Weston turns and sizes him up with a smile that has a competitive edge underneath it. "Weston Blackthorn. Blackthorn Ranch."
Beckett pulls his glove off and shakes his hand. "Beckett Wilder."
"Good spread you've got here," Weston says. "Laney's done a hell of a job with it."
"Yeah," Beckett says, looking at me. "She has."
The space between the three of us does something complicated.
Weston notices. His smile gets slightly wider, which means he's filed something away.
I look at my fence line and think that this day just got considerably more interesting than I needed it to be.
Weston stays for an hour.
It feels longer.
He's perfectly pleasant about it, which somehow manages to be the most irritating version of Weston available. He talks cattle prices with Beckett with the easy confidence of a man who knows his subject.
He asks reasonable questions about the Silver Mesa operation, compliments the horse barn twice. He's on his best behavior and I know exactly why because I've known Weston long enough to recognize when he's performing for an audience.
The audience is Beckett.
The performance is for me.
I busy myself with the fence line check I was already doing and let the conversation happen around me. Then I try very hard to look like a woman who is completely unbothered by any of this.
Remy appears from somewhere, reads the situation in approximately four seconds, manufactures a reason to be nearby that fools nobody.
Silas doesn't bother manufacturing a reason. He just leans on the fence twenty feet away and watches with the quiet attention of a man at a chess match.
Weston finds his moment about forty minutes in.
He waits until Beckett is momentarily distracted by something Remy says. He turns to me with that easy smile dialed up slightly, and says low enough that it's directed at me specifically, "Dinner Friday, Laney. Come on. For old times sake."
"There are no old times, Weston."
"There could be new times."
"Still no."
He leans on the fence rail beside me, close enough to make a point, not close enough to be inappropriate. "You've been out here managing someone else's ranch for four years. Don't you ever want something that's just yours?"
It's a calculated thing to say and we both know it. Weston didn't get where he is by being unobservant. He's noticed something in the last forty minutes and he's poking at it deliberately to see what moves.
I keep my eyes on the fence line. "I'm good, Weston. Thanks."
That's when Maisie comes flying around the corner of the barn at full speed with Rowdy on her heels and a picture frame clutched in both hands like she's carrying something fragile and extremely important.
She skids to a stop when she sees Weston.
Looks at him. Looks at me. Looks at Beckett. Reads the room with the uncanny accuracy she always has and decides none of whatever this is, concerns her right now.
"Laney," she says breathlessly. "The picture we hung above the fireplace is crooked. I tried to fix it and now it's more crooked. Can you come look at it?"
Weston glances between us with fresh interest.
"In a minute, bud," I say.
