I can picture Ethan in here—quiet and careful—switching it out like it didn’t matter, like I didn’t need to know it was him.
Like he wasn’t doing something that feels a little too much like care.
I rinse my hands slowly, staring down at them.
I don’t know what to do with this information because something small—like a bar of soap—feels more significant than it should.
A man who notices my skin and solves the problem is either the safest person alive or the most dangerous. If I let myself believe someone cares so much, I’ll unpack my bags. And I haven’t done that since the Reeves’ when I was eleven years old.
Later that afternoon, Ethan invites me for a walk around the property. I stroll beside him as he points out areas of interest.
The housing for the veterans, which started at Havenridge and is now expanding to Stoneridge under Daniel and Delaney’s guidance.
Ethan points out Crowley, the massive orange cat who lost an eye to a raccoon. He balances on the fence post, looking as though he’s holding the grudge with his entire body.
He tells me that the south pasture floods in spring, and the old well behind the equipment shed hasn't worked for years, but nobody fills it in because Gabriel used to hide there as a kid.
The closest barn needs a new roof, which they can't afford yet, and the water testing station by the creek is one of three that Daniel installed after the first cattle got sick.
“Cattle,” I repeat.
“Cattle were the first alarm. Last year, Kitty, Tom’s wife, almost died. Turned out to be heavy metals. Lead and cadmium in the Havenridge well.” He pauses. “We share the aquifer with them. Their water and our water come from the same place.”
My heart stutters. Knowing that the company I work for is targeting this land is one thing. Knowing it’s already poisoned aperson—Tom’s wife, a woman whose name I now know—turns my stomach.
Ethan takes the narrow path that cuts along the side of the pasture, the one without fences or uneven rails to climb over. I’m still a little sore from the crash, and he adjusts without saying anything—guiding me around rocks and low dips in the ground before I even register them.
I’m not used to someone paying that much attention. It should bother me more than it does.
As we round the line of trees, the land opens up—and I stop short.
“Is that a barn?”
The structure rises out of the field, massive and industrial. Corrugated steel walls stretch high into the sky, the curved roof arching like an aircraft hangar. It dwarfs the house, the sheds, everything else on the property.
“Aircraft hangar,” he says. “Dad’s helicopter.”
I glance at him. “I thought your dad was a SEAL.”
“Was.” He keeps his eyes on the building. “Transferred into naval aviation later. Learned to fly.” A beat. “Still keeps one in there. Tinkers with it sometimes.”
There’s more to that story. It’s in the space betweentinkersandsometimes.My data analyst brain flags it:incomplete dataset. Revisit.
But I don’t push. Just file it away.
“Everything really is bigger out here,” I say, taking in the open stretch of land, the sky, the sweet-scented mountain air.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Dorito thinks so.”
The barn cats eat at 4 p.m. I know this because my brain finds patterns whether I want it to or not. Ethan leads me into the smaller barn with two bowls and a bag of kibble. The moment the door creaks open, shapes materialize, slipping out from behind bales and beams as if they’ve been waiting just out of sight.
He hands me a bowl. “Pixel’s on the left. She won’t eat if Crowley can see her.”
Our fingers brush over the rim as I take the bowl. It’s nothing, but I turn before that thought can spiral and head left. A tiny tuxedo cat is perched on a hay bale, watching me with the fixed stare of a creature deciding whether I’m worth the risk.
“She’ll come to you,” Ethan calls from across the barn. “Give her a minute.”
I ease myself down onto the edge of the bale. Pixel watches me. I watch her back.
