My chest does something complicated.
"This morning it went all the way up," she says simply. "Both of them. All the way up to his eyes."
I look at the fence rail.
She looks at me.
"I think Silver Mesa is good for him," she says.
"I think so too," I say carefully.
"I think you're good for him," she says. Even more carefully. Watching me the whole time.
I open my mouth. Close it.
Maisie smiles, drops off the fence rail, lands in the dirt, and grabs Rowdy's collar before he can take off after a bird. "I'm gonna go see if Remy needs help with the horses," she announces, like she hasn't just taken my entire morning apart with six sentences.
She walks away, Rowdy trots beside her.
I stand at the fence rail in the warm morning light thinking about a smile that goes all the way up to someone's eyes, and feel the terrified happy thing in my chest get considerably larger.
The ranch problem announces itself at half past ten.
It starts with Silas appearing at the barn door with his measured expression shifted slightly toward something I don't see from him often.
Not alarm exactly. Silas doesn't do alarm. More like focused concern, the look he gets when something needs immediate attention and he's already calculating the fastest way to address it.
"North water line," he says. "Pressure's dropped. Cattle in the upper pasture aren't getting enough flow."
I'm already moving. "How bad?"
"Bad enough. Trough's running low. We've got maybe two hours before it's a problem for the herd."
"Where's Remy?"
"South pasture fence. I'll get him."
"Get him. I'll check the line."
I'm halfway across the yard when I hear boots behind me. I know the stride without turning around. Steady, purposeful, covering ground with the unhurried efficiency that Beckett has developed over the past few weeks without appearing to notice he was developing it.
"Silas told me," he says, falling into step beside me. "What do you need?"
I glance at him sideways.
He looks back at me with an expression that is completely composed and professional and gives away absolutely nothing about two in the morning or a quiet kitchen or a bedroom in the early dark.
I respect that more than I probably should.
"The pressure valve on the north line is near the creek bed," I say, matching his tone exactly. "If it's a blockage we can clear it ourselves. If it's a line break we need to call a plumber."
"How do we tell the difference?"
"Pressure reading at the valve. I'll show you."
We work well together. That's the thing I keep bumping into that I wasn't prepared for. Not the attraction, not the warmth, but the practical working partnership that has developed between us without either of us planning it.
He anticipates what I need before I ask. He reads the situation, positions himself correctly, and asks exactly the right question at exactly the right moment.
