“Don’t go far,” Móraí called after me. “Supposed to rain later.”
The front porch wrapped around three sides of the house. I stood against the railing, letting the evening quiet settle around me. Stars were starting to appear—more than I ever saw in LA.The air smelled like hay and horses and the distant threat of rain Móraí had mentioned.
My phone felt heavy in my pocket. I could text Alex, but what would I say? That I was standing on a porch in Wyoming thinking about her while trying not to think about test results that meant I might never be able to give her—or any woman—the future she deserved? If she even wanted it from me.
Instead, I just stood there in the dark, listening to the sound of dishes being washed and family conversation drifting through the windows, feeling more alone than I had since my discharge.
The place that had once felt like a cage now felt like the only place where I could breathe. But even here, surrounded by family who loved me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was moving through someone else’s life—playing a part that wasn’t the right role for me.
What was I even doing with my life?
I woke before sunrise, the living room still dark except for the faint glow of pre-dawn filtering through the curtains. The pullout sofa wasn’t uncomfortable, but my internal clock insisted on maintaining military-time when I least wanted it to. Dom was still fast asleep, snoring on the air mattress. Lucky bastard.
The house was quiet around me. No movement from upstairs, no sounds from the kitchen—just the settling creaks of an old house and the distant lowing of cattle in the pastures.
My phone sat on the side table, dark and silent. No messages from Alex.
I’d checked it twice before falling asleep and once when I’d woken up around two with a headache that took twenty minutes and a glass of water to fade. Nothing. The last text I’d sent her last night after my restraint crumbled—a quick message about how different it felt out here—had gone unanswered.
Maybe she was busy. Maybe she was giving me space to be with family. Maybe she was pulling back because our arrangement hadserved its purpose and now it was just—inconvenient.
I pushed the thought away and pulled on clothes quietly—jeans, work boots, a thermal henley that would still be comfortable when the sun came up. Dad had mentioned during dinner last night that the fence line along the north pasture needed attention, and physical work sounded better than lying here overthinking text messages that weren’t coming.
The kitchen was empty, but Mom had left the coffee maker programmed to start at five. Bless her. I poured a travel mug, grabbed some jerky, and headed outside, Maggie trotting alongside me as we headed to the barn.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of hay and cattle and the promise of a clear day. The mountains rose in a ragged line against the lightening sky, familiar peaks that had been the backdrop of my childhood.
I loaded fence posts and wire into the back of the family work truck, along with the tools I’d need for repairs. Honest work that would keep my hands busy and my mind occupied—labor had always made more sense to me than sitting around talking about feelings.
The fence line ran for nearly two miles along the north edge of the property, separating our grazing land from the forest service boundary. Most of it was in good shape, but winter weather and wandering elk had taken their toll in a few sections. Posts leaning at dangerous angles, wire sagging loose enough for cattle or bison to push through.
I’d been working for about an hour—replacing a rotted post and restringing wire—when I heard a car coming up the road. Too early for guests, too late for any of the ranch hands who lived on the property.
Lou’s blue SUV appeared over the hill, heading toward the lodge.
I kept working, focusing on getting the post level and the wire tension right—hoping my hat and sunglasses would keep me incognito enough that she’d head straight to the lodge office and I could avoid any awkward small talk.
No such luck.
The vehicle slowed as it passed my section of fence, then pulled over onto the shoulder. Lou climbed out, already dressed for work in jeans and a North Star Ranch polo shirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail.
“Hey, Finn,” she called out, walking over with her classic easy confidence. “You’re up early.”
“Fence won’t fix itself,” I replied, not looking up from adjusting the wire stretcher. “Mornin’, Lou.”
“How was your first night back?”
“Good. Quiet.” I tested the wire tension, found it acceptable, and moved to secure it to the post. “How’s Penny?”
“Excited about whatever you brought her from California,” Lou’s smile was warm but came with the same tone she’d used since telling me she was engaged to Hank Clay eight years ago. Friendly but no longer familiar. “She’s been asking about Uncle Finn since yesterday.”
“Tell her I didn’t forget.” I’d picked up a small stuffed seal from the Santa Monica Pier gift shop—figured a six-year-old would appreciate something soft and silly.
“I will,” she watched me work for a moment, then added, “It’s good to see you lookin’…settled. Healthier.”
I glanced up at the cautious way she said it. Lou had known me since we were kids—she could read my moods better than most people. If she thought I looked settled, I was doing a better job hiding my mental state than I thought.
“Gettin’ there,” I hitched a smile.
