Page 17

Lennon

The paper is already soft from folding, creased once vertically and once horizontally. My handwriting fills it in neat block capitals. Supplies. Quantities. Brands. No guesswork. No improvising.

Levi makes shit up as he goes. McCartney literally paints his way through life. Cody gets away with a wink and a smile.

But not me. I keep the machine running. I tick the boxes. I keep the reins on this place.

I double-check the list again before climbing into the truck. Flour. Sugar. Fence staples. Wormer. Bolts for the west gate hinge that Cody keeps ignoring. A parcel Dylan asked me to collect but wouldn’t say a damn thing about. More items that we need urgently enough to make the drive into town.

“Lennon?”

I glance up. Grace stands near the porch, pulling on a soft gray sweater over her T-shirt. “You headed to town?”

“Yeah. Grocery run. Feed store. Hardware.”

She hesitates for half a second. “Can I come? ”

I always go alone because it’s more efficient. Take any of the others, and they’ll want to stop for a beer or buy shit we don’t need. But Conway’s words from last night roll back into my head: Let her in. Let her see. It’s the only way we’re going to get what we need.

I unlock the passenger door. “If you’re quick.”

She grins and pulls on some ridiculous white sneakers that wouldn’t last three seconds if she lived here.

That’s when Beau comes barreling out from behind the barn.

Half cattle dog, half mutt, all attitude, he hates visitors. He’s run delivery men off the property more than once, but today? He bolts straight for Grace.

She barely has time to brace before Beau skids to a stop at her feet, pressing against her legs, whining softly, tail wagging like a flag in a hurricane.

I stop dead.

The dog doesn’t even like most of us.

Grace laughs, scratching his rough head as he melts into her side like he’s found home.

“Hey, Beau. Whatcha doin'?”

I shake my head slowly. “You’re the first outsider he’s ever tolerated.”

She smiles and follows me to the truck, Beau glued to her side every step of the way. I guess he’s coming, too!

The truck rattles over the uneven dirt track as I shift into fourth. Dust plumes behind us, curling into the soft blue of morning.

Grace hums low under her breath, one leg folded up on the seat, elbow draped against the open window.

Beau sprawls half across her lap, snout resting on her thigh, his eyes blinking lazily like he owns her and still worships everything about her. Every time she stops stroking his ears, he lets out a quiet, needy whine.

I glance over. “You’ve ruined him already.”

She smiles as Beau paws at her hand again. “I’m not doing anything. He came to me. ”

“He’s never done that before.”

“Maybe he senses something.”

Maybe he does. In quiet moments over chores, there’s been lots of discussion about the kind of woman Grace is.

How she doesn’t flinch from the noise or the mess.

How the kids climb her like she’s a tree, and she laughs instead of ducking away.

How she looks at each of us like she’s seeing rather than assessing.

There’s a steadiness in her. A firmness. Something rooted and good. And sparks, too. She’s bright and quick, with a mind I’d love to explore.

Even the dog knows, and Beau’s a damn good judge of character.

She’s pretty, too, but that’s never what interests me most in a woman.

In the end, we all age, and what we look like on the outside changes, but our souls carry through.

That’s the part I struggle with in this arrangement because we’re all focused on different aspects of a potential partner, and that makes it almost impossible for everyone to be satisfied.

The road stretches ahead: open fields, fence lines, distant cattle grazing. I know every bend and bump, but today, I’m distracted.

“How far is town?”

“Twenty-three miles.”

She laughs lightly. “Not twenty or twenty-five?”

I tap the list in my pocket. “Details matter.”

She glances sideways at me. “Yeah, they do.”

“Do they matter to you? Like, this article you’re writing about us… is the truth important, or how salacious you can make it to sell copies.”

“The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.” She grins, flashing her pretty white teeth behind her pretty red-lipsticked smile.

“If you can make anything about this ranch salacious, you’ll deserve a Pulitzer.”

She laughs, and Beau lets out a soft groan of contentment, curling tighter into her lap .

I keep my eyes on the road and let the silence return as we roll towards town, but Grace doesn’t leave it that way for long.

By the time we reach our destination, she’s going to know my inside leg measurement.

But nothing in this life comes for free.

She’s going to have to tell me a lot about her, too.

***

Foster’s General is already busy. Two pickups, a battered sedan, and Mrs. Alvarez’s ancient Buick crowd the tiny parking lot.

I pull in neatly between the lines. Grace is still stroking Beau’s ears absentmindedly as I kill the engine.

I slide my list from my pocket and shake it out. “We stick to the list.”

