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“I gotta tell you to call me Alan one more time, and we’re gonna have some problems there, neighbor.”

Owen chuckled. “I just talked myself out of calling you ‘sir,’” he said, happy for the calm Alan emanated. He was the steady to his wife’s storm, Owen noticed. Much like Brad to Paige. The women in that family ran hot, there was no denying that. “Calling you Alan may take a bit to get used to.”

“Fair enough,” Alan said, still smiling. He gestured to the box lying on the ground beside Owen. “What, pray tell, did the box do to offend?”

“Not have enough nails for me to take out on the fence. Not shatter like glass when I got frustrated by the first thing. You know, the usual.”

“She’s going to be okay,” Alan said, his eyes narrowed on Owen.

“Oh, I know. I’ll head on up to Mitch’s and grab another couple boxes. It’s no big deal.”

“I mean Paige, Owen. She’s going to be okay. At least that’s what the idiot of a doctor said.”

At the mention of Paige, the very muse to his hammering and throwing of stuff, Owen froze. A small tremble shook his left hand. He transferred the hammer to it, hoping to get rid of the tremor, but it only picked up in the right hand.

Dammit. A feeling of relief flooded through him and tears sprung to his eyes. He wiped at them, laughing weakly.

“Thanks, Alan,” he said. “I’ve been so damn worried.”

It was the truth, too. He’d been pissed at himself, sure, but beneath all the guilt, all the frustration, lay fear. Fear that Paige wouldn’t make it out of this, that she’d be forever changed in a way that would prevent her from living the life she’d dreamt of. He’d been too stubborn after that first visit back to check in on her, which made him nothing more than a giant wuss.

“I know you have, son. I know. I also know you’ll want to hear that she asks about you damn near each time I bring her anything, which is about a dozen times a day. I tell her the same thing—you’re working on your farm, you’re doing okay far as I can tell, though I might not say the same for those there posts,” he said, pointing his arm towards the one Owen had just unloaded two dozen nails on. Owen’s cheeks warmed, most likely now the shade of the red flannel Penske sat growling at.

He admired the persistence of the little bugger.

“Yeah, I guess this one got it worse than the rest. Liability right now—anything that can be pounded I’m darn well going to. Beats beating myself up any more than I already have.”

“I’ll bet you’ve been doing a fair amount of it still, and I know part of it’s cause that little girl of mine saw fit to ask you to leave her alone, but if I know my daughter, and believe me, son, I do, she was just protecting her heart from experiencing what the rest of her body is right now. Stubborn like her mom, that one. I reckon you don’t have any plans on making that heart hurt, though, do you?”

“I don’t, sir, not even close.” Owen bit the inside of his cheek to keep from bawling like a newborn.

“And I’m not being too forward assuming you like her?”

The heat in his cheeks scorched him. He ran his free hand through his hair, his ball cap hanging limp at his side with the hammer.

“No, your assumptions would be correct on that end.”

“Okay, then. I’ll expect to see you for Sunday dinner tonight. Bring some of that corn you got growing there, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

Alan walked away. Owen, for the life of him, couldn’t wipe the shit-eating grin from his face.

“You’ve got it, sir,” he called after him. Alan turned back around, waved a finger at Owen like he’d broken a rule. “Shit, sorry. You’ve got it, Alan.”

Alan smiled and winked, put his finger to his nose like Owen used to see Santa do in old Christmas films. “Bring that hammer of yours too, son. I’ve got some nails and a shutter I’d like your advice on. Maybe we can put that pounding of yours to some good use. Penske, come.”

Owen nodded, turned the hammer in his hand so the head faced down and shimmied it into his work belt. Penske followed his owner willingly, but kept looking back at his plaything, tail wagging.

Damn, wouldn’t it be nice if life was that simple. Have a frustration, get called away from it, forget about it altogether.

As he cleaned up his work, he thought about the dinner he’d just accepted an invitation to, nervous and excited both. Paige would be okay, but that was all the news he’d had since before her surgery. Now, she was post-surgery, in recovery, and Owen had no idea what to expect.

He glanced at his watch. He recalled from the first family dinner he’d been invited to that their dinners began at five, and it was only just two in the afternoon.

What the hell was he going to do for the next two and a half hours? He looked at the post he’d mutilated and laughed, shaking his head at himself. He supposed he should start by taking out the extra hardware he’d added above and beyond what was necessary and use it to finish the last eight or so feet of fencing. Then he’d shower up and head into town to buy some more nails and screws for the shutter Alan had mentioned. He didn’t want to use the man’s nails if he brought his own tools. It seemed wrong somehow.

He got to it, finishing up the last run of fencing in half the time it had taken him to do a quarter of the length before that. He smiled at his work, noticing how much more productive he was with the motivation of seeing Paige to light a fire under him. She was turning out to be quite the muse—helping keep his nightmares at bay in the darker hours, making him work for his money during the day.

Deciding there wasn’t any time to run into town after all, Owen ran his hands along the stalks of corn ready for harvest. He selected ten ears that looked better than edible—they looked perfect, befitting of the dinner where they would be served. White, round kernels, a sweet aroma that reminded him of the cornmeal his grandmother would knead by hand to make into homemade corn tortillas for her own family dinners.