I stopped. Let my shoulder rest against the bay door frame. Watched.
The boy from the bunkhouse was passing tools without being asked. His hands moved with purpose, finding the right wrench before Ghost's fingers reached for it, anticipating the next step. The long-sleeves of a borrowed gray shirt were still pulled to his wrists despite the heat. But his posture had changed. Shoulders straighter. Eyes tracking the work instead of the floor.
The scared boy from the bunkhouse was becoming someone else.
Mateo looked up. Saw me. The fear that used to flood his face at any approach was gone. Something else had replaced it—not confidence yet, but the beginning of it.
"¿Cómo estás?" I asked.
How are you?
"Mejor."
Better.
His hand moved unconsciously toward his left shoulder, then dropped. The brand was still there under the fabric. Would always be there. But his relationship to it was shifting. "Estoy aprendiendo."
I'm learning.
"Good." I switched to English so Ghost could follow. "Ghost is a good teacher. He doesn't know it yet, but he is."
Ghost's head emerged from under the hood. Grease on his cheek. His crystalline, ice blue eyes half wide with surprise at the compliment. His knee was bouncing even while his hands stayed steady on the engine. "I'm teaching him how not to strip a bolt. Basic stuff."
"Basic stuff is how it starts." I held Ghost's gaze. "You've got a talent for this."
Something flickered across the kid's face. Surprise, maybe. He ducked back under the hood, but I caught the slight straightening of his shoulders.
Danny stood nearby with the three dogs at his feet. The heeler pressed against his leg, her one ear swiveling toward every new sound. Danny looked steadier than he had on the ranch road. Still pale. Still carrying the weight of what he'd held together alone. But standing.
"Good instincts."
Hawk's voice came from my left. He'd approached without sound—the man moved like smoke when he wanted to—and now he stood beside me, watching the same scene. His face carrying the assessment look I'd seen a thousand times. Measuring. Filing.
"You mean Mateo?"
"The way he reads Ghost's movements. Anticipates what's needed." Hawk's eyes stayed on the boy. "Reminds me of someone."
I knew who he meant. A younger version of me walking into this compound years ago. Nothing but a knife and a dead mother and skills that had no civilian application. Hawk had looked at me the same way. Seen something worth keeping.
"He's nineteen. Maybe younger."
"Old enough to make choices." Hawk's voice was level. Observation, not judgment. "If he wants to stay, we find a place for him. After."
After. The word hung between us. The financial information Nolan had compiled. The operation we'd plan in twenty minutes. The war we were about to escalate.
"You think he's got it in him?"
"I think he survived something that breaks most people and came out the other side still capable of learning." Hawk turned to face me. The desert-carved features. The lines around his eyes that had deepened since Maria left. "That's not nothing."
Irish appeared before I could respond. Two mugs of coffee in his hands. The grin already at seventy percent despite the hour.
"Morning, hermano." He pressed a mug into my grip. "You look different today. Rested. Relaxed." The grin climbed. "Refreshed. Rejuvenated. Remarkably well?—"
"How many R-words do you have loaded?"
"I've got a list. Want to hear them all?"
"I want to drink this coffee without commentary."
