Page 27 of The Fire Line

6

Heater. Heathen. Helium.

Harris finished stacking chairs sometime after one. Most of the neighbors had gone, the twins were asleep, and Della had finally allowed Walt to walk her back toward the house after announcing several times that birthdays legally exempted a person from cleaning.

The event barn looked half dismantled now, tables stripped, abandoned glasses collecting along the walls, half the string lights already dark.

Harris preferred it that way. A room made more sense once people left it. Chairs went against the wall, bottles into crates, trash into tied bags. Every object had somewhere it belonged, and none of them expected him to dance or explain why he wasn’t.

He shut off another row of lights. Navarro had gone into the lodge maybe ten minutes ago; Harris knew because Jay had crossed directly through his field of vision while Harris carried chairs. Nothing worth examining there.

He bent to collect an empty beer bottle.

Ma said you dance pretty good.

Coward.

Harris had seen perfectly well how Navarro danced. Using Della as the source had simply been easier than admitting he had watched enough to know for himself.

All evening, some part of him had kept track of where Navarro stood. Not watching him exactly. Knowing. There had to be a difference, even if Harris could not have explained it without making the whole thing sound worse.

Navarro was hard to miss in a room: six feet tall, broad through the shoulders, dark hair coming loose around his face as the night went on. He moved differently when he wasn’t working. Less directed. The part of him always evaluating, arranging, and deciding what mattered had gone quiet for a few hours.

Harris had noticed while Navarro danced with Della—he’d looked over once, then several more times because apparently one look had not provided enough information. At one point, Jay turned toward the doors quickly enough that Harris barely got his attention onto Walt before Jay looked over. Barely.

Harris had spent most of his life managing what other people were allowed to see. He could damn well manage where he put his eyes.

Evan crossed the barn carrying a black trash bag, tying the top as he walked. “You about done?”

“Yup.”

“Go to bed.”

“Was planning on it.”

Evan surveyed the stripped tables and chairs. “Mom’s going to make us put half this back tomorrow.”

“Monday.”

Evan stopped. Harris looked over and found his brother smiling.

“What?”

“You said Monday.”

“Nobody needs tables tomorrow.”

“I’m just impressed you’re actually taking a day off.”

Harris reached for another bottle. “Go throw that away.”

Evan laughed under his breath and carried the trash outside.

By the time Harris crossed the yard toward his cabin, the ranch had gone mostly dark. One upstairs window in the lodge still held a pale square of light: east wing, second from the end. Navarro’s room.

Harris looked away before checking whether a shadow moved behind the curtain. That seemed like a reasonable place to draw the line.

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