He gave me a long, measuring look, then nodded. “You’ll do, Jojo.”
The words burrowed in deep, warm and dangerous. I closed the notebook, fingers trembling just a little.
He stood, stretched, and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. “See you in the yard in thirty?”
I nodded, still not trusting myself to speak.
He left, boots heavy on the porch boards. I waited until I heard the mudroom door shut before slumping in my chair, letting the aftershocks run their course.
I’d never felt like this before. Not just the physical pull, though that was strong enough to make my head spin. But the sense of being seen, of being wanted—not just as a worker, but as a person. It scared the hell out of me.
I gathered up the dishes, hands steadying as I washed them. By the time I finished, I had the kitchen spotless and my heart rate down to just above normal.
As I wiped the table, I traced the ring left by his coffee mug. I let myself smile, just a little, before scrubbing it clean.
Maybe this was what it felt like to belong somewhere.
Chapter Four
~ Jojo ~
The air outside was sharper than I expected, tinged with wood smoke and the hint of frost lurking just behind the sun. I pulled my sleeves down and jogged to the barn, where Rawley already stood with a pair of battered field boots in his hands.
He tossed them to me—size ten, a little big, but they’d do. “Try these. Mud’s hell on sneakers this time of year.”
I slipped them on, trying to ignore the ghost memory of my dad doing the same thing, tossing me old work gloves or a bent hoe and telling me, “Don’t make a mess you can’t fix.”
Rawley waited, patient but never still, like his bones couldn’t quite believe he wasn’t on a clock somewhere. “You ready?” he asked.
I nodded, hugging my notebook close. “Which boundary first?”
He pointed east. “Pasture. Gonna have to cross the river. You good with water?”
I shrugged. “I can swim. Not afraid of mud, either.”
He cracked the smallest smile. “Good. Let’s go.”
We set off at a pace just shy of a jog, Rawley’s stride long and even, mine more like the quick footfalls of someone trying not to trip. The land rolled in front of us, a tangle of winter grass and faded wildflowers, interrupted every few hundred yards by a fence post or a stand of aspen. The fields looked wild, but in the way of something that remembered being loved once—a dog let off leash, not a feral coyote.
Rawley walked like he was still on patrol: eyes scanning, shoulders squared, each step calculated. Every so often, he’d pause and crouch to study a hoof-print or a downed wire, then motion me over with a quick tilt of his head.
“You see this?” he said, pointing to a cluster of small, deep impressions in the dirt.
I leaned in. “Deer?”
He nodded. “And something bigger.” He traced a boot-sized circle next to the tracks. “Bear, maybe. Probably black, but keep your eyes open.”
I was used to coyotes, the occasional badger, but not bears. I felt my skin prickle. Rawley watched me, measuring my reaction.
“You scared?”
I shook my head, even though I was. “No.”
He seemed to like that. “Stick close. They don’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”
We moved on. The fence line was a mess—sections sagging, wire rusted through, whole posts leaning at surrender angles. I jotted down notes, then sketched the boundaries as we walked, the map in my notebook growing with every step.
The land changed as we went. The high pasture flattened into a meadow, rimmed by chokecherry and birch. The ground was soft here, pocked with gopher holes and crisscrossed by old cow paths. Rawley stopped at a break in the fence and knelt, tugging at a piece of bent metal.
