"Sounds stubborn."
"Runs in the family."
She smiles at that. Soft. "How'd he die?"
"Heart attack. Walking fence line after supper. Just dropped. Hank found him." Pushing back from the table, I stare at the window over the sink. The same view my mother used to stare at while she cooked. "He was fifty two. Doctor said it was massive, probably gone before he hit the ground."
"Tucker." Her voice is quiet. "I'm sorry."
"Nine years ago. Doesn't feel like it."
She nods. Doesn't push, doesn't fill the silence with words she thinks I need to hear. Just lets it sit between us, comfortably.
"Tell me something about your family," I say. Because I want to know. Because she asked about mine, and I want something back. Not for the brand. For me.
Her face lights up. "Big. Loud. Five kids, I'm the middle. My mom calls every Sunday at exactly seven thirty, won't hang up until she knows what I've eaten that week. My dad coaches Little League in Sacramento. Four siblings who all have opinions about my life choices. Family dinners are basically organized chaos."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It's the best thing about my life." She says it simply. No performance. "All that noise. Growing up in the middle of it, you learn to be loud or get lost. I chose loud."
"Noticed."
She throws a napkin at me. It bounces off my chest. "You think you're funny."
"I'm serious."
"You're smiling."
Am I? The muscles in my face confirm it before my brain catches up. Full smile. Actual teeth. Lena Cordero got a real smile out of me and she's looking at it like the perfect shot. Memorizing it.
We do the afternoon feed run together. She rides in my truck because her rental can't handle the back roads, camera in her lap, window down, hair whipping everywhere. She asks about water sources, grazing rotations, why we move the herd when we do. Questions that show she's been paying attention. Questions nobody outside the cattlemen's board has ever bothered to ask me.
At the creek crossing, she gets out to shoot the water, the willows, the light coming through the trees. Walking up behind her, I point to the ridge where my great grandfather cleared the first acre.
"Up there. 1924. A mule, an axe, and a back that never straightened again."
"Four generations." She says it quietly, looking up at the ridge. "You carry all of that."
"Somebody has to."
She turns. We're standing close. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the freckles across the bridge of her nose that the sun's been pulling out over the past three days. Close enough that her camera hangs between us, almost touching my chest.
"What if carrying it alone is what's making it so heavy?" she asks.
The question lands somewhere deep. Somewhere I don't let people reach. My hand comes up on its own, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her breath catches. My fingers trail down the side of her jaw, rough calluses against smooth skin.
"Lena."
"Yeah?" A whisper now.
"You're making this complicated."
"Good."
My thumb traces her lower lip. She holds completely still, those brown eyes locked on mine, mouth soft under my touch. Then I close the distance.
The kiss is slow. Deliberate. My hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, pulling her in. She tastes like sweet tea. One of her hands grips the front of my shirt, the other still holding that camera, and she rises on her toes to press closer. My arm wraps around her waist, pulling her flush against me, feeling every curve under my flannel on her.
