Beckett has been planning it for two weeks with the focused attention he brings to things he's decided matter. The table has a proper banner, Silver Mesa Ranch in clean lettering, nothing flashy, just honest.
We're offering samples from the cattle operation, information about the ranch, some of Jolene's preserves made from Silver Mesa honey that she insisted on contributing because Jolene contributes to everything she believes in.
Remy mans the table with the cheerful authority of a man born for public interaction.
Silas stands beside him like a very competent statue.
Maisie runs the sample distribution with a seriousness of purpose that has already resulted in three separate adults asking if she's the owner.
She hasn't corrected them.
I set up the table display while Beckett talks to Harvey about the arena construction timeline, his notebook open, making notes with the focused efficiency that I once found irritating and now find quietly reassuring in a way I couldn't have predicted on day one of his arrival.
The market fills up fast.
Silver Ridge turns out in force on a Saturday morning, the way it always turns out for things that matter to it. Families with kids, older ranchers moving at their own pace, younger people with dogs on leashes, the full cross-section of a community that has been showing up for itself for generations.
People stop at the Silver Mesa table.
Not just to be polite. They actually stop to talk to Remy, who is in his absolute element. Ask questions about the cattle operation, the ranch, the improvements underway. Several people mention the charity rodeo, Beckett's cattle sorting run apparently having traveled through the Silver Ridge memory the way good stories travel.
Earl Bishop stops by mid morning.
He looks over the table, the banner, Beckett standing beside it talking to a family about the ranch with the easy, comfortable fluency of someone who knows his subject because he lives it.
Earl looks at me.
"He's one of us now," he says.
Simple. Definitive. Earl Bishop delivering a verdict that means more in Silver Ridge than most formal announcements.
"He is," I say.
Earl nods. Moves on to the next table.
Beckett catches my eye across the market floor and raises an eyebrow in the way he does when he's asking a question without words. I shake my head slightly meaning nothing, everything is fine, just Earl being Earl. He reads it correctly and goes back to his conversation.
We move through the morning together, the table, the market, the community around us, the easy rhythm of two people working a shared thing without stepping on each other. Maisie drifts between us with the natural freedom of a child who knows both of her anchors are within range.
At some point June appears and takes over Maisie's sample duties so Maisie can go look at the livestock display with Remy, which Remy agreed to with zero resistance because Remy and Maisie at a livestock display is exactly where both of them want to be on a Saturday morning.
Silas holds down the table.
Beckett finds me at the edge of the market floor around noon, hands me a coffee from the vendor two tables over, stands beside me looking at the whole scene. Silver Mesa's table busy, Silas answering questions with his quiet authority, the town moving around us.
"Good morning," he says.
"Really good morning," I say.
He looks at the market. At Silver Ridge doing what Silver Ridge does. At Maisie's voice carrying from somewhere near the livestock pens, loud, delighted, completely herself.
"I want to do this every year," he says.
"We will," I say.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
