She looks up at me then, and for a second she's unguarded. That smile she used to give me when something went right and she wanted me to see it first. It spreads slowly, like she's trying not to let it show too much, but the pride leaks through anyway.
For a second, she looks lighter. Not careless. Just present.
I feel it land low in my chest.
"You always had a feel for this," I say before I think better of it. I nod toward the colt, calm now beside her. "Just like your dad."
The shift is immediate.
Her smile doesn't disappear, but it falters, like a muscle that catches unexpectedly. Her gaze drops to the dirt at her feet. Not dramatic. Just enough. I see it pass across her features, that brief, private grief she never announces. The kind that shows up in the smallest ways. A tightening around the mouth. A breath taken a little too carefully.
She swallows.
"Yeah," she says softly.
For a moment, I wish I hadn't said it. Not because it isn't true, but because some truths carry weight whether you mean them to or not.
Then she adjusts her stance, grounding herself the way she always has. She brushes her hands together, dusting off nothing, and lifts her head again. The sadness doesn't vanish, but it settles. Makes room for something else.
She's quiet for a beat, gaze drifting out toward the pasture where the land rolls open and wide.
"I've been thinking about the ranch," she says finally. "About what it used to be. What it could be again."
I still.
She keeps going, eyes on the horizon. "I want to understand how it all worked. What Dad built here. The whole operation."
I study her then. Really study her.
The way she's speaking now isn't casual. It isn't reactive. It's deliberate. She's thinking ahead. Planning.
"Good," I say. The word is simple, but I mean it. "That'll help."
She glances back at me. "You think people would come back? If we rebuilt what he had?"
"Maybe," I reply. "Better to know what you have before someone tries to take it."
She nods, absorbing that. "That's what I figured."
She's quiet for another beat, then adds, "I'm going to go through his notebooks. The ones in his office. See what he kept track of. Maps. Rotations. Anything that might help."
Something eases in my chest at that. Respect, mostly.
"He was thorough," I say. "If anyone kept notes, it was him."
"That's what I'm hoping."
I nod once. "If you want another set of eyes, let me know."
She looks at me then, full-on. The gratitude there isn't dramatic. Just real. The kind that doesn't need words to make it bigger than it is.
"Thank you," she says.
Her smile comes back, softer this time, quieter, but no less warm. It hits me the same way it always has—like something I misplaced and only just realized I'd been missing.
She glances toward the house, the porch light just starting to glow as the sun dips lower. "I should probably head in. Help Mae with dinner."
"Yeah. She'll put you to work."