Grace nods solemnly. “Scout’s honor.”

I don’t believe her for a second, and that thought makes me smile.

Inside, the bell above the door jingles, and every head turns. Conversations stop, but not because of me. I’m here twice a week. I’m invisible. Just another dusty cowboy. They’re looking at her.

Grace smiles in her trademark bright and open way, like she belongs anywhere she stands. She draws people in, and Beau trots in behind her, tail wagging like a traitor waving a white flag to switch sides.

I sigh and head for the feed aisle. Grace follows, eyes wide, brushing fingers along the old wood shelves lined with dusty tins and glass candy jars like she’s awed from stepping into another century.

“Morning, Lennon,” old man Foster says from behind the counter, pushing his wireframes up his nose. As his gaze flicks to Grace, his brow rises.

“Morning,” I say, ticking items off mentally. “You have the order?”

Foster disappears into the back.

I glance sideways at Grace. She’s crouched, scratching Beau behind the ears again as he sprawls shamelessly in the middle of the floor.

“Does he ever leave you alone?” I mutter.

She grins. “He knows what’s good for him.”

A few locals walk by, nodding politely, eyes lingering curiously on Grace before moving on. Small towns run on information. There will be talk by sunset of the girl with shiny chestnut hair and red-painted lips. Is she like a pinup girl from the fifties or a modern-day harlot? The jury will be out.

Grace straightens, catching me staring, wondering if her lips taste like fruit. Strawberries. Or maybe cherries. “What?”

I blink. “Nothing. We’ve got three more stops.”

She mock salutes. “Lead on, Captain Lennon.”

I shake my head and head toward the door. Beau scrambles up and follows so close to her hip that it’s like they’ve always belonged to each other. Like he’s a K-9, and she’s SWAT.

I adjust the list in my hand and keep walking.

We stop at Torry’s to pick up the parcel.

I know exactly where to go. In. Out. Minimal interaction. Avoid looking at the clothes and boots. That’s the plan.

Torry spots me from behind the counter, her silver braid swinging as she turns. “Got something for you, Lennon. Dylan called it in yesterday.”

She disappears into the back and returns with a long, narrow box wrapped in plain brown paper tied with twine.

Grace is fingering a woman’s plaid shirt that’s tied at the waist. It’d look good on her, but I don’t encourage her to buy it. It isn’t my place. Instead, I take the box carefully, my fingers automatically tightening around the rough string.

Grace tilts her head. “What’s in it?”

“I have no idea.”

Her eyes narrow, reading me in a way that unnerves me, but she doesn’t push. Just rests her hand lightly on Beau’s back as he pants happily at her side.

I tuck the box under my arm, smarting with the unfamiliar weight of secrecy, and turn toward the door.

The next stop is the grocery store. Again, I have a system. Canned goods. Coffee that’s better than what we can get at Fosters. Fruits and vegetables we can’t grow ourselves. In and out. But Grace stops at the bulk candy bins, eyes lighting up.

“Lennon. They have taffy.” She reaches for a scoop before I can stop her. “And sour worms. And lemon drops. The kids will love these.”

I frown. “They’re not on the list.”

She scoops anyway. “Consider it a morale booster.”

Beau flops at her feet, tongue out, tail sweeping the dusty tile.

I cross my arms. “Whose morale needs boosting, exactly?”

Grace smiles up at me without apology. “You saying a lemon drop right now wouldn’t lift your spirit a little?”

Her smile could light up midnight in a coal mine, and I don’t seem to be able to resist it. “Not a lemon drop, but maybe…”

“I knew it. You have sour worms written all over you.”

I look down at my scruffy, worn jeans, gray t-shirt, and worn plaid overshirt with a torn pocket. “I do?”

I should argue that we have better things to do, but I don’t. I watch as she grabs bubble gum and a small pack of tiny plastic horses. I add it all up silently in my head to compensate.

Another deviation. But I let her do it, anyway.

The last stop is Murphy’s Western Wear. I don’t even have to check the list for this one: boot oil, leather laces, and a new belt for Conway.

Grace’s eyes go wide the moment we step inside. Racks of plaid shirts, rows of shiny belt buckles, and walls lined with boots in every imaginable shade of brown.

“This is amazing,” she whispers.

“It’s practical,” I correct automatically, grabbing what I need with clinical precision .

She trails behind me, running her fingers along soft suede and polished leather. We’re almost at the register when she stops dead in front of the hat wall.

“Oh my God,” she says softly. “I need to try one.”

I sigh, already bracing myself. “They’re not practical for city people.”