“Does that happen everywhere you go?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not in LA. People are so used to seeing industry people that they don’t bat an eye anymore. Depending on where I travel for filming, like a big city for instance, I take bodyguards. I’ve never had to show up before filming to learn about cattle ranching, and I didn’t think bodyguards were necessary.” I smile crookedly, and he chuckles.
“No? Weird.” Wyatt pulls his phone from his pocket like he’s checking it, then drops it back down.
I clap my hands once in front of my chest. “Okay, well, thank you for coming to my rescue. I’m just going to go home and—” I stop short, remembering the talk in the diner, them guessing where I’m staying.
Wyatt cocks his head, waiting for me to continue.
“It’s just that some people in there were talking about where they think I’m staying, and they were actually right, so…” I make a bare-teeth face. “I don’t feel safe, but I have to go back and get my dog. And then,” I look around like a hotel will magically pop out and reveal itself to me. “I need to find a place to stay.”
Wyatt pulls the toothpick from his mouth. “I’ve got an idea.”
9
Tenley
“You’re sure?” I ask, whispering, though I don’t know why I’m whispering. There’s nobody to hear us except all the pine trees and whatever animals inhabit them.
“Come on,” Wyatt answers, which isn’t really an answer at all but a directive. He reaches into the bed of his truck and retrieves my small overnight bag that he’d tossed in there. Libby squirms in my arms. I let her down and she runs to a tree, squatting beside it.
Wyatt watches her. “I’m glad she knows to do that outside.”
Libby finishes and runs back to me. “I’ve only had her for a few days, but she seems to be trained.” Which means she probably had an owner at some point, or maybe still does. I don’t want to think about that too much. I’m getting attached to her. “You can still change your mind, you know. You can take us back to town and I’ll smuggle her into The Sierra. She can fit in my bag.” I’d looked up the hotel when Wyatt passed by it on our way out of town, and the website made it clear they had a no-dog policy.
“Just stay put,” Wyatt says, slinging my bag over his shoulder and walking toward the cabin. It looks just like the main house where his parents live, all wood and stone, but smaller. Wyatt told me they call his parents’ house the ‘homestead,’ which makes me want to name my own parents’ house in Malibu. He also told me his parents built a cabin for each of their kids, and that Wes and Dakota are currently building an addition because they hope to expand their family sometime soon. I didn’t ask about Warner, even though curiosity is burning through me.
“Home sweet home,” Wyatt announces, pushing the front door and holding it open for me. I step inside and find myself in the living room.
“It’s small,” Wyatt says, “a living room, a kitchen, one bedroom.”
“As long as you have a couch.”
“You can take my bed.”
I shake my head. “I’m not going to steal your bed. You’ve done enough.” He got me out of the diner, drove me to the house to get some things and pick up Libby, and brought me out here. He thought leaving Pearl parked on the street was the best idea because everyone who was in the diner was still watching me on the sidewalk, and he didn’t want them seeing what car I was getting into. I pointed out my California license plate, and he pointed out there are a ‘shit ton’ of California license plates in town right now. The way he said it made me think their presence annoys him.
“You take my bed,” Wyatt argues, striding to a small linen closet and pulling out a set of sheets. “Because if you sleep on the couch then my bed will be empty and there’s no point in that.”
“Are you planning to sleep under the stars tonight?” I’m being sarcastic, but also on the winding drive out here, past the lights of Sierra Grande and into the darkness of Hayden land, the night became brilliant, the sky shot through with twinkling light.
Wyatt shakes his head. “I was in town tonight for a reason, and I’m going back there.” And that’s it. Nothing more. No further explanation.
“Alright,” I say slowly, chalking it up to a woman he doesn’t want to speak about. “I guess I will take your bed.”
He hands the sheets to me. “My mother would kick my ass for this, so don’t tell her, but would you mind changing the sheets yourself? I’m late.”
I take the linens, hugging them to my chest. “Of course. Go. I didn’t realize.”
“I didn’t tell you,” he says, shrugging. “I’ll be back in the morning to take you to your car.” He retreats to the open front door, pausing beside it. “You’re safe, okay? There’s no safer place than the ranch.” And then he leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I walk over, sliding the lock into place. Wyatt’s engine comes to life, a single disturbance in the quiet of the night.
I switch the sheets, throw Wyatt’s sheets on top of the washing machine, and change into my pajamas.
Libby snuggles into bed beside me, and though I’m falling asleep in a strange place for the second time this week, her warmth brings me comfort.
“Coffee first, Libby,” I say, directing the words to my feet. Libby sits beside me, her paw resting on the top of my foot. I don’t want to move it, so I stretch to fill the coffee pot with water from the tap. I let the coffee brew just long enough to pause it, fill one of Wyatt’s cups, and then let it resume.
“Come on,” I say to Libby, and she bounds in front of me toward the front door. We step outside into the crisp morning air. It smells resinous, earthy, and pretty much just as good as any candle emulating it ever could. Every morning since I arrived in Sierra Grande I’ve gone outside and let the peacefulness of the landscape settle into me, but this is different. Taller trees filled out with needles. The trees around my place are skinny. It’s more desert than whatever this is. I noticed it when I drove out to meet the Hayden family, the higher elevation that brought on the change in landscape.
I take a seat on Wyatt’s front porch and watch Libby scurry out to the same tree she used last night. I sip my coffee and close my eyes, appreciating the absolute silence of the moment.
“It’s a dog!”
My eyes snap open, my neck craning around to find the source of the squeal. Two children careen around the corner of the cabin, slowing as they get close to Libby.
Libby’s eyes widen in terror, and she sprints back to me. I meet her at the bottom of the three front porch steps, my coffee sloshing over the sides of my cup. She leaps into my arms and I stand.
The kids are frozen in place, staring at me.
“Hello.” I wave. “She’s just a little skittish. She’s a rescue.” I think, anyway. Selfishly, I’m hoping she is.
The older child, a girl with brown hair and a guarded expression, points behind me. “Is my Uncle Wyatt home?”