"247 dropped?"
"Bull calf. Both fine."
"That's the one you were watching?"
"Yep."
He takes a sip. "Josie still sending that photographer?"
"Yep."
Manny's been working Brant Ranch since before my dad died. Knows every fence line, every water source, every cow by number. Also knows when to stop talking, which is why he just nods and drives off toward the north pasture.
The morning burns through fast. Fence repair on the west boundary takes two hours. A section of irrigation pipe needs replacing near the creek crossing, and that eats up another hour on my back in the dirt. By noon, my shoulders ache in the good way.
Standing on the porch of the main house, I eat a cold roast beef sandwich and watch the road. The ranch house sits on a rise with a clear view of the gravel drive that winds up from the county road. Guest cabin's about a hundred yards east, small but solid. Clean sheets, stocked kitchen, fresh towels. My mother would've insisted on flowers, but she's been gone since I was seventeen, and nobody's taught me what to put in a vase.
Two fifteen. The dust plume appears on the county road before the car does.
A red SUV rental, shiny enough to blind a man. It takes the gravel drive too fast, kicks rocks against the fence posts, and pulls to a stop in front of the barn instead of the house because there's no sign pointing where to go. Because this is a cattle ranch, not a hotel.
The driver's door opens.
Heels hit the gravel first. Red ones. Then legs. Then a sundress with some kind of loud floral print that belongs at a rooftop bar in Vegas, not a working ranch in the Nevada mountains. Dark hair spills over bare shoulders, and silver rings catch the sunlight on nearly every finger.
She's short. Curvy in a way that the sundress isn't hiding. Brown skin, red lipstick, camera bag already slung over oneshoulder like she was born attached to it. Both hands are full. Phone in one, iced coffee in the other, and she's somehow also managing a rolling equipment case with her hip.
Hank trots over to investigate. Dolly stays on the porch with me because Dolly has standards.
"Oh my God, hi, hello, you're beautiful," the woman says to my dog, crouching down in those heels to scratch behind his ears. Hank rolls onto his back immediately. Zero loyalty in that animal.
She looks up toward the porch. Toward me. Brown eyes, warm and sharp at the same time, scanning my face, my clothes, the sweat stains, the dirt on my boots. Taking inventory with a photographer's eye. Cataloging.
Something loosens in my chest. And something tightens lower.
"Tucker Brant?" She straightens up, extends a hand with three silver rings on it and nails painted the same red as her shoes. Her smile is wide, easy, practiced. "Lena Cordero. Josie hired me to make you famous."
"Josie hired you." My handshake is brief. Firm. Her fingers are small in mine, warm from the coffee cup. "I didn't."
The smile doesn't falter. If anything, it gets brighter. She tilts her head, looks me over again, slower this time. Deliberate. Those brown eyes travel from my hat to my boots and back up, and she nods once like she just confirmed a theory.
"Don't clean up," she says. "You're perfect."
Then she lifts her camera and points it at my face.
My hand comes up before the shutter clicks. "Don't."
"Don't what? Stand here? Breathe? You'll need to be more specific, cowboy."
"Don't point that thing at me."
She lowers the camera but keeps the smile. Tilts her head toward the guest cabin, eyebrows raised. "That mine for two weeks?"
Two weeks. Fourteen days of this woman on my property. In my space. Loud and bright and impossible to ignore. Already talking with her free hand, already looking at my ranch like she's framing it for a shot.
"Cabin's ready. Towels are in the bathroom." Turning toward the house, I add over my shoulder, "And it's rancher. Not cowboy."
Her laugh follows me inside. Low, warm, and way too pleased with herself.
