Chapter Text
The farm stretched out in every direction, pastures swelling and dipping golden like waves. Everything here was quiet. The hum of early summer bugs playing their soundtrack, the breeze that swayed through stalks of wheat growing in the fields. The sunrise always caught the crops and creeped its way over the porch where Louis stood, cigar hanging loosely from dry lips from the thick July heat.
The Tomlinson Ranch almost looked peaceful. Almost.
But as his tired eyes scanned over the unkempt fences and rotting wood on the barn, it felt more like the place might swallow him whole than bring any semblance of peace.
The worn planks of the porch creaked under his boots as he stood, one hand holding the cigar to his mouth, the other lifeless at his side, like the effort of moving a single muscle there wasn’t worth his energy. Not that early at least.
His list of work never ended, not out here in the middle of the West where your neighbor was a speck in the distance and the nearest town was only accessible by horse. The ranch seemed to swallow responsibility over the years alongside of typical chores of the farm; take the cattle out to pasture, tend the crops, deliver the yield, fix the tool shed, rebuild fences, gather firewood. And that just scratched the surface. There would always be something demanding his time, energy, blood, sweat, and tears.
But, that’s not what really bothered him. Louis had always been able to handle a little dirt, some blood on his knuckles, some hard labor in the sun. Hell, he’d become friends with the dull ache in his shoulder from a gunshot wound from his younger days testing the limits of the law. He didn’t even mind the quiet routine to his days.
What he couldn’t handle was the stillness. The deathlike pause of life that pressed down on his chest, turned quiet moments into something heavier and made soft edges cut sharp in a moments notice.
“Louis.”
The sound of his name snapped him back into the present. Louis turned toward the doorway, eyes squinting from the rising sun, and found Maggie standing there. Her long, blonde hair was pulled up artfully, a few loose strands framing a face he wasn’t sure he recognized anymore. She was a sight he’d never seen before; skirt fitted, buttons polished, blouse crisp white and untainted. It all was a far contrast to the state of their marriage.
“You gonna stand there all day,” she finally asked, “or are you actually gonna do some work ‘round here?”
Louis’ jaw ached right on the joint, the way it always did when his teeth clenched tight enough. He’d spent the last week tending the crops that had flooded from the spring rain, fixing the barn doors, painting the house, working on every task she had asked him to and she had the nerve…
“I have been. All week, actually,” he cut her off, jutting his chin toward the barn. “Fixed your barn doors and painted your shutters. Would have gotten a lot more important things done if you hadn’t been so picky about my task list.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow, but the rest of her expression was unreadable. She finally stepped out from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest as the morning breeze tugged at her hair. But her posture was rigid, like despite the years of Louis seeing her softness, she had to hide it behind a facade like it never existed.
“Well, I’ll write you an apology note later.” She nodded toward the dirt path from their porch to the front gates where a half-tilled garden she had been meaning to start stretched awkwardly along the fence-line. “David is coming by. Has some tools that aren’t rustin’, said he’d help us finish that garden I wanted.”
David. The sound of his name hit Louis like a stampede. His hands reflexively tightened into fists and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He stubbed his cigar out on the ashtray on the porches ledge and blew out a sigh.
David. Their neighbor, if you could count acres over the hillside a neighbor. The man who always had the tool Louis had just broke, the one who always had time to lend Maggie a hand, the one who always showed up when Louis was gone, the one who always kept Maggie late into the night because ‘thats just when dinner gets served at David’s ranch.’ Right.
“I don’t need his help,” Louis muttered. He turned his back to her, looking out at the unfinished project. “Just need time.”
“The farm is consuming you. You do need help, Louis,” she huffed, her boot stomping against the warped wooden boards of the porch.
“Not from the man sleeping with my wife,” Louis hissed, head whipping around toward her.
She didn’t even flinch. She’d heard it from him too many times, and he knew it wouldn’t land. Wouldn’t even strike near her heart. “I’m not doing this with you,” she said, unimpressed.
Louis just scuffed his boot on the porch before stepping down the steps, shaking his head. “You never do.”
—
The heat in the barn was sweltering thanks to the sun rays peeking through the broken slats on the roof. Louis had been at it for the better part of the morning, sleeves rolled up, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. The old wagon sat in the center of the floor, one axle snapped clean, the other hanging on by a prayer. He’d already gone through every tool that wasn’t rusted through and had nothing to show for it but grease-streaked palms and a mounting sense of failure he couldn’t shake.
He grunted, pulled back from under the wagon, and sat against a beam, wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt. His breath came slow, heavy. His body ached in that old familiar way, the one that said he could keep going, but not much longer.
