Page 41 of Broken Cedar

I stop and watch. There’s a certain way Colt moves when he works. He tests each section of wire before cutting, finds the tension, follows it to the source. When he cuts, the wire snaps with a sound that carries across the distance between us, sharp and definitive.

I never appreciated Colt like this, not really. When I left, Colt was twenty-four. Jim had been gone for almost a year. The ranch was still reeling—financially, logistically, the particular hollowed-out feeling of a place that has lost its center of gravity. And Colt, at twenty-four, stepped into that vacuum without being asked. He just…did it. Became the thing the ranch needed because the ranch needed it.

I knew, abstractly, that running a place this size is work. I didn’t know—couldn’t have known, because I wasn’t here to witness it—what it actually looks like. The daily grind of it. The particular relentlessness of a life measured in tasks completed rather than hours worked, where the to-do list regenerates overnight like something with its own metabolism.

I was so focused on running, that I never really stopped to consider what it cost him to stay. Not just his career and dream as a marshal, but the toll of running this ranch. Of being the thing that everyone needs him to be.

I take a deep breath and start walking toward him. He doesn’t look up. Colt has the awareness of someone who has spent his life in open country, where knowing what’s approaching from behind you is as essential as knowing what’s in front.

I stop at the edge of the downed fence. Close enough that he can hear me if I speak normally. He doesn’t look up, just keeps working the wire.

“Morning,” I say.

He glances up, hat brim shadowing his eyes. “Morning.”

Nothing else. No what are you doing here or did you sleep okay or any of the filler questions people use when they’re uncomfortable with silence. Colt’s always been comfortable with silence.

“I brought water and food,” I say, holding up the water bottle and sandwich.

He nods but doesn’t stop working. “Set it on the tailgate.”

I look at the mess. Downed posts. Twisted wire. A shovel lying where Colt has dropped it. I don’t ask, just set the water bottle on the tailgate, pull on a pair of gloves from the toolbox, and walk straight to the nearest broken post.

The wood shifts with a groan as I rock it back and forth. Rotten. No wonder it gave way.

Colt glances up. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m aware.” I brace one boot against the base and pull. The post finally comes free in a shower of dry dirt. I drop it onto the growing pile. “What I have to do,” I say, dusting off my hands, “is stop standing around watching while you do all the work.”

For a second he simply watches me, and the almost-smile appears—there and gone, like sunlight through fast-moving clouds—and something in his shoulders relaxes by a fraction. I wouldn’t notice if I hadn’t spent my entire childhood learning to read the particular language of Colt Walker’s body.

“Still stubborn,” he says.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I work the shovel around the base of each rotted post, loosening the dirt, working the old wood free from the ground that’s held it for decades. Colt takes the post driver—that heavy metal sleeve—and sets new posts, driving them into the earth with a rhythm that’s almost musical: lift, drop, lift, drop, the metal ringing against wood with a sound that carries across the pasture.

We talk about nothing in particular. The weather—hot for May, no rain in the forecast, the pastures drying out faster than they should. The hay delivery coming next week—eighty bales, stored in the east barn, did I remember where the east barn was, yes Colt, I remember where the east barn is, I grew up here, Jesus. The chestnut mare—how she’s settling, whether she’ll make a good lesson horse for the summer camp Mom wants to start.

What I notice, about an hour in, is that we’ve stopped needing to speak at all. Colt reaches toward the toolbox without looking. The fencing pliers are already in my hand. I place them in his palm before he has a chance to ask.

He glances at me. “Thanks.”

I shrug. “Muscle memory.”

He smiles to himself before turning back to the wire. I hold the new post vertical while he drives. He braces his shoulder against mine for leverage. As soon as the post is set, I reach for the next one without waiting to be asked. Colt is already measuring the spacing with the old rope Jim marked years ago, and before he finishes I have the next post lined up beside the hole.

We don’t discuss it. We simply move from one job to the next, the rhythm returning with surprising ease. This is how we used to work when we were teenagers. When the ranch was our entire world and the division between play and work was porous at best. Somewhere along the way we’d learned each other’s rhythms. He’d reach for a tool before I could think to offer it. I’d anticipated the next step before he had to ask.

I catch him watching me once when he thinks I’m not looking. Not because I’ve done anything remarkable, because I haven’t needed showing. I remember this work as well as he does.

By mid-morning there’s dirt under my fingernails despite the gloves. Dust streaks my jeans where I’ve knelt in the grass, and a smear of earth runs across the back of one hand. My braid has worked itself loose, wisps of hair sticking to the sweat at my temples. I probably look a mess. I haven’t cared this little about looking presentable in years.

The sun climbs higher while we work. Sweat gathers at the base of my spine, between my breasts, along my hairline under the brim of my hat. Colt peels off his shirt and wipes at the sweat on his brow. I look away, focusing on the fence.

I reach for another section of wire and my glove catches awkwardly. I flex my fingers, ignoring the sting in my palm.

“Let me see.”

I look over. “What?”