Page 42 of Broken Cedar

He sets down the fencing pliers and nods at my hands. “The blisters.”

“I’m okay.” I reach for the next section of wire. One eyebrow lifts. He doesn’t move to pick the pliers back up. “You still do that.”

“Do what?”

“Decide I’m wrong before I’ve finished talking.” I pull the wire taut, not looking at him.

A small smile touches his mouth as he crosses his arms. “You were about to say you’re fine.”

“Because I am.”

He stalks toward the truck and reaches into the toolbox, pulling out a roll of athletic tape. “Hold still.” I let him take my hand. His fingers are rough against mine, careful as he wraps the tape around the place where the glove has rubbed.

“Better?” he asks once he’s finished.

I flex my fingers. “Yeah.”

He nods and hands my glove back. “Good.” Then he turns and goes back to the fence, like it meant nothing.

I put the glove back on. “Does it ever get lonely out here?” The question surprises even me.

Colt is driving a post and he doesn’t stop or look at me. The metal rings against wood three more times before he answers. “Sometimes.”

I wait. He doesn’t seem inclined to say more, so I reach for another staple instead. “When?”

He plants the post driver in the dirt beside him and wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead. “Mostly at night.”

I look over. “Really?”

He shrugs. “Work keeps you busy during the day.” He glances toward the main house in the distance. “Nights are quieter.”

“What do you do?”

He looks surprised by the question. “As in?”

“When it’s quiet.”

“Read,” he says, then pauses. “Think too much.”

“About the ranch?”

He smiles, but it looks more sad than anything. “Sometimes.”

For years I’d imagined loneliness as empty apartments and takeaway dinners eaten in front of the television. I’d never really considered this version, where the work ends long before the thinking does.

We keep working. The silence between us shifts from comfortable to something heavier, weighted, something we’re both aware of and neither of us is rushing to resolve.

By the time we’ve replaced the last post and strung the last section of wire, the sun is high overhead and my shirt is stuck to my back and Colt is standing at the end of the repaired line, testing the tension with one gloved hand.

“Good?” I ask.

He nods. “Good.”

We stop to sit on the tailgate of Colt’s truck for a drink. The metal is warm under my thighs. Neither of us is looking directly at the other. Colt’s gaze is on the middle distance—the repaired fence, the pasture beyond it. I’m studying my water bottle. The way the plastic catches light.

We drink. The water is warm from sitting in the truck bed, but it’s water, and my throat is dust-dry from three hours of fence work, and right now warm water might as well be champagne for all I care about the temperature.

“Fence looks good,” I say, nodding toward it.