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"We should go," I say.

"Go where?"

"Home. The cattle need checking. The feed truck comes at nine."

"You're taking me home to check cattle."

"And fix the south gate. Gerald's been getting out again."

Her laugh is the best sound on this mountain. Better than the creek in spring, better than wind through the cottonwoods, better than five a.m. silence when the fog sits on the lower pasture. Better than anything.

"Let me pack," she says.

"You weren't unpacked."

"I was optimistic."

She slides down, feet hitting the floor. Grabs her suitcase, starts filling it. Camera bag over her shoulder. Laptop in the tote. She picks up the cider jug, holds it against her hip.

"Your mom told you to bring this?"

"She's been managing this situation from Arizona for a week."

"I can't wait to meet her."

"She's already booked a flight."

At the front desk, Carol takes the room key back with a smile wide enough to split Montana in half.

"Checking out?" she asks.

Poppy leans into my side. My arm goes around her shoulders. Automatic. Correct.

"Checking out," Poppy says.

The truck heads up the dirt road toward the farm. Her suitcase in the bed, her camera bag at her feet, my flannel still on her body. She's got the window cracked, October air pouring in, her curls blowing across her face. Her hand is on my thigh. Warm through the denim.

The gate is open. Always open.

She looks at the sign as we pass through. CONNORS FARM.

"We should add a line," she says.

"What line?"

"OPEN DAILY. DON'T PET THE GOATS. PHOTOGRAPHER IN RESIDENCE."

My mouth does the thing it's been doing since she showed up. The twitch, the almost-smile, the fight between my face and my feelings.

This time, the smile wins.

EPILOGUE

POPPY

ONE YEAR LATER

The sign at the gate says CONNORS FARM in the same hand-painted letters. Below that, in slightly neater print because I held the brush: Poppy IN RESIDENCE. And below that, added last month in Deck's blocky capitals after Gerald escaped for the fourteenth time: SERIOUSLY. DON'T PET THE GOATS.