Moose lifts his head from the floor, watching me like he’s trying to figure out why I’m talking to a cabinet. Daisy glances back and forth between me and the cabinet like she’s waiting for the punchline to whatever ridiculous conversation shejust walked in on. I pull the door open again, slower this time, listening carefully. Still nothing. No creak. No scrape. No metal screaming in protest the way it has every single morning for the last month. My eyes narrow as suspicion starts to settle in. I crouch down and lean closer, running my fingers along the hinge to get a better look. The metal catches the morning light for a second, clean and smooth, the screws seated perfectly into the wood. Brand new. Installed like whoever put it there actually knew what they were doing.
My brain immediately flashes to Cole standing in this exact kitchen two weeks ago, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded while he watched me make coffee. His gaze drifting slowly around the room the way it always does when he’s taking in a new place. Noticing everything. Cataloging everything.
I straighten slowly, staring at the cabinet door like it might confess something if I look hard enough.
“You sneaky son of a bitch,” I mutter.
Moose tilts his head.
“Not you,” I tell him.
He wags his tail anyway.
I take a slow sip of coffee and glance out the kitchen window toward the barn, watching the morning sun stretch across the grass. For two weeks now someone has been slipping onto my property while I’m not here.
Fixing things quietly and carefully, making sure everything works the way it should without leaving anything behind that might point directly to who did it. Whoever’s been doing it never sticks around long enough for me to actually catch them in theact either, which means one of two things is happening here. Either my farm has developed a very helpful ghost that sneaks around at night repairing hinges and gates, or Cole Mercer has been creeping around my property like some kind of extremely large, extremely stubborn raccoon with a toolbelt.
I glance down at Daisy. “You think he’s been out there?” Her tail thumps against the floor. “Yeah,” I sigh. “That’s what I thought.” The thing is… I haven’t actually seen him. Not once.
But sometimes when I pull into the driveway after a shift at the bar, the gravel still looks freshly disturbed like someone drove through not long before I got home.
Sometimes the barn door is slightly open when I know for a fact I shut it before leaving.
Once, just once, I thought I saw a motorcycle disappearing down the road in the distance right as I turned into the driveway.
I stand there staring out the window for a long moment, my fingers wrapped loosely around the coffee mug while the animals move quietly around the kitchen behind me, paws and hooves shifting across the floor like the farm itself is waking up. Because if it is Cole, then he’s been coming out here almost every day for two weeks. Fixing things. Helping me. Without asking. Without showing himself. The thought makes something in my chest tighten a little.
“Why would he do that?” I murmur quietly.
Moose’s tail thumps against the floor again.
“Yeah, yeah,” I tell him.
But the answer is already sitting in the back of my mind whether I want to acknowledge it or not. Because Cole Mercer is the kind of man who fixes things. And if he’s decided something in my life needs fixing, apparently that includes my entire damn farm.
By the timethe third week rolls around, I’m officially done pretending I don’t know what’s going on.
At first it was little things. A fence rail here. A hinge there. Stuff that could almost pass as coincidence if I squinted hard enough and refused to think about it too long. But after nearly three weeks of waking up to find new repairs around the farm like some kind of extremely competent handyman fairy has been sneaking around my property, the list of “coincidences” has gotten a little ridiculous.
And tonight?
Tonight was the final straw.
I pull into my driveway after my shift at the Rusty Nail, tired and smelling like beer and fryer grease, already halfway through planning the fastest possible route to my bed. The headlights sweep across the front of the house and something catches my eye immediately.
The porch swing.
I slam the truck into park and just sit there for a second.
Because the porch swing that’s been hanging crooked for months is suddenly perfectly level. The chains have been replaced. The wood looks sanded and freshly sealed.
I stare at it through the windshield.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I climb out of the truck and walk slowly up the steps, running my fingers along the smooth edge of the swing. The old chain links that used to creak every time I sat down are gone, replaced with thick new ones that glint slightly in the porch light.
The swing doesn’t move when I press on it.
