Owen's expression didn't change—no anger, no surprise. Just that quiet assessment I'd come to recognize as pure Blackwood.
"How long?"
"Few weeks. Since before I started here, if we're being honest."
His eyebrows rose slightly. "Wild Creek?"
I nodded.
"Huh." He took another drink, processing. Then—and I swear I didn't imagine it—the faintest flicker of amusement. "That explains the look on her face at the rodeo when she saw you standing in the arena."
I almost smiled. "She handled it well."
"Maggie handles everything well. That's not the same as being okay."
Owen leaned forward, elbows on his knees, beer dangling between his hands.
"She know you're telling me this?"
"No. And I'm not asking your permission. I'm just not going to lie to you when you ask a direct question."
Something shifted in his expression—respect, maybe. "Fair enough."
"What happened today changed things," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I can't pretend I'm just another ranch hand anymore. Not after that. But I want you to know—I'm not going to push her. I'm not going to undermine her authority or make her feel like she owes me something because of what happened in that creek bed." I paused. "Maggie sets the pace. She always has. I'm just making it clear I'm not going anywhere."
Owen studied me for a long moment. "You know what my daughter needs?" he asked.
"I think so.” Hoped so.
"Tell me."
"She needs someone who doesn't treat her strength like a problem to solve. Who doesn't ask her to be less so he can feel like more." The words came from somewhere honest, somewhere I hadn't planned to open. "She needs someone who sees all of it—the control, the fire, the way she carries this family on her back—and wants her because of it, not in spite of it."
Owen was quiet for a long time.
Then the corner of his mouth tugged up—not quite a smile, but close.
"My daughter is a strong cup of coffee, Jack." He shook his head, something between pride and sympathy in his expression. "I love her more than my own life, but I'm not going to pretend she's easy."
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "No, sir. She is not."
Owen chuckled—a real one, low and warm, the sound of a man who'd been married to Louisa Blackwood for forty years and knew exactly what he was talking about.
"Good luck. You're going to need it."
He finished his beer and stood, slowly. The humor faded, and what replaced it was something quieter. Serious.
"Don't hurt her, Jack. She's tougher than all four of her brothers combined, but she's been hurt before, and I won't watch it happen again." His voice was even, almost conversational, which made the weight of it land harder. "Are we clear?"
"Crystal."
Owen nodded once.
"Finish your beer, son. Then come up to the house—Lou's making enough food to feed the county, and you look like you haven't eaten since dawn."
He walked away. Slow, unhurried, a man who'd said his piece and was satisfied with what he'd heard.
Sully's tail thumped against the dirt.
