I shook my head, but when he offered his hand, I took it. “Not unless you plan to carry me.”
He looked me over, calculating. “I could,” he said, and I didn’t doubt him.
We walked together, his hand never leaving the small of my back, a heat anchor against the June air. The baby kicked again, harder this time, and I exhaled slow, willing myself to keep up.
About halfway across the field, I spotted movement near the fence line—just a flicker, a shadow where there shouldn’t have been one. Instinct made me tighten my grip on Macon’s hand.
He saw it too. “We’re not alone,” he said, voice dropping into that old, lethal register.
“Wildlife?” I asked, hoping.
He shook his head. “Too tall.”
We kept walking, slower now. As we rounded the last bend in the trail, a figure stepped into the open: an older man, all denim and sun-dried leather, the lines in his face so deep they looked carved. He wore a battered Stetson and a belt with a buckle the size of my palm. He leaned against the fence, posture straight but not aggressive, a coil of barbed wire in one hand.
He watched us approach, eyes hidden in the shadow of his hat. When we got close, he nodded once—just enough to register as a greeting.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” I echoed.
Macon offered a short, sharp nod, the kind that promised politeness, but nothing more.
The old man looked us over, gaze settling on the bump in my shirt, then flicking to Macon, then back to me. “Didn’t expect to see anyone out this way. You lost?”
“Just exploring,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “This is our place. Or will be, once the lawyers finish their mating dance.”
He didn’t smile, but something in his stance loosened. “You the ones bought the Hargrove parcel?”
“That’s us,” I said. “Carter and Macon.”
He let the names settle, then stuck out his hand. “Walter Jenkins. I manage the fence lines. Used to do all the livestock before that idiot Victor fired half the help and then tried to run the herd himself.”
Macon shook his hand, the grip brief but solid. “We heard about you. Rawley said you could out-stubborn a Missouri mule.”
That earned a huff of laughter. “He exaggerates, but not by much.” He looked at me again, this time with open curiosity. “You expecting?”
I nodded, not sure whether to be embarrassed or proud. “Five months, give or take.”
Walter nodded like that made sense, but I caught the quick scan of Macon’s build, the way he measured the delta between us and filed it away.
He leaned back against the fence. “Most folks wouldn’t be out in this heat, especially not in your condition.”
I shrugged. “I wanted to see it. The land, I mean. Before it gets bulldozed or subdivided or whatever people do when they buy too much at auction.”
Walter’s lips twisted—part smile, part sneer. “That’s what Victor wanted. A fake dude ranch, bungalows for the tech millionaires. He even flew in some fancy architect from Portland to design the main lodge.”
I glanced at Macon, who was visibly struggling not to roll his eyes.
Walter seemed to notice. “You got different plans?”
“Yeah,” I said, heart thumping. “We want to build a real house. Something that belongs here. We want to run goats. Maybe sheep. No theme park, no infinity pool. Just—” I stopped, searching for the right word. “A home. For us. For the kid.”
Walter stared at me for a long second, then nodded, a subtle shift in his expression that felt like passing some test.
“This place needs new life,” he said, voice softer now. “I’ve watched it get run down for decades. You treat it right, it’ll treat you right in return.”
Macon’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, grounding me. “We intend to.”
