Tex rides beside me—not crowding, not leaving me behind. The mare keeps pace easily, her breath steaming.
“You feel better?”
“Yeah,” I say, then add, because I can't help myself, “I’m still never touching a cigar again.”
“Probably for the best.”
“I could’ve handled it,” I mutter.
Tex’s gaze slides to mine. “You didn’t need to.”
I look away quickly, staring at the field as if it’s suddenly fascinating.
“Do you always say things like that?” I ask. “Or are you just in a ‘make Jane emotional’ mood?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You make yourself emotional.”
“Rude.”
“True.”
I glare at him. He looks back, unbothered.
It’s infuriating. And oddly grounding. My brothers would have softened that, changed the subject, and made it okay. Tex just states facts. He’s not intimidated by my sharp edges. He’s not asking me to sand them down.
We reach the fence line, and sure enough, one section is sagging. The wire is stretched, and a post is snapped clean at the base.
Tex dismounts first to assess it, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. I dismount too, the mare standing calmly beside me.
“What hit it?” I ask.
“Could’ve been deer,” he says. “Could’ve been a bull. Either way, we fix it.”
He pulls pliers, wire cutters, and a mallet from his saddlebag. Everything neat and prepared.
I crouch by the broken post, testing it. “This post is rotten. See the grain? It’s been soft for a while.”
Tex’s gaze flicks to it. “Yeah.”
“You’re going to replace the whole thing, not patch it,” I add.
He watches me for a beat. “You tellin’ me how to do my job?”
“I’m preventing you from doing it wrong,” I say sweetly.
His mouth twitches. “Bossy.”
“Competent,” I shoot back.
That makes his eyes go darker, and my stomach flips again.
We work together like we did yesterday, Tex cutting the wire while I brace the new post. The physical labor makes my body hum with purpose. My hands grow cold, my cheeks burn, and my muscles warm.
This is what I need: movement, a task, something to occupy my hands so my mind can quiet down. I’ve never been able to sit still, not because I don’t want to, but because stillness is loud. Work is quiet.
Being close to him is dangerous. Our shoulders brush, our knees bump, his breath fogging in the air. I watch the way his handsgrip the post, his forearms flexing, how his jaw tightens in concentration.
And my body responds.
