“You timed it,” Sterling said.
“I’ve been studying the data for years.” I flipped the fresh toast. “He does it every morning. The interval is remarkably consistent. Forty to forty-five seconds. It’s almost impressive.”
The corner of Sterling’s mouth did the thing. The small, stubborn warmth, the almost-smile that never quite made it to full deployment but lived in the crease beside his left eye, and I added it to the collection I’d been building since week one. Thatmade seven. Seven almost-smiles in four months. At this rate, I’d have a complete set by the time I was ninety.
“The toast is excellent,” Mitch announced, through his stolen mouthful. “Caleb is my favorite person. Factual statement. Not up for debate.”
“That’s a low bar,” Sterling said.
“Wrong. Sterling is also my favorite person. Tied for first. It’s a high bar and you’re both clearing it with room to spare.”
“That’s the same bar.”
“Semantics.”
I carried the fresh toast to the table and set it between them. “You’re both tied for second,” I said. “Behind the sourdough starter.”
Mitch nodded, serious. “That’s fair. The sourdough starter has never once criticized my driving, which is more than I can say for either of you.”
Sterling was quiet for a moment. His fork moved through his eggs with the precision of a man who did nothing carelessly, not even breakfast. Then he said, “I agree with the ranking.”
I nearly dropped the spatula.
Mitch’s eyebrows went up. He looked at Sterling, then at me, then back at Sterling, with the expression of a man who had just witnessed something he’d been betting against for months.
“Say that again,” Mitch said. “Slower. I want to savor it.”
“I said I agree with the ranking.”
“The sourdough starter. You agree that the sourdough starter is better than you.”
“It produces consistent results with minimal input. That’s efficient. I respect efficiency.”
Mitch threw his head back and laughed. The real one, the full-bodied one that filled the bunkhouse and bounced off the ceiling beams, and I watched Sterling’s face while it happened—watched the way his mouth did that thing again, stronger thistime, the warmth spreading from the corner to the whole left side of his face, and for approximately two seconds, Sterling Callahan looked like a man who was enjoying himself, and the sight of it did something to my chest that no amount of toast-flipping was going to disguise.
Sterling reached for the coffee pot. Poured himself a second cup, black, no cream, no sugar, the exact way he took it. Then, without seeming to decide to, he reached across the table and refilled my mug too. His hand was steady. His eyes were on the coffee, not on me, and he set the pot down and went back to his eggs like he hadn’t just done something that made my ribs rearrange themselves for the second time that morning.
Mitch was talking about the resident rooster now. The one that lived in the main barn and had, according to Mitch, a personal vendetta against anyone wearing a tan hat.
“He waits,” Mitch said, gesturing with his toast. “He plans. I’m not kidding. I came around the corner yesterday and he was just standing there, looking at the spot where the path narrows, and I swear to God he was calculating trajectory. This bird has operational training. I think Burke’s been giving him lessons.”
“The rooster weighs four pounds,” Sterling said.
“And you weigh two-thirty-five, and I’d still rather fight you than him. At least you fight fair. This bird goes for the ankles. It’s personal.”
Sterling’s mouth did the thing again. Stronger this time. A near-laugh, the kind that lived in the back of his throat and didn’t quite make it out, but I heard it—the small, rough sound of it, like gravel shifting—and I added that to the collection too.
A near-laugh.
That was new.
That was worth cataloguing.
“The north pasture rotation,” I said, passing the butter. “Should we be moving the cattle this week, or waiting for the melt?”
Sterling looked at me. Something shifted in his expression—not surprise, exactly, but a recalibration, the same look he’d given the medication. Like he was reassessing what I knew, what I’d been paying attention to, what lived in my head besides toast intervals and stolen breakfast foods.
“Wait,” he said. “The ground’s still too soft near the creek. Another week, maybe two, depending on the temperature.” He paused. Cut into his eggs. Then, without looking up: “You’ve been watching the rotation?”
