Page 25 of Broken Cedar

“He told everyone about that,” Ben says with a grin.

“No I didn’t.” Colt says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You absolutely did,” I say. Colt gives me a look, but there’s no annoyance behind it. Just that familiar quiet amusement.

Ben turns back to him. “North fence first?”

“Yeah. Take Tyler with you. Check the section near the creek crossing. Storm’s supposed to roll in tonight. Want everything tightened before then.”

“You got it.” Ben heads off, and I watch him go.

It’s strange seeing this version of Colt. Not the boy who used to sneak out with me after dinner. Not the teenager who carried me home when I scraped my knee. This Colt. The one people listen to. The one everyone trusts. The one who knows exactly what needs doing before anyone has to ask.

“You’re staring,” he says.

I blink. “I’m appreciating the fact that apparently you’re a real adult now.”

His mouth twitches. “Apparently?”

“Still deciding.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “You take the east line,” he says, pointing. “I’ll take west. Meet at the creek crossing.”

“Copy that, boss.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, ranch hand overlord.” I give him a mock salute. He throws his glove at me. I duck. Some things never change.

We split up. The fence line runs along the northern edge of the property, wooden posts and barbed wire that need constant attention. I walk the east section, checking each post for rot, each wire for tension. The work is mindless. Physical. My hands remember the motions even if my brain has filed them away under “things I don’t do anymore.”

Half an hour in, I find a loose post. The wire has sagged. I radio Colt and tell him I need the post driver.

“Stay put,” he says. “I’ll bring it.”

He shows up five minutes later, the heavy metal driver slung over his shoulder as he walks around the truck. He sets to work driving the post deeper, tightening the wire. I hold the wire while he works.

“You remember the first horse I ever taught you to ride?” he asks. The question comes out of nowhere.

I blink. “Cinnamon.”

He nods. “Stubborn mare. Wouldn’t listen to anyone.”

“Except you.”

“Except me.” He finishes with the wire and tests it with his hand. “You were scared shitless.”

“I was not.”

“You were. Your hands were shaking so bad you could barely hold the reins.”

I shove his shoulder. “Because you put me on a horse that was basically a demon. She tried to bite me.”

“Once.”

“Once was enough.” I smile despite myself. The memory is warm. Colt, sixteen years old and already taller than most men.

“You fell off twice,” he says.