Page 28 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
"The ranch watches the sunrise. I just happen to be standing in it."
"That's not what I meant."
I know what he meant. He meant the girl who used to climb the fence rail at dawn and sit there with her boots hooked on thesecond board and her chin on her arms and watch the light come up like it was a show put on specifically for her.
He meant the girl who thought mornings were magic before she learned they were just early.
"That girl had less to do at five a.m.," I say.
"She had the same sunrise."
I turn off the spigot. The trough is full. My hands are wet and cold, and I wipe them on my jeans and look at him across the yard.
He stands in the new light. His shirt is damp at the collar from the trough work. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow despite the cold, and the muscles in his forearms catch the gold light in a way that I notice and then immediately refuse to have noticed.
"We need to check the south water line," I say. "It froze twice last winter, and I rerouted it but I'm not confident the new route will hold."
"Show me."
We walk the south line together. The pipe runs along the lower pasture fence, buried shallow because the ground here is rocky and doesn't allow for depth. I show him where I rerouted it around the granite shelf that kept cracking the old line. The new route is longer but follows softer ground.
Rowan crouches beside the pipe and runs his hand along the joint where I spliced in the new section. His fingers press the seal, testing it. He looks at the angle, the grade, the way the pipe sits in the trench.
"Good work," he says.
"Don't sound surprised."
"I'm not surprised." He stands. Brushes the dirt from his hands. "I'm impressed. Different thing."
The word lands in my chest and sits there, warm and unexpected. Impressed. Not proud of me, the way my father would have said it, carrying the weight of ownership. Not surprised, which would have carried the insult of low expectations. Impressed.
The word of a man assessing work he respects from a woman he considers his equal.
I turn back toward the barn before he can see what that word does to my face.
"Hay delivery is Thursday," I say. "We need to clear the loft for the new bales."
"I'll start on it this afternoon."
"Beck is coming at two to help with the upper fence."
"I know."
I stop walking. Turn. "How do you know that?"
"He texted me."
I stare at him. "Beck texted you."
"One word." Rowan holds up his phone. The screen shows a single message from a number with no contact name.
Two.
"That's Beck's version of coordination," I say.
"It's also Beck's version of not ignoring me. Which is an improvement over yesterday."
He's right. It is.
