He nodded, then stared down into his coffee, as if the answers to all his questions might be floating there. “You got any... preferences, as far as work goes?”
The question felt loaded. My mind flashed with a thousand worst-case scenarios: Was he going to make me clean up after the horses? Cook every meal, every day? Or was this just another polite way to get rid of me?
“I’ll do anything,” I said, maybe a little too fast. “I like gardening, but I can help with repairs or in the barn. Whatever you need.”
He nodded, slow. “Good. I’ll be out in the east field most of today, checking fences. You know how to drive a tractor?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “But I’m a fast learner.”
He almost smiled at that. “Fair enough. You ever plan a crop rotation before?”
Something lit up inside me—my secret arsenal, the hours and hours spent reading agricultural guides on the library computer,the diagrams I’d drawn in the margins of my old school notebooks.
“Actually—” I hesitated, not wanting to sound like I was showing off. But the look in his eyes wasn’t skeptical, just curious. “I kept a notebook. For ideas and… plans, I guess. For if I ever had my own plot of land.”
He arched a brow, interest piqued. “Let’s see it.”
I almost chickened out, but then I remembered the way he said “You did good, Jojo” earlier, and decided to risk it. I got up, jogged back to my room, and returned with a battered spiral notebook, the cover curled up at the corners. I wiped blueberry juice off my fingertips before opening it to the first page and spreading it flat on the table.
Rawley leaned in, scanning the column of tiny, blocky letters. My notes looked childish, but he didn’t seem to notice. His brow furrowed, then smoothed out as he followed the flow of arrows and shaded boxes. I’d mapped out the property from memory, labeling each field and pasture, and penciled in a four-year plan to rotate clover, alfalfa, winter wheat, and corn.
He ran a callused finger down the page, pausing at my notes on soil amendments. “You did this from memory?”
I swallowed. “I’ve been walking the property every morning. I noticed where the land dips, how the water pools after rain. I figured clover would do well on the north side, where it’s cooler and the soil stays wetter.”
He whistled, low. “That’s sharp.”
The praise hit me harder than I expected. My skin went hot, then cold, and I ducked my head, flipping to the next page. “I read that you can get another season out of the south fields if you use cover crops. They did it at my grandpa’s farm. He swore by hairy vetch, but I never liked the way it smelled.”
Rawley barked a laugh at that, startling me. “Heard that. My granddad used to curse rye like it owed him money.”
He reached for the coffee pot, and I leaned to pour it for him at the exact same second. Our hands touched over the handle, not a gentle graze but a full-on collision of skin. Heat shot up my arm, pooling in my ears and making my whole body go taut.
For a split second, neither of us moved. His fingers were long, the knuckles scarred, his grip warm and steady against my wrist.
I jerked my hand away, almost sloshing coffee onto the table. “Sorry—”
He just shrugged, his expression impossible to read. But when I peeked up, his eyes were on me, dark and intent, like he was sizing up more than just my handshake.
I forced myself to focus on the notebook, flipping to a page of planting charts. “I made a list of seed companies, too. There’s one near Helena that does organic, and another out of Billings. The hardware store in town has some, but it’s all old stock.”
Rawley nodded, leaning closer until I could see the flecks of silver in his stubble. “You know, I thought this place would take me two years just to get to baseline. But with you here…”
He let the words trail off, but the meaning was clear. For the first time in ages, I felt like something other than a liability.
We sat for a while, talking shop: field drainage, compost, the merits of building a greenhouse versus a cold frame. Every time our hands strayed close—passing the salt, pointing to a diagram—I felt a static jolt, like the air itself was charged.
At one point, I caught him watching me. Not in a leering way, but with this steady, unblinking focus that made my chest flutter and my mouth go dry. I looked away, cheeks flaming, but the feeling stayed lodged under my skin.
The sun climbed higher, painting everything in sharp relief. Rawley’s face in the light was all angles and shadows, more handsome than I wanted to admit. His shirt stretched over hisbiceps, and the veins on his hands stood out when he gripped the edge of the table.
I wondered if he even knew how he looked, how it made my thoughts scatter like pigeons.
I tried to keep it professional, but the longer we sat there, the more I realized that it wasn’t just about the farm. There was something else growing between us, something I didn’t have a name for. Every word, every glance, every accidental touch added another layer to it, packing it down until it felt too big for the room.
He finished his second mug, set it down with a thunk, and said, “You’ll ride out with me after lunch. We’ll check the east line, see how bad the fences are. Bring the notebook.”
“Okay,” I said, voice cracking a little.
