"Jack!" Daddy's voice boomed across the yard. "Glad you could make it. Come on over, grab a plate."
My whole body went rigid.
I'd known he was coming. Daddy had mentioned it at breakfast—something about wanting the new hand to feel welcome, to integrate with the family, to understand that Blackwood Ranch was more than just a job. I'd nodded and smiled and said something appropriate while internally constructing an escape route.
Jack at family dinner meant Jack ten feet from me for the next three hours, being charming and competent and fitting in with my family while I pretended I didn't know what his hands felt like on my skin.
I watched him cross the yard with Sully at his heels, shaking Daddy's hand, accepting the beer Wyatt offered, saying something that made Clay laugh and Hunter crack a rare smile. He moved through my family like he belonged—easy, unhurried, none of the awkwardness you'd expect from a new employee crashing a private gathering.
He was good at this. Too good.
Momma watched him from the kitchen window. I could feel her assessing—the way she assessed everything, cataloging details, forming opinions she'd share on her own timeline. Then she turned to me.
"Maggie, we need another place setting. Use the good plate, not the everyday."
"Momma, he doesn't care if it’s a good plate."
"Everyone who eats at my table gets a good plate." Her tone left zero room for discussion. "Set it between Clay and your father. And bring out the extra cornbread—I made a double batch."
She'd made a double batch. She'd known he was coming, and she'd made extra.
I set the place without comment.
"Jack cleans up nice," Ivy murmured, appearing at my elbow as I smoothed the napkin.
"I hadn't noticed."
"Liar." She bumped my shoulder with hers. "If I weren't in love with your brother, I might notice those shoulders myself."
"Please stop talking."
She grinned and wandered off to help Stephanie with the glasses, leaving me alone with my plate-setting and my rapidly deteriorating composure.
Dinner was served when Momma said it was served, which was when the brisket had rested to her exact specifications, and the cornbread had cooled enough to slice without crumbling. She directed the plating like a symphony conductor—this platter here, that bowl there, brisket sliced against the grain in quarter-inch pieces because anything thicker is a crime against cattle, Owen.
Sophia had changed into jeans and a clean shirt and claimed the seat next to Momma, already on her second glass of wine. I ended up wedged between Hunter and Stephanie, across from Momma, with Jack positioned at the far end between Clay and Daddy.
Far enough away that we wouldn't have to make conversation.
Close enough that I could see every expression that crossed his face.
"So, Jack," Clay said, loading his plate with enough brisket to feed three men. "Dad says you grew up on a ranch in Montana. What brought you all the way to Texas?"
I tensed.
But Jack just shrugged, easy and unbothered. "Work led me south. I have a buddy over in Wild Creek, Emmett Hayes, and he had good things about the operations over here. Seemed like the right time."
"Montana's gorgeous country, though." Daddy, who'd never met a geographical discussion he didn't want to have. "Spent some time up there in my younger days. Big sky, good people."
"It is," Jack agreed. Something shifted in his voice—subtle, a note I recognized from the truck, from the silence after the screen door story. "But sometimes you need distance from the places that shaped you."
I knew what lived underneath that sentence. The Bitterroot Valley. Clearwater Ranch. Sarah, who'd been the real horse person. A screen door that still banged in the wind because nobody was left to fix it.
I looked at my plate and said nothing.
"Well, Texas is lucky to have you," Momma said, and her voice had that warmth she reserved for people who'd passed some invisible test. "From what Owen tells me, you're quite the horseman."
"I do my best, ma'am."
