I admit. "Maybe just... acknowledgment that I existed. That losing a daughter cost him something." I shrug, trying to make it sound casual when it feels like swallowing rocks.
"His loss," Wyatt says quietly, but there's steel beneath the words.
"Is it?" The question escapes before I can stop it, carrying all the doubt I've been harboring for years. "Because I keep thinking maybe there's a reason he never tried to be part of my life." I drop my eyes. “Like maybe I'm not worth the effort.”