“What’re you doing here?” Mischief lights in Dakota’s dark-brown eyes. “We tracked you down.” I snort. “Clearly.” “You’re riding tomorrow,” Davis adds. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “Wanted to be here for it.” Great. Just what my nerves need. “Are you okay?” Dakota asks, holding me at arm’s length to evaluate me. “How are you?” “I’m—” I break off, my train of thought sideswiped by a lone figure brooding in the distance. I’m fucked. Wyatt.
