I exhale slowly and turn back to the task in front of me. I pull out my phone and check the message thread with Lauren.
Lauren:Got your message. Three weeks is fine. Keep me posted on anything urgent. Take care of your family.
Relief loosens something in my chest. I didn't realize how much I'd been bracing for pushback until I didn't get it.
Five years of never missing a deadline, of being the one they could count on—it bought me this.
I type back:Thanks. I appreciate it.
Three weeks. I've bought myself three weeks.
I slip the phone away and get back to work.
The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the yard. I finish the last task on my mental list and stand there for a moment, taking in the quiet. Cows shift in the pasture. A breeze stirs the grass along the fence line. Somewhere, a board creaks as it settles into place.
The ranch doesn't feel like it's opened its arms to me.
But it hasn't shut me out either.
I roll my shoulders and head toward the house, boots crunching over gravel. Mae's truck still isn't back. The conversationwe need to have looms somewhere on the horizon—Cole's offers, her lies, what happens next.
But that can wait until tonight.
Three weeks to figure out what this place needs and whether I'm the one who can give it.
That's a question for later.
Right now, there's work waiting for me tomorrow. And I'll be here to do it.
Chapter eight
Hazel
The porch boards creak softly as I step out and ease myself into the chair beside Mae.
The day is cooling fast, heat bleeding out of the land as the sun slides lower behind the hills. Light stretches across the pasture, catching on fence wire and tall grass before slipping away. The ranch sounds different at this hour—quieter, but not asleep. A gate clangs somewhere down the line. Hooves shift in the distance. The slow exhale of a place winding down.
Mae sits with her elbows on her knees, hands wrapped around a chipped mug. She doesn't look over right away.
I let the moment breathe.
"I fixed the gate on the far pasture today," I say eventually, keeping my voice light. "The hinge was sagging. It swings clean now."
Mae nods once. "Good."
"Restacked feed too. Chace helped." I shift my weight, the wood warm beneath my palms. "Got most of it out of the heat."
"Good," Mae says again, the word worn but genuine.
We sit in silence for a while, watching the light change. This porch has held a thousand evenings just like this—some loud, some quiet, all of them layered with the comfort of routine. It still feels like home. Just thinner somehow, like something vital has been worn away.
"The place looks like it's holding together," I say, my eyes tracing the fence line. "At least on the surface."
Mae's mouth tips up at one corner. Not a smile exactly. "Most days."
The breeze picks up, cool against my skin. I lean back in my chair, listening to it move through the grass, the trees. Waiting.
Mae takes a sip of her coffee and sets the mug down carefully on the railing. The space between us shifts—not sharply, not unkindly—just enough to signal the end of small talk.
