“I’m asking for legal reasons,” Burke said.
Cruz spoke for the first time. “No, you’re not.”
Burke sighed. “No, I’m not.”
Rawley pushed back from the table. “I want daily check-ins.”
“Fine.”
Macon stood. “I’ll tell Carter to keep the kids closer to the house.” His tone closed the subject. Macon closed subjects the way other men closed doors.
Cruz rose. “I’ll take the northeast corner overnight.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware.”
I looked at him. Cruz held my gaze with the flat certainty of a man who had made a decision and expected it to be respected rather than thanked. I’d seen that look on nineteen continents. It meant the same thing everywhere.
“Okay,” I said.
Cruz nodded. That was the whole negotiation.
Jackson ran a hand through his loose ponytail. “Cruz volunteering for overnight surveillance. Nothing obsessive about that.”
“I heard that,” Cruz said.
“I know.”
Something passed between them. Warm. Private. The particular look of two men who had stopped pretending theydidn’t need each other and were still figuring out what to do with the admission.
I filed it away.
That cabinet was getting crowded.
The meeting broke up slowly. Burke stole the last pastry on his way out and told Caleb it was the best thing he’d ever eaten, which he said every time and meant every time.
“The icing sets fast,” Caleb said. “So, I made the right call.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” Burke pointed at him. “Tactical.”
Rawley paused at the door. Gave me the look. The one that said several things without any of them being words—concern, trust, the particular weight of a man who had built something and was watching someone try to burn it down. Then he was gone.
Jackson lingered by the coffeepot. Refilling his mug with the careful movements of someone conserving energy. Caleb brushed past him, touched his arm briefly—no words, just contact—and Jackson’s shoulders dropped about half an inch. Small. Measurable. The kind of relief that came from being seen without having to ask.
Cruz waited at the door. Patient. Certain. The absolute certainty of a man who had decided where he was standing and who he was standing there for.
I looked at my notes. The short list I hadn’t written down because names on paper made them real, and real meant I had to do something about them.
Mitch’s thigh pressed warm against mine. His boot nudged my ankle under the table. Not a question. A statement.
I was still here. He was still here. The wood stove ticked. The morning light held.
Forty-eight hours.
The bunkhouse settled around the three of us the way it always did when everyone else left—quieter, warmer, the woodstove’s tick louder in the absence of Burke’s voice and Rawley’s coffee mug hitting the table.
Caleb cleared plates. The east window had gone full bright, mid-morning light cutting across the long table in a line that made my notes look friendlier than they were.
