What I don’t say is, “Every inch of this property has been Sutton land for three generations, and I have never once looked at a fence line and thoughtminethe way I do with you.”

Those thoughts are so far outside the caretaker script that I don’t have a protocol for them. She’d appreciate that—me reaching for structure because the feeling is too big.

Her hand brushes mine again as we continue to walk, this time deliberately, or close to it. The almost-kiss from the kitchen hangs between us, as tangible as the charged air.

Dorito bleats behind us, totally smug.

At the fence line, Jenna stops to look back at the pasture. The wind catches her hair and pushes it across her forehead. The neat corporate bob isn’t so neat anymore. She tucks it behind her ear and pushes her glasses up. For one second, standing at the edge of my family’s land with the morning sun behind her and a goat at her heels, she looks as if she belongs here.

Dorito trots after her as she turns back toward the house, as if he belongs to her. I follow them both, unable to go in any other direction.

I waited six months to meet this woman. Six months of phone calls, emails, and the slow process of learning someone’s laugh, breathing, and way of thinking. I waited because she asked me to, and waiting for Jenna Calloway is something I would do forever without needing a reason.

I can wait three days for a goat.