The wheel leaned like a drunk against the frame, useless. The job would take at least two pairs of hands and a better jack than the bent one rusting in the corner. Louis cursed under his breath and stood, stiffly brushing the hay from the back of his pants. He gave the wagon one last look like it might fix itself if he stared hard enough. It didn’t. Nothing ever did.
By noon, he had the goods loaded; two sacks of potatoes, some onions, a few jars of preserves Maggie had put up last fall when things between them were still halfway civil. They sat in the saddlebags like guilt. He added a bushel of carrots, tucked a “Help Wanted” flyer under the flap of his coat, and saddled up Blue, the only thing on the property that hadn’t quit on him.
The ride into town was slow, the sun hanging high and mean above the hills. The dirt road stretched ahead in a long, bone-dry line, the heat coming off it in thick, warping waves. Louis kept his head down, hat low, letting Blue find the pace. There wasn’t any hurry, just another chore to cross off, another thing to survive. He passed the old Miller property on the way in, long since abandoned. Fences sagged, paint peeled, and weeds grew wild up the porch posts. Sometimes he wondered how long it would take before his place started looking the same.
Town was quiet when he arrived, just the way he liked it. He hitched Blue outside the general store, stretched the stiffness out of his legs, and grabbed the saddlebags. The screen door creaked as he stepped inside, the air cool and dusty, lit by late sunlight filtering through warped windowpanes.
“Tomlinson,” came a nod from behind the counter.
Louis returned it with a grunt, placing the goods down. “Brought what I had.”
He fished the flyer from his coat, unfolded it, and slid it across the counter. “Mind puttin’ that in the window?”
The storekeep gave it a glance, then a slow nod. “Not a lot of folks lookin’ for work these days.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for a lot of folks,” Louis said. “Just one.”
The man pinned the flyer beside an old notice about a church bake sale and a hand-drawn sketch of a missing dog from two summers back. It looked almost comical next to the clean ink of Louis’ block-lettered HELP WANTED sign. But it was up. That was enough.
Louis stepped back outside and leaned against the porch post, watching the street breathe. The wind kicked up dirt. A wagon clattered by, drawn by a gray mule too tired to protest the weight behind it. Life moved slow out here, and sometimes not at all. He saddled up again, Blue shifting under him like he already knew they weren’t headed straight back. The reins felt heavy in Louis’ hands, fingers curled tight like he was holding on to something that was slipping anyway.
He didn’t take the main trail out. Didn’t even glance toward the turnoff that led straight home. Instead, he gave Blue a nudge toward the long loop around the ridge, the trail that wrapped wide through the valley, past the dry creekbed and the burned-out old chapel that still leaned west in the wind. It’d add a good hour to the ride, maybe more if Blue took his time.
Louis wasn’t in a hurry. Not today.
He could already picture it. Maggie’s absence dressed up in excuses. A note on the kitchen table, maybe. “Went to town,” scrawled lazy in her handwriting. Like he didn’t know what “town” meant. Like he hadn’t already read every chapter of that story cover to cover.
Better to stretch the ride. Better to feel the silence of the trail than the silence of the house.
The path curved gentle through scrub and stone, the air hot but still. A jackrabbit darted across the road ahead, disappearing into brush. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried out, sharp and lonely. Louis kept his head low, hat brim cutting the sun, mind turning over slow. He used to take this trail with her. Back when they were still young enough to think they had time. She used to laugh up here, holler out across the open like she belonged to the sky. He hadn’t heard that sound in years. Now she laughed at David’s table, with a full plate and a glass of something cold. Probably touched his hand when she thought no one was looking. Probably didn’t care if they were.
Louis reached the ridge and paused, letting Blue rest. The land stretched out before him wide, harsh, and unforgiving. Just like Maggie had become. Just like he’d let her. He didn’t feel anger. Not now. That part had burned out weeks ago. What was left was quieter. A kind of tired that didn’t sleep off. A hollow where love used to live.
He reached for the canteen at his hip, drank what was left, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The wind kicked up around them, tossing dust into the air. It stung his eyes, but he didn’t blink. He could stay out here a little longer. Let the sun fall lower. Let the quiet stretch just a bit more.
Blue shifted under him again, ready to move. Louis gave the reins a tug, slow and steady.
They started down the back side of the ridge, hooves thudding soft against the packed earth. The light had changed, deeper now, casting long shadows that stretched out ahead like ghosts of old versions of himself. Ones that still waited for Maggie to come back with clean hands and good intentions.
He didn’t miss those versions. They were fools.
It was nearly dusk by the time the roofline of the ranch came into view, the chimney stark against the gold fading into indigo behind it. There were no lamps lit. No smoke from the flue. No sign of life on the porch. Just as he figured.
He didn’t dismount right away. Just sat there on Blue, watching the stillness. Part of him hoped maybe she was inside, pacing or cooking or pretending like she hadn’t been gone all day. Part of him knew better. Knew the silence of a house that wasn’t waiting on anyone.
