Page 9 of Last Track

That suited him. It also meant he had no excuse left to pretend he didn't understand the line between wanting Galen and having authority over his day. He could give instructions about the hurdle. He could wait.

The damaged hurdle lay beside the fence in two pieces, its hinge plates twisted but salvageable. Martin showed Galen which timber to bring from the shed and expected at least one unnecessary question. Galen asked none. He selected the correct length after checking the old section, carried it back without making a performance of the weight, and held it steady while Martin marked the cut.

They worked side by side through the morning. Galen swore when a splinter found his palm, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, and accepted correction without defensiveness when he set the hinge half an inch too high. He also handed Martin the right spanner before Martin asked, shifted the timber into position at the exact moment its weight became awkward, and began gathering the discarded nails while Martin checked the post.

He enjoyed Galen's running commentary on the personal failures of the sheep. He enjoyed the way Galen hummed under his breath when measuring and stopped the instant a number required attention. He enjoyed the questions, which were never asked merely to fill silence, and the silences, which Galen did not seem frightened to leave alone.

Martin was accustomed to working comfortably beside other people. The unusual part was wanting to know what Galen would say next, then finding he was equally content when Galen said nothing.

As they reset the post, Galen began humming again, the same passage Martin had heard through Nina's windows the night before.

"You mind playing while no one listens?"

"It pays."

"That wasn't what I asked."

Galen's hands slowed on the rope he was coiling. "Sometimes."

Martin did not push. He grasped the difference between being valued for a thing and being noticed while doing it, and let the silence do the rest of the asking. He wondered, not for the first time, how often Galen worked that hard for rooms that remembered only the atmosphere.

"You were practising last night," Martin said.

Galen glanced at him. "Was I keeping you awake?"

"No." The answer came too quickly.

Galen's eyes sharpened with interest. "You heard me."

"The walls aren't as thick as they look."

"That passage was giving me trouble."

"I noticed."

"You stayed up long enough to notice?"

Martin picked up the level and set it against the post. "It was on my list."

"Listening to me practise?"

"Checking the power connection."

"For an hour?"

"It required thoroughness."

Galen's mouth curved slowly. "Of course it did."

Martin should have objected. Instead, he smiled back, and they returned to work with the question left between them, neither denied nor pressed. Galen began humming the troublesome passage again, softer this time, and Martin recognised it immediately.

By midday, the new hurdle stood square and the salvaged hinges moved cleanly. Galen tested the swing, then stepped back with visible satisfaction. "Not bad?"

"Adequate," Martin said.

"I'll treasure it."

"You'll be paid for it."