People drift past with canvas bags and coffee cups, laughter rising and falling in the warm air. Her stall is bright and inviting and safe.
This conversation is not.
She swallows.
“Dinner,” I repeat. “At the ranch.”
Her shoulders tense. I don’t miss it.
The ranch is my territory. Jesse’s. Wyatt’s. It’s a place full of history and routines and expectations she’s never been invited into in that way.
I can see the calculation happening behind her eyes, the weighing of risk, the instinct to retreat.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says slowly.
I nod once. I expected that.
“It’s not a comfortable idea,” I agree. “But it’s a fair one.”
She presses her lips together. “Marshall…”
I wait.
She exhales. “I only said no to Wyatt because I didn’t want to make things messier. And now you’re asking me to walk straight into the mess.”
“Yes,” I say simply.
Her eyes lift, a little sharp now. “You’re not exactly selling this.”
“I’m not trying to sell it,” I reply. “I’m trying to be honest.”
That stops her.
Honesty matters to her. I’ve learned that about Abilene.
She doesn’t always know what she wants, but she knows when someone’s lying to her or themselves.
She folds her arms loosely across her middle, hugging herself without realizing it. The breeze lifts a strand of her hair free from her braid, and she tucks it back with shaking fingers.
“What if I don’t have answers?”
I don’t soften my voice, but I lower it. “Then you say that.”
Her throat bobs. “And if I do?”
“Then you say that too.”
She looks at me, searching for the angle, the catch, the part where I push.
There isn’t one.
“This isn’t about pressure,” I say. “It’s about clarity. For all of us.”
“And you really think I’ll choose Jesse,” she says, quieter now.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
A shadow flickers across her face. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or the simple truth of being seen.
