I look up, surprise cutting through the fatigue.
"Okay," I say, the word coming easier than I expect.
He nods once, then adds, "You handle the left flank. Chace'll take the rear."
It's practical. Efficient. Nothing in his tone suggests it means more than logistics.
It also assumes I'll be there.
I watch him start to turn his horse, the weight of that assumption settling into my chest like something solid. Something earned.
"I'll be there," I say.
He pauses, glances back. Our eyes meet for just a moment—long enough for something to pass between us that doesn't need translation.
Then he rides off.
The horses cool under the cottonwoods, reins looped loose, tack creaking softly as leather relaxes and settles back into itself. Shade pools in uneven patches along the fence line, the late-morning sun already gaining weight overhead. The work is done, but the ranch hasn't gone quiet so much as it's shifted into something looser.
Someone passes around a thermos. Another leans against the rail with a boot hooked up, talking low about nothing in particular. Laughter comes once, then fades. The cattle spread and graze like they've never known anything but this pasture, the ease of them almost insulting after the effort it took to get them here.
I drink slowly, cool water sliding down my throat, and let my body catch up to itself.
My muscles hum with that familiar post-work ache. Not pain. Proof. My hands feel steadier on the bottle than they did when I woke before dawn, the tight edge in my chest finally eased into something quieter. The land feels different under my boots now. Not foreign. Not fragile.
Just solid.
Eli hasn't joined the cluster.
He stands near the gate instead, one hand resting against the post, gaze tracking the cattle with the same focused attention he's carried all morning. He looks like he's already somewhere else. Tomorrow. The next move. The next problem waiting just out of sight.
I hesitate, then approach.
I don't announce myself. I just step into his peripheral vision and stop beside him, close enough to share the quiet without crowding it.
"They settled clean," I say.
"They did." He pauses, then adds without looking at me, "You handled that break clean too. Could've gone sideways."
Something in my chest loosens. "Almost did."
"But it didn't." He glances at me briefly. "You read it right."
The acknowledgment sits between us, simple and solid. More than I expected. Maybe more than he meant to give.
"I can check them in the afternoons," I offer.
He doesn't answer right away. The pause is brief, but I feel it—him weighing something, deciding.
"Yeah," he says finally. "That'd help."
It isn't permission. It's trust.
Something warm settles in my chest. I nod once, accepting it for what it is, and don't push for more.
The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's different than this morning. Easier. Like something between us shifted over thecourse of the day and we're both still figuring out what that means.
"I will see you tomorrow," he says quietly, still watching the pasture. "Same time."
