"Sit in the shade for five," I said. "You're pushing hard."
Her fingers tightened around the bottle. Her gaze slid back to the unfinished row.
"I'm fine."
"I know. Sit anyway."
She took the bottle. "Garden advice?"
"Common sense."
"Is common sense mandatory here?"
"It is when I'm watching."
Her mouth curved again, but this time it didn't quite make it all the way to a joke. "Then I'll sit."
She went to the bench under the pines. Birdie joined her with the herb basket, and Tyler wandered over like a man drawn by the possibility of avoiding labor.
I stayed by the shed and drank half a bottle in three long swallows.
My phone lit on the workbench inside.
I knew better than to look.
I looked anyway.
FLETCHER:
In town. I'll swing by later. You should hear the numbers before you keep saying no.
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
Numbers.
Fletcher loved numbers because they behaved when he lined them up. Acres, access points, projected growth, potential return. Enough clean columns, and a man could pretend he wasn't talking about soil under someone's boots, lake water at dusk, or a strip of land his brother had already refused to put on the table.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
Then I typed back.
ME:
Don't come during crew hours.
The reply came fast.
FLETCHER:
Still hiding behind garden work?
My fingers tightened around the phone.
ME:
Still saying no.
I set the phone facedown on the bench before I sent anything else.
