“Also,” Cash says, pointing his fork at Everett, “you try to insist coffee is enough for breakfast all the time,Sheriff.I don’t want to hear it from you.”
I surprise myself by piping in. “Coffee is part of a balanced breakfast.”
“Partof. That’s the key word,” Cash says. He grins at me.
“Is this where I make a joke about police officers and donuts?”
Everett groans. “I would rather you not.”
“No, if you want to call Everett out, you can just talk about how in the time it took him to cut up fruit, Lincoln and I made a whole meal.” Cash spears a chunk of cantaloupe on his fork. “There’s cutting fruit evenly, and then there’s whatever obsessive thing Everett does to it.”
Now that he mentions it, I do notice that every single piece of fruit is cut to the same size and dimension. No wonder he was at it for so long.
Lincoln laughs, and I do too. The sound just spills out of me, light and lilting and surprisingly real.
Cash grins brightly. “I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh. I like it.”
My cheeks flush automatically, and I busy myself with eating more of the excellent food. Him pointing that out makes me realize that I’m starting to relax around these men, despite all the reasons I shouldn’t. I’m starting to let my guard down.
And that’s the one thing I can’t do. I have to stay wary, to keep my walls up. It’s the way to keep myself safe. To keep Cora safe.
But damn if they aren’t making it harder than it usually is.
Chapter 9
Cash
I hum under my breath as I go through the routine of morning chores. Our ranch is small, but there’s never a shortage of things to do, no matter how few animals you have or how little land. There’s always fence to be mended, horses to feed, critters to chase out. The gate that’s been hanging crooked for weeks greets me this morning with a dreary creak, so I grab my tools and fix it while the horses hang their heads over the fence to watch me work.
“Y’all would be more useful if you could do this for me,” I tease. They just stare at me with their big eyes, obviously waiting for me to bring them their oats and hay for the morning.
It’s peaceful, even if it’s busy. There’s a rhythm to it. The work might be slightly different every morning, but it’s all variations on a theme. Stuff I can do with my eyes closed if I wanted to be a little crazy.
I get thoroughly sniffed by one of the newer horses, who noses at my pockets looking for sugar cubes or carrots, and I pat her on the nose with a snort.
“Nothing extra this morning, pretty girl. Maybe later.”
Horses can’t pout, but if they could, this one would definitely be doing it. I laugh and hang up the buckets, stepping out of the stable and starting my way back to the house to wash up.
As I get close, I hear something. The sound of a voice, sweet and clear, floating on the breeze.
Harper. It has to be.
The window to the kitchen is open, and when I get closer, I can hear Harper is singing Cora a lullaby. Just the sound of it makes my chest go tight. Her voice is fucking beautiful, for one thing. Strong and light at the same time, but packed with power and emotion. Authentic is the word that comes to mind. Plenty of singers fake it for the fame, trying to sing songs about emotions they’ve never felt, but there’s only truth in Harper’s voice.
As someone who knows music, since I grew up singing and playing the guitar, I can recognize real talent when I hear it.
But it’s more than just skill going on here. Harper is pouring all her love and tenderness into every note for that little girl, and it’s breathtaking to hear it.
I stand there a bit longer, not wanting to disturb the moment, just listening to Harper sing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The song wraps up, and she says something to Cora in a low voice. I wait a beat before walking onto the porch and then into the house, letting the screen door bang a little to announce my presence so I don’t startle either of them or make Harper feel caught.
“Morning,” I say, smiling at both of them and pulling my hat off my sweat damp hair.
“Morning,” Harper replies. She drops two pieces of toast onto Cora’s plate and licks butter from her fingers. Her eyes flick over me and then away, and I look down at myself.
“I was out in the fields,” I tell her.