Page 46 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“No one. You have the look.”

I say nothing.

Tessa leans back in the chair, smooth and unhurried. “Silas, I’ve worked with this family long enough to know when you’re trying to hold six problems in your head at once and pretending they’re all procedural.”

That would be more irritating if she were wrong.

“She’s doing what we hired her to do,” I say.

“Good.”

I glance back at the contract. “And these go through her before you get another draft from us.”

“That would be ideal.”

I set the folder aside. “Anything else?”

Tessa hesitates a fraction too long before answering. “Just this. If you’re finding inconsistencies in internal paperwork and I’m finding them in contracts, the issue may be larger than clerical sloppiness.”

I don’t prefer to hear my own concerns spoken out loud. “I know.”

“Then don’t underestimate the people around you simply because they’ve been around a long time.”

I think of Jake’s too-smooth explanations. The duplicate invoice. The access issues Cody has been circling, a dog refusing to lie down near a snake. The consulting charges Annie found in less than a week.

The feeling that everything under the surface of this place has been moving for longer than I realized.

“I don’t,” I say.

Tessa rises, gathering her bag. “Good. Because family businesses are often undone by the things people assume no one close enough would dare to touch.”

She leaves five minutes later with the contract folder under her arm and my day somehow heavier than it was before she arrived.

Ironwood looks different in the evening. The edges soften, the staff noise fades, the ranch stops performing efficiency and settles.

Horses are happy in their stalls. Wind moves through the trees beyond the paddocks. The first porch light flickers on near the bunkhouse.

I should go to my office.

Instead I find myself turning toward Annie’s, with Tessa’s concerns in my mind.

Her office is empty.

Desk lamp off. Laptop closed. One stack of files aligned with enough care that I know she did it herself and not out of obligation to Cody’s standards.

Her chair is pushed in, the room still carrying the faint scent of coffee,paper, and the vanilla rain trace that seems to follow her everywhere.

I stand in the doorway a moment longer than necessary.

Then I head upstairs.

Her room is at the end of the hall, third door on the right. I know that because I know every room in this house. Every hinge, every lock, every weak board and every repaired one.

I know where the winter drafts come in and which windows stick in damp weather and how long it takes a person to move from the back staircase to the kitchen if they’re trying not to be heard.

Knowing where her room is should mean nothing, and yet I’m more aware of it than I’ve ever needed to be.

Her door is cracked open an inch. Light spills through. I knock once against the frame and push it wider before she can answer.