“It’s just that you seemed to light up when you were talking about helping with that calf. That’s more animated than I’ve seen you since you got here.” I gave him a shrug. “Seems like you enjoy it.”
Cash’s expression shuttered. “Don’t read into it. It was just somethin’ to do.”
But I’d hit something, I could tell. The way he crossed his arms, the defensive set of his shoulders. This mattered to him, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
“The ranch,” I asked carefully, testing the waters. “Your dad’s ranch. What was it like when you were a kid?”
Cash went very still at my question. The muscles in his jaw worked as he stared out the window, his hands braced against the counter. For a moment I thought he might shut down completely, retreat back into that defensive shell he wore like armor.
“It was...” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. “It was good. Before.”
I kept stirring the pasta, giving him space to find his words without the pressure of my eyes on him.
“Five hundred head at its peak,” he said quietly. “Good grazing land, decent water. Dad knew what he was doing with cattle, I’ll give him that.” His voice carried a note of reluctant respect. “I used to ride fence with him on Saturdays. He’d point out which pastures to rotate, how to read the grass, when to move the herd.”
“You miss it.”
It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t answer it like one. Just made a sound that might have been agreement.
“Every morning before school, I’d help with feeding. Had my own horse, a paint mare named Sage.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “She was mean as a snake to everyone but me. Dad said she had my temperament.”
I smiled at that, imagining a teenage Cash with a surly horse, both of them stubborn and fierce. “What happened to her?”
“Sold her when I left.” His expression hardened again. “Sold everything. Had to start fresh somewhere that didn’t...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t know who or what I was.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with old pain. I turned off the heat under the pasta and moved closer to him, not quite touching but close enough that he could feel my presence.
“Cash,” I said softly.
He turned toward me then, and I saw something raw and unguarded in his face. Before I could think better of it, I reached up and cupped his cheek with my palm. His skin was rough with afternoon stubble, warm under my touch.
“That kid who loved the ranch,” I said. “He’s still in there. Still part of who you are. And that’s okay, you know?”
Cash leaned into my touch for just a moment, his eyes fluttering closed. Then he caught my wrist, not pulling my hand away but holding it there against his face.
“Maybe,” he said, his voice rough. “But that don’t change anything. I’m still sellin’ the place and gettin’ the hell out of here.”
But even as he said it, I heard the uncertainty creeping into his voice. The doubt he was trying so hard to suppress.
“The pasta’s ready,” I said, giving him an out from the intensity of the moment.
He nodded and stepped back, my hand falling away from his face. But something had shifted between us, some wall had developed another crack. I could see it in the way he moved around the kitchen, less guarded than before.
He finally shook his head. “Got any garlic bread?”
“Sorry. I didn’t buy any.”
“You got bread, butter, and garlic salt?”
“Yeah?” I glanced up at him. “I think so. Why?”
“Just stand back pastor,” he said, moving me out of the way. “I’m gonna show you how to make white trash garlic bread.”
“White trash garlic bread?” I laughed. “You’ve got to be joking with a name like that.”
