The Wild Between Us

The boardroom smelled like money and stale ambition—two things I'd stopped caring about a long time ago. I sat three seats down from the head of the mahogany conference table at Summit Range Livestock Consulting, close enough to matter but far enough to avoid the direct line of fire when Douglas Lancaster III got worked up about quarterly projections.

The streets of Dallas sprawled forty-two stories below. Up here, in the climate-controlled perfection of our corporate offices, the June heat couldn't touch us. We were insulated from everything real—weather, dirt, the honest sweat of actual ranch work. I'd traded all of that for this. Some days, I could almost convince myself it had been worth it.

"Garrison." Doug's voice cut through my wandering thoughts like a whip. "You still with us?"

I straightened, fingers finding the smooth edge of my leather portfolio. "Yes, sir. Just reviewing the Henderson quarterly reports."

"Good. Because you're going to need your full attention for this next announcement." He stood, all six-foot-four of him radiating the kind of confidence that came from three generations of Dallas money and a Harvard MBA. His suit probably cost more than most ranch hands made in a month. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm pleased to announce we've just landed the contract we've all been chasing."

He clicked to the next slide on his presentation, and my heart stopped. The Blackwood Ranch logo filled the screen—a stylized B with longhorns curved around it—as familiar to me as my own signature.

"Blackwood Ranch," Doug continued, his chest puffing with pride like a rooster in a henhouse. "The most prestigious cattle operation in East Texas. Hell, probably in all of Texas."

My pulse skipped, then hammered against my ribs so hard I was sure Jennifer sitting next to me could hear it. I kept my face carefully neutral, the mask I'd perfected over fourteen years of running from my past. But inside, everything was crumbling.

Blackwood.

"This is huge," Jennifer whispered, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against her tablet. "They haven't worked with outside consultants in twenty years. Their breeding program is legendary. How did Doug even manage—"

"The owner called personally," Doug announced, and I had to grip my pen to keep my hand from shaking. "Owen Blackwood wants a complete overhaul of their breeding program. He wants modern embryo transfer protocols, upgraded genetic mapping, taking their operation into the twenty-first century. They're looking to expand their influence beyond Texas, potentially international markets."

Owen. I could still see the way he'd looked fourteen years ago—weathered hands gentle as he'd taught me to rope, voice patient as he'd explained bloodlines and breeding strategies. He'd treated me like family even before Wyatt and I... before everything.

"This could be worth millions in long-term contracts," Doug continued, his excitement filling the room like expensive cologne. "Not just from Blackwood, but from every ranch that follows their lead. And they will follow—when Blackwood moves, the entire industry pays attention."

My throat had gone desert dry. I reached for my water glass, proud when my hand barely trembled.

"The real coup," Doug said, clicking to the next slide showing aerial views of the ranch, "is that they specifically requested our firm. Said they'd heard about our innovative approaches, our success with modernizing traditional operations while maintaining heritage bloodlines."

The photos made my chest ache. Rolling pastures that seemed to go on forever, pristine white fences, barns that gleamed red in the Texas sun. The main house sprawled in the center like a promise—white limestone and cedar beams, wraparound porches where I'd spent countless evenings listening to Louisa's stories and Owen's dreams for the ranch's future.

"Garrison."

I snapped back to attention. Doug was looking directly at me, and so was everyone else in the room.

"Sir?"

"You're leading this one."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Jennifer actually gasped beside me.

"I'm sorry?" I managed, though my voice sounded strange to my own ears.

"Don't look so shocked." Doug smiled, the kind that meant he'd already made up his mind, and this was all just theater. "You're our best livestock genetics specialist. Your work on the Stanley account increased their conception rates by thirty percent. The Hendersons specifically requested you for their expansion after you identified those hereditary markers everyone else missed."

He was right. I was good at my job—maybe because I'd learned from the best, sitting at Owen Blackwood's kitchen table as a teenager, absorbing everything he taught about cattle and bloodlines and building something that would last generations.

"Plus," Doug added, his tone casual but his eyes sharp, "you're from that area originally, aren't you? That local knowledge could be invaluable. You understand these people, their culture, what matters to them."

These people. Like they were some exotic species to be studied. Like I hadn't been one of them once, hadn't bled and sweated and loved on that very land.

"Yes," I said, because what else could I say? "I'm familiar with the region."

