Finn leans on the stall beside me. "Zach says you've been less grumpy lately. Told him it's cause you've been texting some mystery woman. You finally come around on the dating apps?"
"Nope."
"Then who is she?"
I brush Rocky's side with long, steady strokes. "Just someone Mom introduced me to."
Finn whistles low. "Damn. Didn't know she still had matchmaking energy in her. You like her?"
I shrug.
"That bad, huh?"
"Not bad," I mutter. "Just complicated."
"Isn't it always?"
I don't answer. Rocky flicks his ear toward me. Maybe he's tired of my secrets too.
"Anyway," Finn says, stretching his arms over his head, "Rodeo's coming up in a few weeks. You gonna ride?"
"I think I'm going to sit this one out. But I'll be there cheering you on."
"Zach wants in this time. He says if you don't sign up, he'll take your spot and ride your favorite bull just to piss you off."
I grunt. "Let him try. He won't beat my time on. I'd bet on it."
"That's what I told him." Finn grins and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Anyway. You gonna tell us who she is?"
"Not yet."
"Fine. But if you start writing poetry in the margins of the feed log, I'm staging an intervention."
Finn pauses at the door and turns back, his teasing fading into something softer. "You alright, Ash? For real? You've had that look on your face all morning. Like you're carrying something heavy."
I hesitate, the brush stilling in my hand. "I'm fine," I lie, then sigh. "Just stuck between something that feels real and something that feels right. Not sure they're the same thing."
Finn nods like he gets it, even if he doesn't know the details. "Whatever it is, don't keep it bottled up too long. Pressure builds, man. Eventually, it's gonna crack."
He wanders off toward the chicken coop, and I finish brushing Rocky down, the rhythm of it grounding me. Cleaning out the stall slowly, I let the work settle my nerves. I swap out water buckets, check his hooves, and rake up old hay. Every step, every breath is something to keep my hands busy so my head won't spin.
When I’m done, I don't go back to my other chores right away. Instead, I walk into the barn, the old boards creaking beneath my boots. Dust floats in the sunbeams slanting through the rafters. I trail my fingers along the wooden support beam near the feed room, the one that has some carved initials in it that I need to ask Willy about.
They look like the ones Finn, Zach, and I carved into the tree in the backyard the summer I was twelve. That summer was when we put the idea in motion to buy a ranch and run it together. Dad caught us carving it, and instead of yelling, he grabbed his pocketknife and added his own initials beneath ours. He was encouraging of our dream, and from that point on, it seemed like it was all we talked about.
Dad used to say the land remembers. That every scar, every mark, every hand that worked it left a trace. I believed him. I still do.
Shutting my eyes, I remember the way Mom cried when we sold that house, and they bought the one on the lake. The house on the lake was her dream house and the house they planned to retire in, but the small cottage on the edge of town was where Jenna and us boys were born and had all our firsts. I think aboutall the pieces of us buried out there—not just blood and sweat, but hope. Legacy. Roots. I can feel Willy's blood, sweat, and tears in this land too, and I hope we can make him proud.
And now I've got a woman texting me who works for the people trying to rip those roots right out.
But she doesn't feel like the enemy. She feels like a soft laugh and late-night secrets. She feels like a warm light in a dark place.
And that's what scares me most.
My phone buzzes again, but it's not Kassi this time. It's my mom.
"Hey, sweetheart. Just checking in. How's my favorite cowboy?"