I smiled, the old SEAL edge in my voice. “Take your pick.”
We drove off, the mountain’s shadow falling long across the road, and I realized I hadn’t felt this alive in years.
The cab was already steamy with animal scent—grain, hay, the sharp tang of chick bedding, and underneath it all, the unmistakable edge of omega pheromone, sweet and bright as clover honey.
Jojo fussed over the box, counting each chick, then looked over at me, a question in his eyes.
“They’ll be fine,” I said. “You did good.”
He smiled, teeth showing this time, and I felt something shift in my chest.
The road out of Black Butte wound through low hills, the land gold and violet in the sunset. The shadows ran long, painting the world in stripes of light and dark.
Jojo kept an eye on the chicks, but every so often I caught him looking at the sky, or at the way my hands fit the steering wheel, or at my face reflected in the windshield.
At the edge of town, we hit a pothole the size of a coyote den. The truck bounced hard, and the chick box slid toward the floor. We both reached for it—his hand fast, mine faster. Our fingers overlapped on the cardboard, knuckles brushing, and neither of us moved for a long second.
He pulled away first, biting his lip.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No need,” I said. My voice was lower than I meant it, rough with something I didn’t want to name.
We drove the rest of the way in silence. The road was familiar now, each bend and dip etched into my memory. I felt a tightness in my chest, a kind of fierce satisfaction. The land was mine, the truck was mine, the future was mine, and the man next to me—maybe he was mine, too.
When we turned up the gravel drive, Jojo finally relaxed. He looked at the fields, the barn, the distant house, and I saw hope settle on his shoulders like a jacket finally tailored to fit.
I parked by the porch. He hopped out, cradled the chick box, and walked ahead of me, his gait lighter than it had been all day.
I watched him go, sunlight catching in his hair, the scent of him lingering in the air like a promise. For a moment, I just sat there, hands loose on the wheel, and let myself feel it: the rightness of the place, the rightness of him here with me, the hunger to protect what was mine.
Tomorrow, there would be work. Repairs, feedings, a dozen chores that couldn’t wait. But tonight, I let myself believe in the future.
I got out, stretched, and started carrying stuff inside. The last light faded behind us, and the ranch—my ranch, our ranch—waited, quiet and alive, for whatever came next.
Chapter Six
~ Jojo ~
After dinner, the world outside retreated to blackness, all noise replaced by the soft pulse of rain on the windows and the hiss of kerosene from the lamp. We sat at the kitchen table, our arms close enough that the warmth of his skin reached me in little waves every time he moved.
The baby chicks were peeping in their brooder box by the stove, a steady, happy sound that made the big old house feel less empty and a little less haunted.
I had my notebook out, property maps and the day’s scrawled fence diagrams spread across the table between us. Rawley was in a t-shirt, his tan lines showing up stark against the rough grain of his forearms.
Every time he shifted, the muscles and old scars slid over each other in a way that made my mouth dry out and my thoughts scatter like dry leaves.
I tried to keep my eyes on the notebook, but it was a losing battle. Every time our hands brushed as we pointed to a section of pasture or a bend in the creek, I felt a jolt like a live wire.
He must have felt it too, because he started watching me—not just in the way people watched, but in that predatory, calculating way. Like he was waiting for something to slip, or break.
I leaned over the map, drawing a line where the creek cut through the west field, and my shoulder pressed against his. The warmth was immediate, undeniable. He didn’t move away.
“See here?” I said, forcing my voice steady. “If you start planting clover this early, you’ll have it ready for a second cut in August. The soil down by the creek’s better, stays wet longer. And if you fence it off from the horses, you could graze it down before it seeds.”
He grunted, the sound low in his chest. “You think like a farmer.”
“I want to be one,” I said, before I could think better of it.
