Page 98 of That Rush

“That wasn’t my question.”

Paige turns toward me. Our knees touch again, and this time neither of us moves away.

“You’ve shown me the ranch,” she says. “Now show me the part you chose for yourself. Where you made a home for you and Josie.”

“The house is behind those cottonwoods,” I say. “I have two things to finish before breakfast.”

Paige looks toward the lower pens. “Then why are we standing here?”

I lead us down the ridge by the west trail. When we reach the barn, Paige dismounts without waiting for help and starts loosening her mare’s cinch.

“I can take care of her,” I say.

“I know.” She pulls the saddle free. “You also promised to feed me, and you're doing every chore alone is just delaying breakfast.”

I point out the saddle rack and leave her with a brush while I handle my gelding. When I turn, she has already checked the mare’s back for damp spots and is brushing in firm circles.

My phone buzzes twice. One message confirms the hay delivery for Monday. The other is from Dad; Josie has negotiated pancakes and a second trip to the creek before they bring her home at eleven-thirty.

Paige glances over. “Everything okay?”

“Hay is arriving Monday. Josie has expanded her plans with my parents.”

“Do six-year-olds usually send calendar updates?”

“Mine uses my father as her personal assistant.”

Her laugh follows me into the feed room.

A water valve in the recovery pen has been sticking since yesterday. I shut off the line, clear a pebble from the float assembly, and restart it while Paige leans on the top rail. The yearling inside approaches, and she scratches the white patch between his eyes.

“What happened to him?” she asks.

“Cut his leg on old wire. He’s healing well, but I want him where I can check him.”

I inspect the bandage. The bandage is dry, his weight is even, and the swelling is down. Paige watches without filling the silence or praising me, and that quiet attention makes me want to give her more to see.

When I stand, she reaches for the mineral bucket beside the gate.

“You don’t have to work,” I tell her.

“Correct.” She lifts it. “I’m choosing to help. Where does this go?”

I point toward the covered feeder and follow her, partly because the bucket is heavier than it looks, and partly for the view.

She catches me staring as she sets it down. “Did I pass this section of the test?”

“There is no test.”

“Then stop looking so pleased with my performance.”

I step close enough to put one hand on the rail behind her. “That has nothing to do with ranch work.”

Her eyes drop to my mouth. “Breakfast, Aiden.”

“I heard you.”

“Your priorities seemed confused.”