"Don't." The single word comes out sharp enough to snap my gaze to his eyes. "Don't you dare think that." The fierce protectiveness in his expression catches me completely off guard. This man barely knows me; has no reason to care about the wounds I carry from a father who never wanted to be one. But he's looking at me like my pain personally offends him, like he'd track down Bradley Ford just to tell him exactly what kind of damage his absence has done.
"Half of me wants to get it over with. Show up atGritstone Ranch and have whatever conversation we’re going to have,” I say.
"And the other half?" Wyatt’s gaze searches my face.
"Wants to hide in this cottage until my job's done and get out of town without ever seeing him again." I trace patterns in the condensation on my glass. "Being an only child of a single mother makes you good at being alone. But it also makes you wonder what you're missing."
"You're not missing anything with Ford," Wyatt says.
"I wouldn’t know." This clawing need to torture myself is awful, but I can't stop it. “Tell me about him.”
I’m totally blaming this whole evening on the head injury.
Wyatt weighs his words. "Ford's got a reputation." He pauses, grunts and then forges on. "He’s the type of man who'd sell his own shadow if the price was right."
The words cut deep. I half-hoped that there was some noble reason he stayed away—protecting me from something, or thinking I was better off without him. Maybe that wasn't the case at all and if so—what do I do with the half of myself that's all him?
"I used to make up stories about him when I was little," I say quietly. "That he was a secret agent and couldn't contact us for our safety. Or that he was searching for buried treasure and would come back rich enough to take care of us forever." I shake my head at my own foolishness. "Kid stuff."
"Kids need stories," Wyatt says, his voice gentler now. "Sometimes they're better than the truth."
"What about you?" I ask, deflecting before I reveal anything else. "What's it like growing up Halloway?"
Wyatt's expression shifts, and I watch something complicatedcross his features. "That's a conversation that may require something stronger than sweet tea." He takes a drink. "Growing up Halloway means that bull riding's a rebellion." He swirls the ice in his glass. "For me, it's the only way I know how to breathe when the weight of this place gets too heavy."
"What kind of weight?" I ask quietly.
“One person inherits it all. The work, the responsibility, the cattle, the fight, everything. There’s only one name on the deed—and it’ll be mine."
I lay my hand on his forearm. "That doesn't seem fair to your sisters."
"Fair's got nothing to do with it." He looks down at me, and suddenly I'm aware of how close we are, how much I’ve allowed myself to move toward him and how much closer I want to be. "Divided land loses its strength, its influence. Break it up between siblings, and within two generations it's sold off piece by piece and means nothing."
"Like it's a living thing," I say.
"It is," he agrees, and something shifts in his expression as he realizes I get it. "You feel it, don't you? The weight of it, the pull?"
I nod, because I do feel it. From the moment I drove into this valley, there's been something here that speaks to a part of me I didn't know existed.
"So, you ride bulls to escape," I say.
"I ride bulls to remember who I am when I'm not carrying everyone else's expectations." His voice drops. "I'm only home to let my shoulder heal up. Doc's orders. I didn't know about the land troubles Mom brought you in for, or Kit's drama until I got here."
Whether he stays or goes has nothing to do with me, yet I'm still irritated that he seems to brush off this responsibility so easily.
"But now that you know?" I ask.
"I'll do what I can while I'm here," he says, and I can practically hear Mom's voice in my head: They always leave, baby girl. "Help Dad with the cattle and Grandpa with the colts and maybe talk some sense into Kit. But come September, I'll be back on the road chasing Vegas."
"Of course you will," I say, and I can hear the bite in my voice.
Wyatt catches it immediately, his brow furrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." I lean back and drop my hand, needing space to think clearly. "It's just very... typical."
"Typical of what?"
"Men,” I bite out. "You show up, you charm your way into people's lives, you make them care about you, and then you run.”