“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
She pulled two glasses from the cupboard—real glass, not plastic—and filled them from the tap. She handed me one, cold and wet, and I drained it in two gulps.
“You always work this hard?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Only way I know how.”
The silence dragged on for several seconds. I was done here.
“Well, try to keep the place standing.” I grabbed my toolbox and tipped my hat and walked out the door.
I told myself I was done with her for now. Not forever, but she wasn’t ready at this moment. I needed to keep my distance. But three hours later, patching barbed wire under the noon sun, her scent was still in my nose. Lemon and wildflower, the memory of her voice ringing in my ears. The way she’d watched me work, arms folded, eyes half-lidded and sharp. The way her tank top rode up when she reached for a glass, showing a strip of stomach so pale it made my mouth go dry. The words on her shirt—“I look better bent over a book”—crawled through my head, setting off a low, stubborn heat that wouldn’t die.
It was nearly evening when Bronc called again.
“Door’s still sticking,” he said, not even bothering with hello. “Nanette says you didn’t fixit right.”
I gripped the phone so hard the casing creaked. “The fuck? Maybe she should try fixing it herself.”
He chuckled, low and dark. “You know the drill. Get it done, Gunner.”
The line clicked dead before I could answer.
I washed up this time. Changed into a fresh shirt, pulled my boots back on, and grabbed the toolbox. On the way across the road, I caught my reflection in the shop window. The circles under my eyes were darker, my hair wild, but my jaw looked set hard enough to crack stone. I didn’t know how long I could keep this up.
When I got to the porch, the sun was dropping behind the pecans, painting the house gold and pink. The geraniums had wilted, and the screen door hung even lower than before. I knocked once, harder than necessary. Again, Nanette’s car was not in the driveway.
This time, she opened up right away. The same shorts, the same tank, but now she wore a bandana tied around her head, blue and gold. There was a smear of graphite on one cheek, like she’d wiped sweat away with the back of her hand while sketching.
“Wyatt Earp,” she said, voice deadpan. “Back for more?”
She did it on purpose, using a bullshit cowboy name. I felt the tick in my jaw, the pulse jump in my neck.
“Door still sticks,” I said. “Alpha says to fix it. Don’t understand what’s happening here. It was fine when I left.” I eyed her accusingly.
She grinned, slow and infuriating. “Well, come on in, Wyatt. I wouldn’t want to get shot for insubordination.”
“Enough of that. Earp wasn’t a cowboy. Don’t confuse him with me, sweetheart.” I brushed past her to the back door.
The kitchen was brighter now, evening light slanting across the counter and turning the lemon glass on the windowsill to gold. The back door was closed, but I could see from ten feet away what the problem was: the wood frame had swollen with the humidity, bowed out so the latch didn’t line up. It wasn’t the kind of job you could fix with a screwdriver.I’d need to shave the edge down, plane it, maybe even reset the whole hinge. Hell, the entire door frame might need to be replaced.
Brie was already in the next room, perched on the edge of the old upright piano bench, bare legs dangling. She held a sketchbook, but her eyes were on me, not the page.
I got to work, running my hand over the frame, feeling for the worst of the swell. I pulled a tape from the box and measured, made a mark with a carpenter’s pencil, and then set the door loose from its hinges.
She watched, silent, for a minute. Then: “You always this… competent?”
“You have no idea, honey,” I said, not looking up.
She made a little noise, part laugh, part huff. “Must be nice. Knowing what you’re good at.”
I took the door outside to the porch and laid it across two sawhorses. The house was quiet except for the creak of floorboards and the low hum of the old fridge. I ran a block plane down the high edge, the thin curls of wood falling in neat spirals onto the porch. The rhythm of the work calmed me, or maybe it just numbed everything else.
She came out after a minute, barefoot, still holding the sketchbook.
“You like working with your hands?” she asked, sitting cross-legged on the step.
I shrugged. “It’s a living.”
