“I’m not thrilled about it either.”
“Then don’t come.”
“Not an option.”
He turned back to the broken fence and picked up a hammer that was leaning against the gate post. He drove a staple with two sharp swings.
“Look, darlin’, I get on the bronc, I ride, I get in my truck and go home. I don’t do the fancy dinners, I don’t do the autograph tent, and I sure as hell don’t need you tailing me everywhere.”
“We don't have much choice here.”
I watched him swing the hammer again. He was the first one up this morning, already working before the sun was fully up.
“So who’s holding down the ranch while you’re gone?” I asked.
His rhythm broke for half a second before the next swing.
"Mostly me, Wren, and Colt. Our old man helps out where he's able. Wyatt's got his own job, so he mostly heads over from Redbow when he can, but Maisie comes first."
“So it’s just him and Maisie, then?”
“Yeah.”
I hesitated, treading lightly. “Her mom?”
“Gone.” He didn’t look at me. “Maisie was two when they found out the blindness was permanent. She decided she didn’t sign up for that life.” He drove the hammer so hard the post shuddered. “Wyatt doesn’t talk about it. So you don’t either.”
I didn't know what to say to that. The image of a two-year-old, already blind, and a mother who just... left.
“I understand,” I finally said, my voice tight.
He gave a single nod and moved down the fence line and started threading wire. He tried to pull it taut with one hand while setting a staple with the other. The wire slipped. He caught it and tried again. It slipped a second time.
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
The wire dropped a third time. He muttered a curse and yanked it back hard.
“Do you want me to hold that?” I asked.
“No.”
I stayed put. He wrestled with it for another ten seconds, then exhaled through his nose.
“Fine,” he said. “Here. Hold it taut.”
I stepped forward and gripped the wire. It bit rough into my palms.
He moved down the line. I moved with him, sneakers sliding in the dirt as I kept the wire tight. He worked fast, hammer ringing, staples sinking.
He crouched beside me, close enough that I caught the scent of hay and clean sweat.
“Almost done,” he said.
His hands moved fast—set the staple, two swings, done.
“There.” He straightened. “You can let go.”
I released the wire carefully. It held.