"Perfect. You'll head down Monday. Plan for at least a month on-site, possibly longer depending on how the initial assessment goes." He clicked to another slide—financial projections that made my colleagues murmur appreciatively. "If you nail this, Garrison, we're talking senior partner. Corner office. Your pick of future accounts."

Senior partner. The promotion I'd been grinding toward for five years. The thing that was supposed to validate all my choices, prove that leaving Copper Creek had been the right decision. The achievement that would finally make me feel like I'd become someone who mattered.

"Congratulations, Ivy." Jennifer's smile was tight. She'd wanted this assignment—we all had. But Doug had chosen me, and now I had to live with it.

The meeting dissolved into logistics and timelines. I nodded at the right moments, took notes I'd have to decipher later when my hands stopped shaking. Doug outlined expectations—modernize their operation without losing what made Blackwood special, increase conception rates, improve genetic diversity, establish protocols that could be replicated across their partner ranches. Simple enough on paper. Impossible when the ranch in question held every ghost I'd been running from.

When Doug finally dismissed us, I was first out the door, my heels clicking against marble floors as I fled to my office. I shut the door and leaned against it, eyes closed, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

Fourteen years. I'd stayed away fourteen years, built a life that had nothing to do with dusty boots and dawn chores and the way the light looked over the creek at sunset. A life that had nothing to do with green eyes and calloused hands and promises whispered in the dark.

My phone buzzed. Mark's name lit up the screen. Dinner at 7? That new place in Uptown?

Mark. Right. My boyfriend of eight months—though that word felt flimsy for what we were. Two successful adults who enjoyed each other's company, shared similar ambitions, looked good together at firm events. He was handsome in that clean-cut, corporate way—square jaw, perfect teeth, hands that had never known a callus. He drove a BMW, owned a condo with a view, and had a five-year plan that ended with him shaking hands at the partnership table. He was everything a successful woman was supposed to want. Stable. Ambitious. Safe.

He was nothing like—

Stop.

Sure, I texted back. Long day. Need wine.

That bad? I'll order a bottle. Love you.

I stared at those two words, waiting for something—warmth, longing, anything. But there was nothing. Just a polite kind of guilt for not feeling what I was supposed to. Mark said love you the same way he ordered coffee or signed a contract—efficient, routine. I'd started saying it back months ago because it seemed easier than explaining why I couldn't.

And that was the problem. It wasn't fair—to him or to me. He deserved someone who lit up when his name hit their phone, not someone who kept pretending she could fall for the idea of him.

I set the phone down and stared at it like it might give me the courage to end things before they turned into another lie. Because if there was one thing I'd learned, it was that love shouldn't feel like obligation dressed up as comfort.

The only time I'd ever meant those words—truly meant them—I'd been eighteen, with Texas stars as my witnesses and creek water singing backup to my promises.

My desk phone rang, jarring me from the memory. The caller ID showed a 903 area code—East Texas. My hand hesitated over the receiver. It could be anyone. It could be a coincidence. But I already knew who it would be.

"Ivy Garrison," I answered, proud that my voice came out steady and professional.

"Well, hell, honey, you sound all sophisticated and citified."

Owen Blackwood's voice washed over me like a summer thunderstorm—sudden, overwhelming, and carrying the scent of home. That deep Texas drawl that could make discussing cattle prices sound like poetry. The same voice that had taught me to read breeding charts, that had called me "honey" since I was fourteen, that had never held judgment even when I deserved it.

"Mr. Blackwood." My voice came out smaller than I intended.

He laughed, warm and genuine, the sound reaching through the phone line to squeeze my heart. "Now, none of that 'Mr. Blackwood' nonsense, darlin'. You've known me all your life. You call me Owen, same as always."

Same as always. Like I hadn't vanished from his ranch, his town, his son's life without a word of explanation. Like the last time he'd seen me, I hadn't been sneaking away in the dark, leaving devastation in my wake.

"Owen," I managed, the name feeling rusty on my tongue.

"That's better. Doug tells me you're gonna be the one helping us drag Blackwood Ranch into the modern age."

"That's the plan." I forced professional steadiness into my voice. "I've reviewed your current numbers. There's definitely room for improvement in conception rates, and your genetic diversity could use some expansion. I think we can—"

"Ivy." He interrupted gently. "I didn't call to talk business. We'll have plenty of time for that when you get here."

