Page 54 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Then at him.

Then back at the hand.

“You don’t have to,” he says hushed, like he knows exactly what accepting help costs me and is trying not to make a thing of it.

Which, naturally, makes it worse.

I pass him the pie instead.

He snorts but takes it. “Baby steps.”

“I’m going to key your truck.”

“Please. You’d cry halfway through and apologize to the paint.”

Rude.

Accurate, but rude.

The second we step inside, the room hits me all at once.

Heat, noise, laughter. The smell of baked cheese, roasted meat, fresh rolls, and approximately fourteen different casseroles competing for dominance.

Long folding tables are covered in crockpots, Pyrex dishes, sheet cakes, pies, deviled eggs, pasta salads, and enough food to sustain a mid-sized army through winter.

Kids dart between chair legs like sugared missiles. Adults cluster in knots, talking over each other. Somewhere near the far wall, someone’s setting up coffee.

Duke leans closer, not touching, just there. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re doing it like you’re mad about it.”

I drag in another breath anyway.

Betty Lou spots Duke immediately from across the room.

“There you are!” she calls. “And you brought the pie like I asked. Bless you, boy.”

She barrels over, wiping her hands on a dish towel that looks decorative only until you notice the weaponized efficiency with which she uses it.

“Oh, and you brought Annie.” Her eyes flick over me, bright and assessing, then soften in a way that somehow feels more intimidating than scrutinizing. “Good. We’re not letting you hide up at Ironwood forever, sweetheart.”

“Betty Lou,” Duke says, handing over the pie. “You keeping well?”

“I just like to keep an eye on everyone. You know that.” She pats Duke’s cheek like he’s a large dog who has performed a trick, then turns to me. “You sit wherever you like, honey. Unless it’s near Carl Benson, in which case consider that a cautionary tale.”

“Hey!” a man bellows from three tables over. “I heard that.”

“Good,” Betty Lou snaps back. “Then maybe you’ll remember to behave for once!”

Duke hides a grin. I, unfortunately, laugh.

And just like that, the room shifts.

Not all the way. I’m still aware of eyes turning toward me, of names being traded in low voices, of the subtle murmur of curiosity that follows any new person into a small town.

But Betty Lou has effectively announced me without making it feel like trial by casserole, and that counts for something.