Laney appears from the direction of the equipment shed behind me. I hear her boots on the gravel, know her stride, know she's heard at least the last part of what I said.
Weston sees her over my shoulder. Something moves across his face that he puts away quickly. He looks back at me with an expression that has lost its competitive edge and replaced it with something more straightforward.
"She deserves someone who sees that," he says. Quietly. Meaning it.
"I know," I say.
He looks at the ranch one more time. The barn, the pastures, the hill line, the whole of Silver Mesa in the noon light. Something in his expression is genuinely appreciative rather than acquisitive.
I understand for the first time that Weston Blackthorn actually loves this land even if his methods of showing it are questionable.
He extends his hand.
I shake it.
"Good ranch," he says.
"Good neighbor," I say back. Meaning it as much as he meant his.
He gets in his truck and drives back down the ranch drive and doesn't look back.
I turn around.
Laney is standing ten feet behind me with her arms crossed and her hat pulled down and an expression that is working very hard to stay neutral and not quite managing it.
"She's the reason Silver Mesa is what it is," she says. Flat. Quoting me back.
"True statement," I say.
"You said that to Weston Blackthorn."
"I did."
"In the middle of the ranch yard."
"That's where we were standing, yes."
She looks at me for a long moment. The neutral expression gives up entirely. What's underneath it is warm, unguarded, the fullyopen version of her that I have come to understand is the most valuable thing on this entire property.
"You're insufferable," she says.
"You love me," I say.
She holds my gaze for one more second.
"Yeah," she says quietly. "I do."
She walks back toward the equipment shed with the unhurried stride of a woman who has just said something true and is completely at peace with it.
I stand in the middle of the ranch yard and watch her go and think that Weston Blackthorn did me an enormous favor by showing up today.
I'm never going to tell him that.
The piano gets tuned on Friday afternoon.
I arranged this three days ago, a man named Gerald from San Antonio who comes out to ranch properties with a portable kit.
He has the patient calm of someone who has been doing this for thirty years and has seen pianos in worse shape than this one.
