This is what we do.
This is who we are.
And maybe for the first time, I’m starting to wonder if I’m done pretending I’m anything else.
The sound hits before I see it, low and out of place against the usual quiet stretch of the ranch. An engine. Tires crunching over gravel where nobody should be coming in unannounced.
I straighten slowly, resting the hammer against my thigh as I turn my head toward the road.
A truck’s pulling onto the property, dust trailing behind it as it rolls closer, steady and deliberate like whoever’s driving knows exactly where they’re headed.
Something about it doesn’t sit right.
I can feel it before I can explain it, that subtle shift under my skin, like the air’s gone tight without warning.
And just like that, the easy rhythm of the morning is gone.
I keep my eyes on that truck longer than I should, watching the way it rolls slow like it’s taking in every inch of the place, before I force myself to look away and get back to work. Whatever that is can wait a minute. This fence can’t.
I drive the post deeper, the impact traveling up my arms with each hit, steady and controlled, grounding in a way that keepsmy thoughts from drifting too far ahead. Brooks moves in beside me, crouching to check the line, his fingers pressing into the dirt like he’s measuring more than just depth.
“Since we have expanded onto the Miller land, we’ll need to reinforce this whole stretch,” he says, almost like he’s reading the land instead of me. “No sense half doing it.”
I nod, but my attention drifts past him again, out to that open stretch that doesn’t carry the same weight as the rest of this place. It feels different out there. Like it hasn’t decided what it is yet.
I sink the post another inch and set the hammer down, grabbing the wire to pull it tight. The metal bites into my gloves as I work it into place, but my focus slips, caught on a thought that’s been circling for days now and won’t let go.
A house out there.
Not the main place where everything’s loud and full of history that doesn’t always feel like mine, and not the bunkhouse where I’ve spent more nights than I can count.
Something separate. Something I build myself.
I don’t realize I’ve gone still until Luke steps up beside me, steady as always, his presence quiet but solid.
“You good?” he asks, low enough it doesn’t carry.
I let out a breath, rubbing a hand along the back of my neck before I look back out toward Miller land. “You ever think about building out there?”
It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and it lands heavier than I expect.
Luke doesn’t answer right away. He just follows my line of sight, taking in the same stretch of open ground before he looks back at me.
“For you?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I shift my weight, picking the hammer back up just so I’ve got something to do with my hands. “Something that’s mine. Not part of the main place. Just… something I don’t walk away from.”
The words feel rough coming out, but I don’t take them back.
Luke studies me for a second, calm as ever. “Sounds like you’re trying to figure out where you plant your roots. Maybe even slowing down on the rodeo.”
I give a quiet huff, driving the hammer down once, then again, the impact steadying something inside me. “Thinking about it and doing it aren’t the same thing.”
“No,” he agrees easily. “But it’s a start. And yeah, I think slowing down on the rodeo. At least for now while I build it.”
I lean into the fence, testing the line, making sure it holds. It does. Solid. Strong. Exactly how it should be.
Exactly how I’ve never been.
