He came in and leaned against the workbench. Hank had managed ranches since he was nineteen, and had exactly two modes: quiet competence and quiet concern. This was the second one.
“Ran into Denise at the feed store this morning,” he said.
“Okay.”
“She was talking to Bill Edmond. About you.”
I kept working the bridle. “What about?”
“Your situation.” Hank said the word slowly, like he was handling something fragile. “The insurance, the bookings, the photographers. She wasn’t being mean about it. She was framing it like she was worried. But Bill was nodding along like he was hearing details he shouldn’t.”
I looked up. “Denise talks to people in town. She’s been my business partner for five years. People ask her how I’m doing and she tells them.”
“I know that.” Hank met my eyes. “I just thought you should know she’s doing it. Because people are forming opinions based on what she’s saying, and I’m not sure all of it is... balanced.”
“What does that mean?”
Hank was quiet for a moment, choosing his words the way he chose everything. Deliberately.
“It means Bill Edmond asked me if it was true that you’d been ‘neglecting the books for months.’ Those were his words. And the only person who could have given him that impression is someone who knows the books.”
I set the bridle down.
“Denise is worried,” I said. “She’s processing this too. She brought Taylor onto the ranch. She feels responsible.”
“I’m sure she does.” Hank pushed off the workbench. “Just thought you should know.” He paused at the door. “You know I don’t stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong. But this doesn’t sit right with me.”
He left.
I picked up the bridle and went back to cleaning it. My hands were steady. The rest of me was not.
This doesn’t sit right with me.
I told myself Hank was being protective. That he’d never liked Denise much, too polished, too corporate for his taste. That he was reading malice into what was just a scared friend processing a crisis.
I told myself that.
I didn’t quite believe it.
Dr. Carlisle’soffice smelled like lavender and quiet judgement.
“So,” she said, settling into her chair with her notepad and the calm expression of someone who’d heard it all. “Catch me up. Last time we talked, you were worried about a group of Scottish tourists arriving.”
“Right. About that.”
I gave her the highlights. The cabin break-in that wasn’t a break-in. The YouTuber who wasn’t just a YouTuber. The embezzlement. The insurance. The photographers camped outside my property line who’d taken approximately four hundred photos of me carrying hay bales in sweatpants.
Dr. Carlisle’s pen moved steadily across her notepad. When I finished, she looked up.
“And you slept with him.”
“That’s your takeaway?”
“I’m prioritizing.” She crossed her legs. “You slept with the man who lied to you about his identity, and now you’re losing your ranch, and you’re sitting in my office looking like you haven’t slept in a week. I’m trying to figure out which crisis to address first.”
“All of them. Address all of them.”
“Rose.”
