The door is Earl’s territory. The yard is mine.
Lockhart steps out of his truck like a man stepping onto a stage.
Tall. Lean. Silver-templed in a way that looks expensive rather than old.
He’s wearing pressed Wranglers and a starched white shirt and a Stetson that probably cost more than my farrier rig, and he’s carrying a casserole dish covered in foil.
Because of course he is.
“Evening,” he says. Tips the hat. Smiles.
The smile is the most dangerous thing about him—warm, genuine, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes you feel like you’re the most important person in his world.
It’s a smile that closes deals and wins elections and convinces old men to sign away land their grandfathers died for.
I know this smile.
I grew up with a man who had one just like it.
My father could charm the skin off a snake when he wanted something, and the wanting was always the tell.
Wade Lockhart wants something, and no amount of casserole is going to make me forget that.
“Mr. Lockhart.”
“Wade, please.” He holds up the dish. “King Ranch chicken. My housekeeper makes it. Figured Earl might appreciate a home-cooked meal.”
“Earl has home-cooked meals. I cook for him every night.”
The smile doesn’t waver. “Of course. I just wanted to check in. Heard he’s been under the weather.”
Under the weather.
Like cancer is a cold.
Like chemotherapy is a case of the sniffles.
The casual minimization of what’s happening to Earl sets my teeth on edge, but I keep my face neutral because Rose taught me that—how to hold my expression when what I really want to do is put my fist through something.
Rose was the diplomat.
I was the one she had to pull back from bar fights.
“He’s resting,” I say. “I’ll make sure he gets the casserole.”
I extend my hand for the dish.
Clear dismissal.
A reasonable person would hand it over and leave.
Lockhart doesn’t hand it over.
He holds it just out of comfortable reach, which forces me to either step toward him or wait.
A small power play. The kind that looks like nothing if you’re not paying attention.
I’m paying attention.
