Jasper nodded once, quick and tense. “I can do that.”
Rawley nodded back and was gone, the screen door banging shut behind him.
I stood up, carried my plate to the sink, and set it down with a quiet clink. Jasper stayed where he was, his back straight, his attention fixed on a point just above the table’s edge.
I took my time rinsing the plate, giving him the space to say whatever he was working himself up to. When it didn’t come, I dried my hands on a dish towel and turned toward the door. “I’ll be back at lunch,” I said, keeping it factual and undemanding.
He looked up at that, something moving behind his eyes—relief, maybe, or surprise that I wasn’t pushing. “I’ll be here,” he said, the words simple but carrying more weight than they should have been able to.
I nodded once and headed out, pulling the door shut behind me with a careful click.
The west fence ran along the edge of the property, where the flat pasture gave way to the stand of pines at the mountain’s base. The posts there were always the first to go—set in soil that softened every spring with the snowmelt, the ground giving way in slow motion until one good wind knocked the whole section over.
I found Burke forty yards in, his shirt already dark with sweat despite the morning chill. He’d strung new wire and was stretching it between the two most solid posts, his body braced against the tension of it.
“About fucking time,” he said when he saw me, not breaking his stance. “I’ve been out here since dawn trying to get this shit to hold.”
I picked up the post driver and walked to where the line had snapped—a clean break right where the wire had corroded. The ground underneath was soft, water still seeping up through the topsoil from the night’s rain.
“Posts need to go deeper,” I said, setting the driver over the first one. “At least another foot.”
Burke let out a theatrical groan, but he abandoned his position and picked up the second driver. “Of course they do,” he said. “Because why would anything be fucking simple?”
The work fell into a rhythm after that—driver, post, wire, repeat. Not complicated, but requiring enough attention that conversation came in fits and starts. It was the kind of job that gave your body something to do while your mind worked through whatever needed working through.
Burke kept up a steady stream of talk—stories from the ranch, observations about the weather, a new tech system he was installing in the barn that would let us monitor the property from our phones—and I responded where responsewas required, letting my hands take over the thinking my brain was trying to avoid.
We were nearly done with the first section when Burke switched topics, the transition so smooth I almost missed it.
“So, your friend,” he said, driving his post driver down with enough force to drive the wood another inch into the soft soil. “He a nurse for real?”
The question landed with more weight than Burke probably intended. I kept my hands steady on my driver, face neutral. “Eight years in neonatal,” I said, keeping it factual. “At Omaha General.”
Burke nodded once, accepting the information at face value. “That’s something,” he said. “My mom was in the hospital for three weeks after my sister was born. The nurses kept her alive when the doctors were ready to give up.” He paused, then added, “He any good with kids? The couple down at the Hansen place just had a baby with some kind of stomach issue. Carter was trying to figure it out, but he’s mostly guessing.”
“Better than good,” I said, turning to face him directly. “He’s under my protection.”
The statement landed between us, its weight changing the air. Burke held my gaze for a beat, then nodded once, understanding exactly what I’d just said.
“Fair enough,” he said, moving on without missing a beat. “So, how much longer on this section, you think?”
“Half an hour,” I said, accepting the subject change with the same ease he’d offered it. “Maybe less if the ground holds.”
He nodded again, and we went back to the work in silence that wasn’t tense but wasn’t companionable either—just the absence of sound that happened when two men had said exactly what they needed to and nothing more.
The rain started just as we finished the final post, a light drizzle that promised to get heavier by afternoon. We gatheredthe tools in quick, efficient movements—both of us used to moving in coordination without speaking—and started back toward the barn.
“Tell your friend the Hansen baby’s name is Lily,” Burke said as we walked, the question about Jasper still sitting between us but now redirected, reframed as a piece of information rather than an interrogation. “Mom’s Allison, dad’s Mike. Nice people. Carter’s been trying to help, but he’s out of his depth.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said, accepting the peace offering for what it was. “He’s helping Carter with another case today, if the rain holds off.”
Burke nodded, and we walked the rest of the way without talking, the rain getting heavier around us, our footprints leaving dark impressions in the wet grass.
The mudroom smelled of wet wool and pine sap when I pushed through the door. Rain drummed against the tin roof, a steady patter that had started as a drizzle and built into something serious while we were working the fence line. My boots left dark prints on the wooden floor, mud coming away in clumps where the floorboards had worn thin.
I’d come in to swap out the post driver for a hammer—the one I had was splitting at the base of the handle. The ranch ran on a simple principle: the right tool for the right job, and half-assed wasn’t an option for either.
The hammer was supposed to be on the shelf above the workbench, next to the measuring tape and the extra screws. I reached for it without looking, fingers hitting empty space where solid wood should have been. I turned, confused, and stopped dead.
