“Stay inside,” Ethan says from the doorway. His voice is flat and small, the kind careful people use when they’re trying not to break.
I look at him. He’s already in his jacket, dark and solid as the ranch itself. Even soaked through to his collar, his scent threads around me—pine and something iron-strong that makes my breath catch. It’s familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. The pull I felt the night I first arrived is still there: a thrum at the base of me that answers to him. It isn’t romance. It’s older. Deeper. Dangerous.
“Okay,” I say, because the quiet is hungry and I don’t want to feed it.
He narrows his eyes. “Not a maybe.”
I warm the kettle one-handed and tuck the boy tighter. He’s small enough to still trust me to be the safe place. His lashes arewet with sleep; the scrape on his knee peeks through the hole in his jeans. He hiccups, then coughs—soft and rattling. My hand goes to the back of his neck before I think about it.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell him. I don’t say I’m not sure I can afford to be wrong.
Ethan steps closer and the air changes; my skin prickles. “He stays. You stay. No—” He swallows. “No getting in the way if I say so.”
There are a dozen ways to take that. A dozen ways to bridle at being led. I pick the one that keeps the boy safe.
“You sent me here. You know I can do this.” My voice is soft. Firm. The kettle hisses. I tear a strip from a towel and fold it into a makeshift bandage, cold fingers steadying muscle and nerves I don’t have the luxury to think about.
He watches. His jaw ticks like he’s holding something back. His hand hovers at my shoulder and then drops. A private war between wanting to shepherd and wanting to implode runs across his face. He hates losing control, but there’s something in him that hates the thought of a scraped knee more.
He looks up at the kitchen window. Shadows stitch the yard. “Lieutenant’s on edge,” he says. “He doesn’t like?—”
“My being here?” I finish because it’s easier to speak the raw part than let it gnaw at me.
“Yes.” The single syllable has weight. It looks like a warning.
“I’m not here to be pretty,” I answer. “I’m here to work.” The boy glares at me like I just insulted his favorite show.
He snuffles. His name is Jamie. He clings to the towel like it’s a lifeline.
Ethan’s hands find the countertop. For a moment I consider the old rules he clings to: no outsiders, keep the pack closed. I also think of what I ran from—the shouting, the neglect, the day we were told to pack or leave. I don’t want to go back to that. I won’t let anyone take Jamie from me because I can’t keep a quiethouse with no doors. If his presence here is dangerous, I have to be useful.
“I can do drop-offs,” I say. “School. Groceries. I’ll keep him inside your lines. Mornings only if that’s what you want.” I force a smile. It’s a bargain—safety in cash and hours.
He reads me like he’s trying to memorize a map he can’t quite read. “Friday,” he says finally. “Trial. Cash. References tomorrow. Background check.”
I’m used to being judged by the thin paper of my past. I nod. “Fine.”
Murmurs travel like birds—soft bursts of sound that land in the rafters. From the den, a chair scrapes hard against the floor. Miguel, the lieutenant, steps inside like someone entering a storm. He stands behind Ethan, shoulders broad, a silence that threatens. His eyes flick to the boy, to me, then to the closed kitchen door where the rest of the pack lingers, and I can see him tallying risk.
“Nora,” Miguel says. “You’re from town. You know how this place runs?”
I set the kettle down and meet him with even breath. “I do what needs doing.”
That line gets the room’s attention. The boy laughs—a wet little sound—and Miguel’s face softens into something that’s more suspicion than warmth. The pack is a barometer. I can feel the needle shift under my feet.
Ethan steps between us like he’s the last line, and it shouldn’t bother me. It does. He does it without touch, but the space he carves around Jamie includes me. It’s possessive in ways that tighten my ribs.
“You’ll follow my rules,” Ethan tells Miguel as much as me. “If she’s a risk, she’s gone.”
Miguel answers with a grunt. “For the good of the ranch.”
“All right.” Ethan’s voice thins. He looks at me, then at the boy. “Keep him close. No strangers near the house. If you hear a peep, shout.”
“You mean holler?” I ask.
“Shout.” The word makes him smile once, briefly, like it’s ridiculous to argue about hollering in a storm. He’s not testing me for incompetence; he’s testing me for weakness. He equates giving with losing. I make a note.
The day folds into muscle memory. I change the boy’s clothes, wash his hair, and feed him pancakes I burn on purpose because his smile is worth the smell of charred batter. We walk the mile to Willow Ridge Elementary, his hand in mine. Parents nod in the drizzle; a few recognize Ethan. Whispers follow like small dogs. I feel them with every step—hands that want to know the shape of me without asking.
