Page 12 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
I shove the post upright and wrap the wire tighter around the staple. Rain runs down my face. Into my collar. My hands slip once, then again.
A shadow falls across the fence line.
I feel him before I see him. The shift in the air that happens when Rowan Cade enters. Not loud, not dramatic. Just a change in pressure, like the weather turning.
My body has always registered his presence before my eyes confirm it, and that fact irritates me in a way I refuse to examine too closely.
I don't need to turn.
"You always pick the worst time."
Rowan's voice carries low over the rain. Not teasing. Just stating facts the way he always has.
I keep working. "You don't get to criticize the schedule."
"I get to critique the technique."
I glanced up.
He stands on the other side of the post with his sleeves rolled to the elbow and that pocketknife turning slowly in his hand. Rain darkens his shirt. Water runs along the line of his jaw, down the side of his throat.
My hands tighten on the fence post.
"You planning to help or narrate?"
"Both, if you'll let me."
He says it like he's asking about the fence. He's not asking about the fence. The question underneath it presses against the rain and the mud and the whole cold morning, warm and persistent.
I tighten my grip on the staple gun.
The thing about Rowan is that he doesn't perform.
Every other man I've met since he left has performed something. Toughness, charm, interest, concern. They wear it like a shirt they picked out for the occasion. Rowan just stands there being exactly who he is and lets you decide what to do about it.
It's infuriating. It's also the reason I haven't been able to replace him with anyone, and I've tried. Not often, not with enthusiasm, but I've tried. Two dates in Asheville that felt like job interviews.
A rancher from the next county who brought flowers and talked about himself for ninety minutes straight.
A farrier named Cole who was kind and steady and looked at me like I was something worth knowing, and I still couldn't make myself feel anything beyond mild appreciation for his skill with a hoof knife.
None of them stood in the rain like it was nothing. None of them reached for the wire without being asked.
None of them were him.
The corner of my mouth wants to lift. I don't let it.
He steps over the wire without hesitation. Boots sinking into the mud like nothing. He grabs the sagging line and pulls it tight with one hand, the muscle in his forearm flexing hard against the tension and holds it there without being asked.
"Hold the post."
I wrap both hands around the wood. Rough grain pressing into my palms.
Rowan bends to drive the staple deeper. The hammer hits metal. Sharp. Precise. The fence line stiffens between us.
The rain keeps falling.
We work like that for a few minutes. No conversation, just the rhythm of it, the way work has always been its own language on this ranch.