I waited, my free hand clenched so tight my nails bit into my palm.

"I called because I wanted you to hear it from me first. Louisa's already got the guest cabin all made up for you. New quilts on the bed, fresh flowers on the table. She's practically beside herself knowing you're coming home."

Home. The word lodged in my throat like a stone. The guest cabin—I remembered it. A cozy two-room structure near the main house, close enough to feel like family but private enough for space.

"I appreciate the offer," I said carefully, "but I'll probably stay at the hotel in town—"

"Nonsense." His voice held that gentle authority that had made him so successful—firm but kind. "You're family, Ivy. Always have been, always will be. Besides, you'll need to be close to the barns for early morning work. No point driving back and forth from town every day. Waste of time and gas."

Family. If only he knew how badly I'd wanted that to be true once upon a time. How many nights I'd dreamed of being a real Blackwood, of having the right to that name and all it meant.

"Now," he continued, either not noticing or politely ignoring my silence, "I want you to know this isn't just about business. Louisa and I... well, we've missed you, honey. The whole family has."

The whole family. My chest tightened as faces flashed through my mind. Clay with his easy laugh and terrible jokes. Maggie, the only person on that ranch who could wrangle her brothers without breaking a sweat. Hunter with his gentle intelligence and way with fixing things. Luke, the baby of the family, probably smarter than all of us combined. And the Walkers. Liam, with his quiet intensity and unexpected wisdom, and Sophia, now a nurse.

And then there was... him.

"We're looking forward to having you home," Owen said softly, and I could hear the genuine affection in his voice, the kind that made me wonder how different my life might have been if I'd been born a Blackwood instead of a Garrison. "However long you've been gone, however far you've traveled, Copper Creek is still part of you. That doesn't change."

My throat grew tight. "Owen—"

"Monday, then? I'll have one of the boys meet you at the ranch entrance, help you get settled."

One of the boys. My heart hammered against my ribs. Which one? Would it be Clay with his teasing grin? Liam, with his stare that somehow saw everything? Or would it be—

"That's not necessary—"

"'Course it is. We take care of our own here. Always have." His voice warmed even further. "Your cabin will be ready, and Louisa's already planning a feast for Monday night. Fair warning—she's making her famous pot roast. The one you used to love."

I remembered that pot roast. Remembered sitting at their dinner table, feeling like I belonged somewhere for the first time in my life. Remembered Wyatt's foot finding mine under the table, a secret touch that made my heart race.

"I should go," I said, because if I stayed on this call any longer, I might do something stupid like cry.

"Of course. I'm sure you've got plenty to prepare." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held something I couldn't quite identify. "Ivy? We're real glad you're coming. Real glad."

"Me too, Owen," I replied, even though I was weighed down with dread.

After we hung up, I sat in my expensive ergonomic chair in my corner office with its view of downtown Dallas, and I felt more lost than I had since stepping off that Greyhound bus fourteen years ago.

The drive home to my apartment in Uptown was a blur of traffic and memories I couldn't quite push down. My place was everything a successful consultant's home should be—modern, minimalist, decorated in shades of gray and white that the designer had assured me were "timeless and sophisticated." It looked like a magazine spread and felt about as personal.

"You're early."

I jumped, keys clattering on the entryway table. Mark stood in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, something simmering on the stove that smelled like the expensive cooking classes he'd been taking.

"I thought we were going out," I said, setting my purse down carefully, trying to remember how to be the person he expected me to be.

He walked to me, his smile easy and practiced, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. His cologne was subtle, expensive, the kind that whispered rather than shouted. "You said you needed wine after a long day. Figured you'd prefer staying in."

This was Mark—thoughtful in a calculated way, always doing the right things at the right times. He'd probably read an article about how successful relationships required such gestures. He was good at relationships, the way he was good at law—studied, methodical, effective.

He handed me a glass of something red and expensive. "Want to talk about it?"

"I got the Blackwood assignment," I said, taking a larger sip than was strictly polite.

His eyes lit up with genuine excitement. "Ivy, that's fantastic! That's the big one, right? The one everyone was after?" He pulled me into a hug that smelled like his cologne and the garlic he'd been chopping. "God, Doug must be beside himself. This could make your whole career."

