Even when she made me want to argue with her to keep her talking.
Me:Sometimes. Depends on the stranger.
Kassi:I consider myself lucky then.
I lean against the post, my task forgotten. The sun dips a little lower, and the sky's turning into that kind of bruised blue that makes you want to slow down and breathe it all in.
I should tell her who I am.
But I don't.
Because as much as I don't trust her employer, and as much as I hate what she represents with that clipboard and those fake promises, I can't help the way something inside me eases when she texts again.
Kassi:So, what kind of name is Bear?
I rub the back of my neck.
Me: Old nickname. My mom calls me that because I used to hibernate every Saturday morning as a kid. Then when I grew fast as a teen and bulked up for football, they started using the name and it just stuck.
I shift gears and walk toward the stables, stopping to toss fresh hay into the trough. Phantom lifts his head and trots over, nuzzling my shoulder before burying his nose into the pile. I give him a pat and grab a water bucket to fill. As the hose kicks to life, my phone buzzes again.
Kassi:That's cute.
Me:Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.
Her reply comes with a laughing emoji. I never thought I'd be the kind of guy who smiles at a cartoon bubble on a phone screen, but here we are.
Pocketing the phone, my hands are working, muscle memory taking over, but my mind is still on her.
Kassi.
The first time I saw her, she pulled up to the ranch the day we moved in, waving the developer’s first offer like it was a welcome basket. She was nice and much too sweet to be working for sharks like them. I instantly hated everything she was trying todo, but I felt protective of her, too, because I have a feeling the developers are using her as a pawn in their plan without her even knowing.
Now she's texting me.
Maybe she thinks I'm just a quiet guy named Bear. Some cowboy she might have coffee with. Maybe she thinks she can forget what side of the fence we're both standing on.
I know better.
But I don't stop texting.
Me:What do you do, Kassi?
I ask, like I don't already know.
Kassi:Consulting. Mostly infrastructure development. I help towns attract funding and investors for revitalization projects.
Me:That's a mouthful.
I duck into the tack room to grab a lead rope and coil it lazily over my arm, just for something to do. My phone buzzes again.
Kassi:Yeah. It sounds fancier than it is. Mostly, I juggle spreadsheets and pray I don't burn dinner for my daughter and me.
I’ve heard talk of her daughter in town, but never gave it much thought. But now I picture her in the kitchen, with the kid doing homework at the table, and Kassi trying to cook and work at the same time. I remember how tired she looked last week when she left the ranch. Not weak. Just worn out in a way I know too well.
Me:Single mom?
Kassi:Yeah, part of the reason we moved to Walker Lake was that this job would support both of us.