"He's kept things moving," Mae continues. "He's careful. He plans. He stretches every dollar farther than most people would." She shakes her head. "This isn't about him."
I absorb that. Let it settle. The image of Eli in the corral earlier flickers through my mind. Calm. Focused. Holding tension without letting it turn sharp. The way he stepped back when I invited him to dinner—like he knew better than to let things get easy between us.
"So it's timing," I say.
Mae nods. "Mostly. When things move on schedule, we're fine. When they don't..." She trails off. "It narrows fast."
I sit back in my chair. I don't say what I'm thinking yet. About the pasture. The cattle. The way the days have felt compressed lately, like everything is leaning toward a deadline no one has named.
Mae reaches across the table and touches my wrist briefly. Not pleading. Just grounding.
"I didn't want this on you. Not right when you got back."
I cover her hand with mine. "It's not."
Mae studies me, then nods. "Good."
We eat then, quietly. The food is good. Familiar. But the air between us has shifted. The door Mae opened doesn't slam wide. It just stays ajar, letting in a draft I can't ignore anymore.
And I don't want to.
The silence stretches longer than comfortable.
I hear myself speak before I've fully decided to.
"What can I do?"
The words come out even. Practical. Like I'm asking where the extra towels are kept or whether Mae needs help clearing the table. No drama. No promise wrapped inside it. Just a question with weight to it.
Mae looks at me then. Not quickly. Not with surprise. She studies me the way she always has when something important is on the table, gaze sharp and searching, like she's looking past the words to whatever sits underneath them.
Mae doesn't answer right away. She leans back in her chair, fingers lacing together, considering.
"I didn't want you worrying about all this," Mae says finally. Voice gentle but firm. "Not yet. You've got enough to figure out without the ranch stuff too."
I rest my forearms on the table. I don't argue. Don't rush to soften the moment.
"It's my worry if I'm here," I say quietly.
Mae's brow furrows.
"And I'm here."
Mae searches my face. Not for guilt. Not for obligation. For intention.
I don't offer sympathy. I don't frame it as helping out or easing a burden. I don't promise to fix anything. I'm offering capacity. Time. Attention. A set of hands that knows the land well enough not to slow things down.
Something shifts.
Mae's shoulders ease a fraction. Not relief. Acceptance.
She nods once. A single, decisive motion.
"Alright," she says.
It isn't permission. It's acknowledgment.
I feel it in the way the air changes between us. In the way Mae's gaze lingers now without caution, measuring me not as someone passing through, but as someone standing in place.
