"That's not what I asked."
"I'm fine, Cal."
"You almost walked into a ceiling collapse." He crossed his arms, positioning himself so I couldn't avoid his eyes. "You're not fine. You're running yourself into the ground, and if you keep going like this, you're going to get someone killed. Probably yourself."
The words landed like a fist to the solar plexus. I opened my mouth to argue, to deflect, to do anything except sit there and admit he was right.
Cal cut me off before I could start.
"You don't have to do it all alone, man." His voice was quieter now, the captain giving way to the friend. His mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Sound familiar? Pretty sure some idiot told me the same thing once. Back when I was spinning out over Lucy and convinced I had to fix everything myself."
It had sounded easy then. Advice travels light when it isn’t yours to carry.
I’d been raised to handle things myself. Ranch kid. Cowboy logic. You fix what breaks. You protect what’s yours. You don’t complain, don’t ask, don’t wait for backup unless there’s no other choice. Strength meant staying upright and silent, even when your legs shook. Especially then.
That kind of teaching sticks. It follows you into fires and marriages and promises you haven’t figured out how to keep yet.
“What if I’m not enough?”
The words slipped out before I could rein them in. Bare. Unpolished. Not how I liked to sound.
That doubt had been with me longer than I cared to admit. Cowboy logic cuts both ways—you’re taught to be strong, capable, self-reliant, the one who holds the line. But there’s an unspoken second lesson in there too: if something breaks, if someone leaves, it’s because you didn’t measure up. Because you should’ve been tougher. Better. More.
I’d spent a lifetime trying to match an outline I was handed and always feeling just a little short of it.
“The ranch. The job.” My voice dropped. “Riley and Mia. What if I can’t be what they need?”
Cal was quiet for a moment, leaning against the engine, considering.
"You remember what else you told me? That showing up is the thing. Not being perfect. Not having all the answers. Just showing up, every day, even when you're tired. Even when you're scared."
I remembered. I'd believed it when I said it.
"They're not asking you to be everything," Cal continued. "Riley and Mia. They’re just asking you to be there. And to do what needs doing." He shrugged. "You can do that. But not if you run yourself into the ground trying to prove you don't need anyone."
I nodded slowly. I wasn’t sure I believed it yet—or that I trusted myself enough to carry that kind of responsibility without dropping it.
The voice in my head, the one that sounded like every Murphy man who'd come before me, was still insisting that needing help meant failing. That real men handled their business without complaint.
But Cal had been where I was. Cal had learned to let people in, to accept that strength wasn't the same as isolation.
If he could do it, maybe I could too.
Cal clapped a hand on my shoulder, firm and final, already moving past me.
“Get some sleep. That’s an order.”
"Yes, Cap."
He paused at the door. "And Liam? Talk to her. Riley. You don't have to pretend you've got it all figured out. Trust me on that one."
He was gone before I could respond.
Evening feed. The sun was setting over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and I couldn't appreciate any of it.
My hands were clumsy with exhaustion, fumbling with latches and handles I'd been working since I was old enoughto walk. The grain bucket felt heavier than it should, my arms weak, my coordination shot.
I reached for Ranger’s stall door and misjudged the distance. The bucket tipped, slid free of my fingers.
