Outside, the air is cooler. Cleaner than yesterday. Rain washed. Still faintly smoky if you breathe deep enough.
The town looks the same. Buildings intact. Windows unbroken. People moving around, trying to convince themselves everything’s normal again.
But I know better.
As I walk back toward the truck, the paper bag feels heavier than it should.
When I think about Abilene, everything in my mind gets mixed up in a way I can’t control. And I hate things I can’t control.
Somewhere between the fire and the rain and the way she looked at me yesterday, everything shifted.
I also know that something happened between her and Jesse. I saw it in the hallway. Saw the way she ran. Saw the way he stood there afterward, wrecked and quiet in a way that didn’t match his usual noise.
That complicates things. I don’t do complications.
I do fences. Livestock. Problems I can see and fix with my hands.
Abilene isn’t a problem.
She’s something I don’t know how to approach without risking damage I can’t undo.
I open the truck door and set the bag carefully on the seat. The candle thumps softly against the vinyl.
I close the door and sit there for longer than necessary, staring at nothing in particular.
What the hell am I going to do?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Abilene
Friday
I burn the bread.
Not badly. Just enough to make the kitchen smell faintly smoky and force me to scrape the darkest edge off with a butter knife while muttering to myself like an unhinged woman.
“It’s fine,” I tell the loaf. “You’re rustic.”
The soup is better. Vegetable, simple, simmered long enough that it tastes of intention instead of panic.
There’s cheese, too, because Jesse Murphy strikes me as the kind of man who believes cheese is a food group, not a garnish. I slice apples, drizzle them with honey, add a handful of nuts, then stop and stare at the plate.
This is ridiculous.
I’m not hosting a dinner party. I’m feeding my neighbor lunch to say thank you for spending the entire morning fixing my porch step, re-hanging a crooked gutter, and quietly reinforcing a section of fence.
Still, my hands shake a little as I set the table. I tell myself it’s gratitude.
I do not tell myself it’s because every time I stepped outside this morning, Jesse was there. Sweaty, focused, forearms flexingas he worked, mouth curved in that easy half-smile whenever he caught me watching.
I’m absolutely not thinking about the hallway.
I’m not thinking about his hands.
I’m not thinking about the way my body reacted like it recognized him.
I wipe my palms on my apron and call out, “Lunch!”
