By the time I finish the last stall, the ache in my arms has settled into something steady. My breath evens out. The tightness in my chest loosens just enough to make room. I lean the pitchfork against the wall and stand there for a moment, hands on my hips, breathing in the barn air.
I'm not hiding. I'm not waiting to be invited.
I'm working.
And for today, that's enough.
***
I'm halfway to the feed shed when my phone buzzes again.
This time I stop and pull it out. Three texts from Lauren. Two from Marcus. A calendar reminder about Monday's presentation. An email notification with "URGENT" in the subject line.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Denver feels distant. Not just in miles, but in relevance. The ranch surrounds me—real and immediate and impossible to ignore. Problems that can't be solved with a pivot table. People who won't wait for me to schedule them into my calendar. But Denver is still my life. My apartment. My job. My carefully constructed routine that makes sense in a way this place hasn't in five years.
I type out a quick response to Lauren:Family emergency with the ranch. Going to need three more weeks minimum. Will stay in touch on urgent items but need to be offline for most of it.
It's not a lie. It's also not the whole truth. I hit send before I can overthink it and pocket the phone again.
I push away from the wall and scan the yard, looking for the next task. My eyes catch on the gate down the far fence line—the way it hangs slightly crooked, one hinge sagging.
Good. Work I can fix.
I head toward it, boots crunching over gravel. The gate down the line is crooked, one hinge sagging just enough to throw the alignment off. I crouch to inspect it, fingers testing the loosened bolts, already cataloging what it'll take to fix.
Wrench. New hardware. An hour, maybe two.
I'm about to head back for tools when a shadow crosses the ground beside me.
I don't need to look up to know who it is.
A wrench appears at eye level, held steady.
I pause, then take it. Our fingers brush—just once, a brief and unmistakable contact. Skin against skin. We both go still.
The wrench feels suddenly heavier in my hand. I swallow and focus on the bolt in front of me, forcing my attention downward. I loosen it carefully, metal creaking in protest.
Eli kneels beside me without a word and reaches for the gate. He holds it steady, and I catch the flex of muscle in his forearms as he takes the weight. We work in silence, movements falling into the old rhythm—precise, coordinated, effortless.
I adjust the hinge. Eli shifts his grip.
Our shoulders brush.
My breath hitches, barely audible. I steady it again and tighten the bolt, fingers firm despite the tremor that wants to creep in.
Eli releases the gate slowly, testing the balance. It swings clean this time, settling into place with a soft click. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't acknowledge the moment at all. He stands, dusts his hands off on his jeans, and steps back. For half a second, his eyes meet mine. Something flickers there—not anger, not coldness. Something that looks almost like regret before he shuts it down and turns away. Professional. Controlled. Devastating.
I stand, wrench still in my hand. I turn to the gate once more, confirming the fix, and nod to myself.
When I look up, he's already walking away. No pause. No glance back.
I stand there a second longer than necessary, the quiet ringing in my ears louder than the ranch sounds around me. His silence hurts more than his anger did last night. At least his anger wassomething—hot and real and directed at me. This distance is worse. It's a door closing. A decision made.
He's already decided I'm leaving. And the worst part is, he's probably right.
I carry the wrench back to the shed and set it where it belongs, aligning it neatly with the others. My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don't check it.
I check on the colt before heading to the feed shed. He lifts his head when I approach, ears forward instead of pinned. Progress. Small, but real.