"Yeah," I agreed against his shoulder. "It could."

"When do you leave?"

"Monday."

"Monday?" He pulled back, a frown creasing his artificially tanned forehead. "That's soon. How long will you be gone?"

"A month. Maybe more."

His frown deepened, and I could practically see him calculating how this would affect his schedule, our standing dinner reservations, and the charity gala next month, where he'd already RSVP'd for two. "That's a long time. Maybe I could come visit? I've never seen that part of Texas. Could be interesting, seeing how the other half lives."

The thought of Mark in Copper Creek, his Italian leather shoes stepping where worn boots had taught me to dance, his rental car parked where a beat-up farm truck had been my whole world—

"It'll be all work," I said quickly. "Sunrise to sunset in barns and pastures. You'd be bored out of your mind."

He laughed, pulling me closer, his hands settling on my waist with practiced familiarity. "You're probably right. I don't really do rural." His thumb traced circles on my hip, a gesture that should have been intimate but felt more like marking territory. "We should make the most of the time before you leave, then."

This was the part where I was supposed to melt into him, let him lead me to the bedroom, lose myself in the kind of sex that was perfectly fine—technically proficient, mutually satisfying, completely forgettable.

But tonight, with Owen's voice still echoing in my ears and the ghost of a silver horseshoe against my throat, I couldn't pretend.

"I need to shower," I said, stepping back. "Long day. Give me twenty minutes?"

Disappointment flashed across his face before he smoothed it away with another practiced smile. "Sure. Dinner will be ready when you are."

I escaped to the bathroom, turning the water as hot as I could stand it. Steam filled the space, fogging the mirror until I couldn't see myself anymore. Good. I didn't want to see the woman I'd become—successful, polished, empty.

The water beat against my shoulders, and I let myself remember what I'd spent fourteen years trying to forget. The weight of that pendant against my skin. The smell of leather and hay and summer storms. The feeling of calloused hands that knew exactly how to touch me, reverent and demanding all at once. The way my name sounded in his mouth, that Texas drawl turning it into something between a prayer and a promise.

Ivygirl.

Nobody had called me that in fourteen years. In Dallas, I was Ivy or Ms. Garrison or occasionally "babe" from Mark when he was feeling particularly affectionate. But Ivygirl—that was something else entirely. That was who I'd been when I believed in forever, when I thought love could overcome anything, when I didn't know that sometimes the bravest thing you could do was run.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, I'd rebuilt my walls and remembered my role. I sat across from Mark at my dining table that had never seen a family meal, eating food that was perfectly seasoned and utterly tasteless, making conversation about his latest case and my upcoming trip.

"You'll kill it," he said, raising his wine glass in a toast. "Show those country boys how it's done. Bring Blackwood into the modern age."

I clinked my glass against his, the sound sharp and hollow in my sterile apartment.

Later, in bed, he reached for me with those smooth, uncalloused hands. I let him, because it was easier than explaining why I couldn't. His touch was practiced, effective, achieving its goal with minimum fuss and maximum efficiency. He knew what he was doing, had probably read articles about that too.

But as he moved above me in the darkness, all I could think about was another darkness, another time, when making love had meant something more than achieving mutual satisfaction. When every touch had been a promise, every kiss a vow, every whispered word a piece of forever.

Mark finished with a satisfied sigh, kissed my forehead, and rolled away to his side of the bed. Within minutes, his breathing evened into sleep.

I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and let myself admit the truth I'd been running from all day.

Come Monday, I was going back to Copper Creek.

Back to the place where I'd been loved completely and left completely broken. Back to the ranch where every fence post and barn door held a memory. Back to the people who'd offered me family when I'd had none.

Back to him.

The man whose heart I'd shattered. The one whose name I still couldn't say, even in the privacy of my own mind. The one who'd made me promises I'd never let him keep, loved me in a way that had ruined me for everyone else.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number with a 903 area code.

Heard you're coming home. The creek's been waiting. -L

L. Liam. His message was simple, but I read between the lines. He was warning me. Preparing me. Because if the creek had been waiting, that meant Wyatt had been too.

And in five days, ready or not, I was going to have to face what I'd done to him. What I'd done to us. What I'd done to the only version of myself that had ever felt real.

— End of Chapter One · Ivy —