Page 70 of Broken Cedar

Somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes. Mom, probably. Starting her day. Colt shifts and rolls onto his side, pulling me with him. My back to his chest. His arm around my waist.

His lips find the top of my head. “We should probably get up,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss there.

“We should,” I agree, though neither of us moves.

Eventually we manage to convince ourselves to leave the bed. I shower while Colt feeds the horses, then pull on jeans and one of his old flannel shirts that’s become mine through the quiet magic of repeated borrowing.

When I walk downstairs, Mom is already pouring coffee.

“There you are,” she says without turning around. “I was starting to think you’d never get out of bed.” She slides my mug across the counter before I even ask.

“Just sleeping in,” I say, reaching for the mug.

“Mmhmm.” She flips a pancake but doesn’t push. Hasn’t pushed once since I came back. There’s something uniquely merciful about a mother who watches her daughter run in circles for eight years and, when the circles finally stop, doesn’t say I told you so.

Colt comes in through the back door a minute later, hat already on, boots dusty from the barn. “Morning.”

He leans down to kiss me on the way past. It’s quick, absentminded, the sort of kiss people give each other when they know there’ll be another one later. It still makes my heart forget what it’s doing.

Mom pretends to be deeply interested in flipping pancakes. “I can still see you two, you know.”

Colt clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“Mmhmm.” She slides another pancake onto the plate.

I laugh into my coffee as Colt rubs the back of his neck. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” I say.

“Oh, immensely,” she says.

Breakfast stretches lazily into conversation. Mom asks about internet providers. I tell her Steven approved the remote work arrangement yesterday afternoon. Apparently losing me entirely was more frightening than letting me work from the ranch.

“See?” Mom says. “Things have a habit of working themselves out.”

I smile. “They do.”

Colt takes his coffee and heads for the door. “South pasture,” he says. “Fence line. Be back for lunch.”

I nod. He pauses in the doorway and looks back at me, then glances at Mom, who’s suddenly very busy in her pancakes. He strides toward me, grabbing my chin between his thumb and forefinger, angling my head toward him. Colt kisses me softly, lazily. Then he steps away. He drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. “We’ll move that desk after lunch,” he says.

“Okay.” I say.

He nods once, kisses me again, and disappears through the screen door. A second later I hear his whistle. Low. Two short notes. Copper answers immediately with a whinny. I smile into my coffee.

By nine o’clock I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop open. Steven appears on my screen looking far more awake than anyone should be before coffee.

“So.” He leans back in his chair. “How’s the ranch?”

I look out the window. Colt’s got his shirt untucked and a post digger over one shoulder, heading down toward the south fence. Mom’s working the clothesline. Copper is standing in the driveway again, which is going to be a whole thing later.

“It’s good,” I say. “Busy.”

Steven laughs. “I’ll take busy over resigning.”

“So will I.”

For the next hour we talk budgets, deadlines, and client presentations. Questions come easily. Answers even easier. Nothing about this version of my life has disappeared.

It occurs to me somewhere around the budget review that I was afraid it might have. That coming back here would somehow undo me professionally. Blur something. Like you can only be one version of yourself at a time. Apparently not.