Page 5

CONWAY

I wait until the sun’s high in the sky, everyone’s back for lunch, and the house is loud. That’s how it works around here. You want a quiet conversation, you don’t schedule it. You wait for the chaos to surge and then step sideways into a weaker current.

Grace is out back, talking to Corbin and the twins about something involving chickens and glitter glue. Her laugh cuts through the noise, dry and sharp-edged, and I feel it in the center of my chest like someone flicking a light switch I forgot was wired up. The radiance hurts my tired eyes.

She shouldn’t be here.

I clear my throat. “Grace.”

She turns, nose high, eyes narrow, chin up, ready for a fight. “Yeah?”

I nod toward the front of the house. “You got a minute? We should talk.”

She follows without question, brushing dirt off her jeans like she’s surprised to find it there.

That won’t last long. Soon, it’ll become an expectation.

Her steps are light but sure. As I lead the way, I feel her behind me like the air itself is drawn to her.

I have to shake my head to dislodge my foolishness. I’m too old for romantic ideas.

In the office that used to be my grandfather’s, we sit opposite each other, a wide oak desk between us.

It still smells like tobacco and lemon polish, even though no one’s smoked in here in years.

I glance at the empty cigar box on the bookshelf beside an old photo of my grandparents on their wedding day.

The edges are curled, and the glass is cracked, but their relationship was the strongest marriage I ever saw and the reason we’re all still together in this house.

They taught us that family is the heart of everything in life and that love can weather even the most ferocious storms. I wonder what they’d think of our plan.

They’d question it—they were traditional, after all—but maybe, once they understood what we want, they’d support us.

They always did, no matter how hard or what it cost them.

Grace perches on the edge of the chair, legs crossed, arms folded like she’s protecting her ribs from a low blow.

Her eyes flick to the desk where a worn letter opener rests on a stack of invoices.

Beside it is a kid’s crayon drawing of a horse with six legs.

She smiles faintly, then looks back at me.

Looking at her is harder than it should be for a thirty-eight-year-old man.

The weight I carry on my shoulders is heavy enough to break any man’s spine, and I’m no stranger to women.

I’ve found release between more women’s thighs than I’d ever want to admit, and yet still, I have to force myself to meet her gaze.

“I figure we should lay down some ground rules… some expectations… so we understand each other.”

She arches an eyebrow. “So this is the ‘don’t make us look like idiots’ conversation?”

“Something like that.”

I don’t smile. I don’t need to. She already knows.

I lean back, fingers laced across my worn plaid shirt, socked feet crossed, trying to project an illusion of relaxation when I’m anything but.

“We’ve tried. Three times. Nice women with good intentions.

They all said they wanted to make a life here.

They lasted a week, maybe two. Said it was too hard.

Too many people. Too loud. Too isolated. ”

“Too many men?” she adds.

I press my lips together, considering how to articulate this.

“It’s not about the—” I pause at the word sex.

It’s not something I feel comfortable saying in mixed company.

“—physical relationships,” I say. “Not at first. It’s about the work.

The kids. The kitchen. The relentlessness of life.

The chores. The expectations. That’s where it breaks. ”

She doesn’t write anything down. She watches me like I’m the story now, taking mental notes in that pretty little head of hers. I hate how exposed that makes me feel.

I shift in my chair. “We’re not looking for a maid, Grace.

Or a mother. As you can see, we handle the chores fine.

The kids are happy… they’re learning and growing well.

We... we want someone who wants this. Who wants the stability and security we can provide and, in turn, is willing to be a soft landing for us at the end of the day.

Someone who can find a space within the hard work and want all of it. ”

“All of it?” she asks.

“Even the parts that don’t look good in pictures.”

She tilts her head. “And you think putting out a national ad was the way to find her?”

“Look around, Grace. We’re thirty minutes from the nearest town.

We know every woman in a thirty-mile radius.

Most are married, widowed, or too young.

It was the ad or an introduction agency, and to be honest, once we had admitted we needed help and were ready, the idea of publicity getting eyes on our issue didn’t seem like the worst thing.

But now this coverage… what you’re here for…

it’s starting to feel like it has the potential to be too much. ”

“People will be interested in your story. Eleven men and a lady—” She shakes her head and narrows her eyes. “That’s good. I should write that down. ”

I snort. A real one. It surprises both of us. Her smile lingers a little longer this time.

“I don’t care much about people outside the fences around this ranch. I want to deal with the issues inside these walls, and those men out there… they need more than cow herding, chores, and childcare to keep them sane.”

“And you think I can, what? Vet the process? Give you PR coverage?”

“I think you’re sharp. And honest.” I pause. “And I think you’ve got more in common with us than you want to admit.”

