"What happened?"
"Mouse." She didn't look up, her focus locked on the narrow gap between the cabinet and the wall. "I saw it go under there about thirty seconds ago."
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her adjust her grip on the jar. Her movements were slow and careful, like she'd done this before.
"You want some help?"
"No." She shifted her weight, angling the jar toward the gap. "If you move, it'll spook and run the other direction."
I stayed still.
She waited. Then, in one smooth motion, she swept the towel along the baseboard and brought the jar down fast. The mouse darted right into it, and she slid a piece of cardboard underneath before it could escape.
"Gotcha!" She got to her feet and carried the jar to the back door.
I followed, stepping outside while she walked halfway to the tree line before kneeling and tipping the jar over.
When she came back inside, she brushed the flour off her shirt like catching a mouse was just another normal part of her day. The Claire I remembered from high school had always seemed untouchable. This version… with her hair loose, cheeks flushed, and sleeves rolled up… was a hell of a lot harder to ignore.
She caught me staring and cocked her head. "What?"
"Nothing." I couldn't quite keep the smile off my face. "Just didn't figure you for the catch-and-release type."
"It's a mouse, not a threat." She crossed to the sink and washed her hands. "Besides, it was probably more scared than I was."
I thought about the untouchable Hollister girl I'd known in high school. The one who'd walked through the halls like she was carved from something colder than the rest of us. Turned out, maybe she'd just been a little guarded.
This version of Claire—sleeves rolled up, flour on her shirt, handling her own problems without flinching—this was real. And I liked her more than I had any right to.
She dried her hands and turned to face me. "So. Did you drive all the way out here to watch me wrangle rodents, or was there something else?"
"I went to see Dawson."
Her expression shifted, the lightness fading into something serious. "About the rodeo?"
"About the breeding records." I pulled out my phone and found the screenshot I'd taken of the ledger page before leaving Wilde Creek. "He's been going through old stock documents for the deadline. Found some entries that don't line up with what people say about the feud."
I handed her the phone.
She studied the image, her brow furrowing as she traced the entries with her fingertip. A crease appeared between her brows when she was concentrating. I didn’t remember noticing that in high school. Then again, back then I hadn’t been lucky enough to ever stand this close.
"1911 through 1914. Hollister and Kincaid horses listed together."
"Shared breeding," I said. "Shared work. The families weren't completely divided yet."
"But everyone says the feud started before that."
"Maybe it did. But it wasn't a clean break. Not right away."
She zoomed in on the March 1912 entry, then looked up at me. "That's the same year as the missing file from Aunt Lois's records."
"I know."
"And two years before the cooperation stopped completely." She handed the phone back, her jaw tight. "Something happened in 1914. Something that ended whatever partnership they'd had."
"Looks that way."
She crossed her arms, staring at the phone screen like she could pull answers out of it through sheer will. "Lois was cross-referencing that transfer for a reason. If the families were still working together in 1912, maybe that land wasn't stolen. Maybe it was shared."
