Page 19 of Wicked Cowboy
This morning it doesn’t.
I run new wire along the north line where the storm bowed posts toward the creek. Staple, pull, set. The rhythm should settle me. Instead, it winds me tighter. Every creak of cedarreminds me of the barn last night. Every catch of sunlight on the wire is her laugh cutting through the crowd. I bend, set another staple, hear her voice anyway:I’m not afraid of hard. I’m good at it.
I told her to rest. Told myself I was being kind. The lie sits sour. She didn’t need a blanket and a nap; she needed the truth and a place to set it down. I gave her half.
By mid-morning, the sun has burned the fog away. I walk the last quarter mile with my hat pulled low and my hands uselessly empty.
I hear the ATV before I see it. Luke kills the engine and coasts to a stop with a spray of gravel that’ll make me fix another patch of road later.
“Fence looks good,” he says, hopping off. “Only took you six hours to do a three-hour job.”
“Morning to you, too.”
He squints up at the sky, hands on his hips. “Feels different today.”
“That right?”
“Yep.” He toes a leftover staple with his boot.
“Luke.”
“What?” He digs a thermos from his pack and waves it. “Peace offering. Grandma said you ‘forgot how to hydrate.’ Her words.”
I take it despite myself. Coffee hits my tongue hot and sweet, and my shoulders drop a fraction. Damn him for knowing what I needed.
He leans against the post and watches me over the rim of his own cup. “You gonna pretend nothing is happening here? That last night didn’t change things?”
“I drove the tractor, hauled kids around, didn’t hurt anyone—”
“Not the Haunt,” he says, patient in the way only a younger brother can be when he’s about to be a problem. “Her.”
I take another drink and aim for neutral. “She’s a tourist.”
“Uh-huh. And Grandma’s a nun.”
“Are you here to help or drive me crazy?”
“I can multitask.” He tips his head, eyes softer now. “You were alive last night, Rhett. Not just functional. Present. I haven’t seen that in a while.”
“You want me to clap for myself?”
“Nope. I want you to stop acting like caring about someone is impossible.” He taps the post.
“I know it’s not impossible, but it’s not something I can do.”
He sips, lets the quiet settle. “You still carrying the thing with—” He doesn’t say her name. He doesn’t have to. “—like a backpack full of rocks?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.” He shrugs, at ease. “I’m just saying, she left. That’s on her. Not you. You didn’t choose the ranchoversomeone.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It isn’t.” He kicks off the post and dusts his hands. “Besides, this one isn’t asking you to pick. She’s asking you to be honest.” He nods toward the house. “Maybe try it.”
“I was honest this morning.”
“You were scared this morning.” He smiles without teeth. “Happens to the best of us.”