I flip him off. “Says the man who nearly threw out his shoulder biddin’ on a woman.”
He grins. “Worth it.”
Jane watches the exchange with interest. “So, you’re Tex, he’s Saint, and the big, bearded guy is...?”
“Tank.”
“Tank. Of course.” She nods as if it makes sense. “Call signs?”
I nod. “We were in the same unit. Navy SEALs.”
Jane raises an eyebrow. “Were?”
“When we left the service, we settled at Havenridge Ranch.” I keep my eyes on the road because it's easier to talk without looking directly at her. “It’s a working ranch, but it’s also home to a veterans’ program, a place for guys strugglin’ to find a soft landing.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “And you? Are you struggling?”
The question catches me off guard. People don’t usually ask so directly. “I was,” I reply. “Less now.”
“What changed?”
I glance at her. “I built a lot of fences.”
She snorts. “That’s either a metaphor or the most cowboy thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Both.” I shrug. “Saint and Tank had it worse. They barely made it out of Kandahar. I was the one who carried them.”
The humor drains from her face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Jane is quiet for a moment, then her mouth twitches. “Well, at least I know you’re not a serial killer.”
I huff a laugh as I navigate the snow-laden road toward Havenridge.
“Not a serial killer,” I say. “Just a man who doesn’t sleep much and finds fixing fences comforting.”
Jane’s mouth curves. “You say that like it’s weird.”
“Most people don’t like boundaries. I do. They make sense.”
She tilts her head, studying me like a puzzle. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re just...” She waves her hand dismissively. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
She shrugs. “Someone looking for a project. A woman he could mold into something... easier.”
The word stings. Easier. As if she knows she isn’t.
“Is that how you see yourself?” I ask. “Difficult?”
Her laugh holds a sharp edge. “That’s the polite term.”
I let the silence linger before saying, “I don’t want easier, Jane.”
