She looked at me for a moment.
"No," she said. "I'm not sure."
I nodded slowly.
She reached out to take my hand.
“You’re not in any danger,” she said. “This town—it’s our home. And we’re surrounded by family out here, most of whom you’ll probably meet in the next few days. I mean…Gage, Sawyer, my husband, me—then there’s my son Wyatt, who lives out near the horse barn, and Dakota’s home every winter. We don’t see much of Stetson—Arlo’s oldest—but he lives in the area and he’s more ours than Arlo’s.”
I couldn’t help but laugh again. “Honestly…this soundscomplicated.”
“It is,” she said. “But you’ll get used to it with time.”
I frowned. “And if I’m only here for…I don’t know, a year?”
She smiled. “Oh honey. You’ll be here longer than that.”
NINE
Gage
The cattle didn't care that I hadn't slept much.
That was the thing about ranching—the land had its own schedule and it didn't negotiate. The herd needed moving to the east pasture before the heat peaked, the fence line on the north side had a post that had been leaning since the last rain, and our foreman, Neto, had found signs of a coyote near the calving pen that needed dealing with before it became a pattern. I'd been at it since before five and by the time noon rolled around every muscle I had was reminding me of that fact.
Not just reminding me I'd been up too early…but that I'd nearly thrown my back out fucking Millie Calloway last night.
Wyatt fell into step beside me on the walk back to the main house, pulling his gloves off and tucking them in his back pocket. He'd been out with me most of the morning—checking on a heifer that had been off her feed, mostly, but staying in that quiet Wyatt way that meant he had something on his mind and was deciding when to say it.
He waited until we were halfway up the path.
"So," he said.
"No," I said.
"I haven't said anything."
"You've been saying it all morning without saying it."
He was quiet for a few steps. "She still here?"
"She lives here," I said. "That was the arrangement."
"Right." Another few steps. "You doin' okay?"
I looked at him sideways. Wyatt didn't ask if you were doing okay unless he had a specific reason to think you might not be. Maybe it was the doctor in him—making an assessment, even when you didn't ask. "I'm fine."
"Gage."
"Wyatt."
He stopped walking. I stopped too, because when Wyatt stopped moving he meant it—you didn't just leave him standing there. He'd learned that somewhere in Iraq, that stillness, and it had never fully left him.
"I'm not trying to be a problem," he said, raking a hand back through his dirty blond hair. "I just want to know you thought this through."
"I thought it through."
"All of it."
