I take too long to answer the question, and he notices. One corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. A reading. He knows exactly what I’m thinking about his hands, and he’s not going to mention it.
“You live here?” I ask. Because someone needs to steer this conversation back to words.
“Born here. My family’s been in the Hill Country a long time.”
“Ranching?”
“Among other things.” He turns his beer glass slowly. “What about you? You don’t look like a tourist.”
“What do I look like?”
“Somebody with a reason to be somewhere. Just not sure this is the right somewhere.”
He’s perceptive. That’s either useful or dangerous. Both, probably.
“So what do you do when you’re not lost in small towns?” he asks.
“Ranch work. Stock handling, fencing, whatever pays. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.” All true. Every word. The most dangerous kind of cover—the kind built on real material. He can check every detail, and it’ll hold. What it won’t tell him is why I chose this particular town.
He nods. “Heard you were asking about that.”
He was listening. Or someone told him. Either way, in a bar this small, a woman asking about work is news.
“Nobody’s biting,” I say. “Your bartender told me to try the Forresters. So did everybody else.”
“That tracks. This place doesn’t open easy.”
“I noticed. Tried asking around today, and you’d think I was requesting state secrets.”
He laughs. Short, real, unforced. The sound does something warm below my sternum.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. People here are friendly enough, but they keep their fences up. It’s not meanness. It’s just… this land teaches you to mind what’s yours and leave other people to mind theirs.”
“You sound like you approve.”
“I sound like I grew up here.” He takes a drink. “It’s got its drawbacks. Not much changes. Same families, same land, same arguments going back three generations. But there’s something to be said for knowing where you stand.”
“And where do you stand?”
He looks at me. Holds it a beat longer than casual. “Depends on the day.”
I should steer this toward the Forresters. Toward the ranch, the territory, the families that came through and didn’t come back. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m wearing this dress and sitting in this bar and letting a stranger’s knee press against mine.
But what comes out of my mouth is: “Tell me something true about this place. Not the tourism-board version. Something real.”
He considers that. Not performing consideration, actually thinking. “There’s a ridge east of town where the cedar breaks, and you can see all the way to the Pedernales. On a clear night, there’s no light pollution for miles. Just the sky and the limestone and the sound of the wind coming up through the valley.” He’s not looking at me now. He’s looking at the memory. “When I was a kid, my sister used to drag me up there after supper. She’d lie on the rock and name constellations she made up because she said the real ones were boring. She had one she called the Runaway Horse.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Said it looked like it was galloping right off the edge of the sky.”
The past tense.Used to. She’d lie. She said.I hear it, and I don’t push.
“Sounds beautiful.”
“It is.” He comes back from wherever he went. His eyes refocus on mine, and there’s something unguarded in them for a second before he closes it. “You should see it while you’re here. Before you move on to your next town.”
“Who says I’m moving on?”
“People looking for work always do.” He finishes his beer. “They come through, ask around, stay a few days. Move on. The town stays the same.”
There’s no bitterness in it. Just observation. And he’s right—that’s exactly what I’m planning to do. Show up. Get what I need. Leave. The fact that it stings to hear him say it is a problem I’ll deal with later.