That stops her. I see the flicker behind her eyes. Something hit a nerve.

“I read your articles,” I add. “Before you stopped writing.”

Her mouth opens and closes, a flush rising up her cheeks. “You did?”

“Yeah. You’re better when you bleed a little on the page. This article, it could help us, or it could ruin us.”

“It’s not my intention to mock you,” she says, looking up again. “I’m not in this for sensationalism. I want the real.”

“I believe that.”

“But I have to tell the truth.”

I rub my stubbly chin, studying her as she shifts on the edge of her seat. She seems nervous, and I’m not sure if it’s me or the questions. “I want you to. The truth doesn’t scare us.”

But even as I say it, uncertainty rattles through me. Do I even know the truth resting behind all the individuals in this family? I’d like to think so, but people keep secrets and hide their feelings like needles in hay bales.

All I can do is hope that Grace will do our story justice. There are many ways of presenting the truth, and I’d rather she steered away from the one that looks like a horse’s ass.

We sit together, and the tension eases between us, her posture shifting. It’s still straight and proud, but less defensive. She pushes her hand through her hair, and it falls back into messy, dark waves.

“I’ll confess that even though I’ve been a journalist for a lot of years, I’ve been removed from the subjects of the stories in my magazine for well over a year.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to care about the people behind the words,” she says.

“To care about getting it right. But I do care. I won’t screw it up. ”

“You won’t,” I say firmly.

She exhales slowly. “I don’t want to interrogate your family about their deepest wants.

I’d rather live alongside them for a few days and pick up what I need that way, if that’s okay.

And I didn’t bring a photographer with me.

I want the pictures to have a candid, retro feel. I’m going to take them myself.”

It’s a sensitive approach that doesn’t fit with her polished, bright-eyed, sharp-mouthed, red-lipped persona, but I find I appreciate it.

This isn’t a movie-scene moment where we lean across the desk to share long, intense eye contact while rising classical music builds the tension, but there’s something in the room with us that’s real and humming in my chest. Respect, maybe.

Or understanding. An appreciation for the fact that she’s thought about our family and life and tailored her approach to it.

And that’s worse than attraction because I can ignore a pretty face, not that there are many around these parts, but I can’t ignore someone who sees the cracks and works out how to step around them without disturbing the ground or, worse, flinching. That sensitivity is hard to find.

Grace stands first and smooths her jeans. There’s a shadow of dust across her shirt that she may not have noticed. I wonder when she last got dirt under her fingernails and if her first instinct was to wash her hands.

“Thank you. For being honest. I appreciate your candor and aligning our expectations.”

I nod, and she turns to leave, pausing in the doorway. “ For the record... this story’s going to touch a lot of people, and I hope it helps you find what you’re looking for.”

And then she’s gone.

I recline in the chair for a while longer. Through the window, I watch Grace cross the yard, sunlight catching the curve of her spine and the fall of her hair.

And I’m left wondering why I feel less sure about what I’m looking for than I did before she arrived.

***

Later that afternoon, I search for my younger brother, Dylan, and find him in the barn. It’s cooler inside, smelling like animals, sweat, leather, and sawdust; real, honest things that don’t change on you.

He’s hunched over the workbench, oiling tack with slow, even strokes, bridle laid out flat and buckles gleaming. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t say anything, but he knows I’m here.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You still worried about her?”

He pauses for a second. Enough to answer without answering. Then he sets the bridle down and wipes his hands on a rag, eyes still on the bench.

“She’s a reporter, Con. If you bring a stranger into something like this, you better be damn sure.”

“I am.”

That gets him to look up. His face is all shadow and grit, jaw tight like he’s chewing on something hard. The scar that runs the length of his forearm glints in the light, a reminder of hard times.

“You’re sure she’s not gonna twist it? Make it all look like some half-assed docuseries for bored housewives, or worse, like some weird cult?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think she’s here to mock us. She’s here because she wants to understand.”

Dylan leans back against the stall gate, his arms draped loosely at his sides. The barn’s the kind of quiet that lets your thoughts echo around your skull. He squints at the light cutting through the slats, watching the dust hang in the air like it’s got all the answers we don’t.

“You trust her?” he asks finally.

“I do.”

He studies me for a second. Then he nods once, barely. “All right.”

I push off the doorframe and head back toward the light. Gravel crunches under my boots, and I pause outside, looking out over the pasture where the sun is coloring the hills.

It feels like something’s shifting, in our story and in me.

I don’t trust anyone outside this ranch. Grace has been here for less than twenty-four hours, and I’m already out on a limb for her.

Exhaling a long breath, I scuff my boot in the dirt.

That’s something I wasn’t prepared for.