"Good," Laney yells back without looking away from me.
"The nearest commercial tow is forty-five minutes. Remy's here."
"Right." I clear my throat. "The research I did suggested that rural service logistics could be a variable. I accounted for that."
One corner of her mouth moves. Not quite a smile. More like the beginning of one that decided against it. "You read about ranching," she says. Flat. Like a diagnosis.
"Several books, actually. And some—"
Remy snorts loudly near the truck.
"Uh-huh." She walks past me toward the truck.
I stand there for a moment.
Maisie reappears from the direction of the barn, boots absolutely caked in something I'm choosing not to identify, face lit up like Christmas morning.
"Dad, there are horses. Like, a LOT of horses. And the dog's name is Rowdy, and he brought your briefcase to that guy named Remy who said he'd give it back if you can name all the parts of a saddle." She pauses. "Can you name the parts of a saddle?"
"I can, actually. I read a very thorough chapter on…"
I stop myself.
Because hearing myself quote saddle chapters out loud in the middle of a Texas ranch somehow sounds significantly less impressive than it did in my head at the office.
"Remy says book cowboys don't count."
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I sold a company for nine figures just to get bullied by ranch people.
By the time Remy Dalton arrives with the tow chain, grinning like he's been handed a gift. The truck has sunk another four inches and Laney has organized the situation with a quiet efficiency that makes it obvious she's done this before. She directs the tow rigging with short, precise instructions.
Every single person immediately listens without hesitation. Even the truck driver straightens up when she talks.
Meanwhile, I still can't get a dog to respect me.
She tells the driver exactly where to steer and has the truck out and repositioned on solid ground in under twenty minutes.
She doesn't ask for my input once. Which is a strangely uncomfortable feeling for a man who spent the last fifteen years in rooms where people paused entire meetings when he cleared his throat.
I try offering it twice, both times based on a very relevant passage from one of my ranch management books. Both times she looks at me with that same flat, diagnostic expression and keeps moving.
The ranch hands, I quickly learn, are named Remy and Silas. Remy is loud, cheerful, and has already tried to sell Maisie on the idea that baby calves can be kept as indoor pets.
Silas is quieter, watchful, and hasn't said more than four words to me directly, though I notice he watches everything.
They both watched the truck disaster with unconcealed entertainment. Remy actually pulled out his phone at one point and muttered something about starting a betting pool while Silas leaned against the fence trying, and failing, to hide the fact that he was laughing.
Once the furniture is being unloaded in the right direction, Laney finds me near the ranch house door making notes on my phone about operational improvements I'd identified from my research. She crosses her arms and looks at the notes.
"There's a water pressure issue in cabin three," I start. "I read that older ranch plumbing systems often have sediment build-up in—"
"We know about cabin three," she says. "We've got a plumber scheduled for next Thursday."
"Oh." I scroll. "The hay storage rotation could be optimized if—"
"That's already on a schedule."