Louis finally climbed down, boots hitting dry earth with a quiet thud. He led Blue to the post, unfastened the saddlebags, and let the gelding nuzzle into the trough without tying him. Blue never wandered far. He always came back.
Louis walked up the porch steps slow, every board groaning like it recognized the weight of a man too used to disappointment. The screen door creaked open easy. Inside, the air was stale, unmoved. The kitchen was dark.
No note. Not even the courtesy of a lie.
He dropped the saddlebags on the table harder than he meant to and stood there a moment, breathing through his nose, jaw tight. Maggie’s apron still hung on the hook by the stove, untouched. Her boots were gone. She wouldn’t be back tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either.
Beyond his reflection, the porch was dark. The fields, darker still. He could see the fence line from there; at least the part that still stood. Beyond it, the barn with the caved-in roof. The coop with the broken latch. The leaning shed. The sagging gutters. The south field that hadn’t been plowed since last season. All of it sat heavy in his chest. A slow, pressing weight.
He didn’t have the hands. Not anymore.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled the folded copy of the flyer he’d kept for himself. The corners were soft, the crease worn nearly through. He flattened it on the counter.
It wasn’t just a flyer. It was the only plan he had left. A long shot. A maybe. A last-ditch reach toward something—someone—that might breathe life back into this place long enough for him to let go with some dignity. Because that’s what it was now. Not fixing. Not saving. Just surviving long enough to pass it on.
He was going to sell it. The land, the house, the barn, the dead garden, the good saddle. All of it. Too much for one man to hold onto, especially a man who’d run out of reasons to.
But he couldn’t walk away just yet. Not while there were still debts to square and repairs to finish and Maggie’s damn chickens to wrangle back into their coop every other day. He needed help. Just a set of hands, even temporary. Just enough to carry the weight until he could put it down for good.
He left the flyer on the counter and walked back out to the porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him. The breeze had picked up, soft and dry, curling around the edges of the house like it was trying to get in. Louis sank into the old rocking chair with a low grunt, the wood creaking under him as he leaned back and stretched his legs out.
From where he sat, he could see everything and nothing—shadows on top of shadows, the outlines of what used to be a working ranch now fading into the night. He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down over his mouth like he could scrub off the day, the years, the weight.
There’d been a time when he would’ve gone looking for her. Saddled back up and ridden toward the valley, toward the lantern light at David’s porch, ready to throw a punch or demand an answer. But that time was long gone. Now, he just sat there. He didn’t light a lamp. Didn’t pour a drink. Just let the dark settle, heavy and honest.
Tomorrow, maybe, someone would show. Maybe they’d see the flyer and knock on the door like they belonged there. Maybe they’d have dirt under their nails and sun on their face and no questions in their eyes. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d wake up and keep working alone. Rebuild what he could, let the rest rot.
But tonight, he’d sit.
He watched the stars blink to life above the ridge, one by one, slow and steady. Somewhere behind him, the old wind chime Maggie had picked out from the summer market clinked once. The sound barely reached him. And still, Louis didn’t move.
He stared out at the horizon where the land met the stars. Thought about the chores still waiting tomorrow. Thought about the things he hadn’t said in years. Thought about a man sitting across from him, not talking much, maybe just there.
Someone who didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer.
Someone with the right hands.
He exhaled, slow and sure. The smoke curled up into the air and vanished.
The wind had died sometime after midnight, leaving the porch wrapped in a thick, unmoving stillness. The kind that pressed in on you, settled behind your ribs, made everything feel heavier than it was. Louis hadn’t meant to fall asleep out there, he just meant to rest his eyes, maybe breathe a little quieter for once. But the next thing he knew, his neck ached from the angle of the chair, and the sky had shifted from black to that deep slate-blue just before dawn.
His hand twitched on the armrest. His back popped when he sat up straighter. The air was cooler now, crisp enough to raise goosebumps on his arms, and the smell of something unfamiliar drifted past his nose, something sweet and sharp. Liquor. Cheap perfume. Then he heard it—the soft squeal of the screen door, eased open like someone didn’t want to be heard.
Louis didn’t move. Just opened his eyes slow and kept still in the shadows, half-covered by the porch post. He could see her now, barely, a flash of pale leg, boots in one hand, hair falling messy down her back. Maggie.
She knew he was there. She didn’t look his way, but she moved like someone being watched. Light on her feet, careful with her steps, like if she was quiet enough, maybe he’d let her slip past without a word. Like he hadn’t seen this same scene too many times already.
Louis watched her reach for the doorframe, fingers fumbling for balance. Her head dipped down, shoulders tight, every motion thick with guilt she didn’t care enough to wear properly. She paused there for a second, just long enough to listen for the creak of the rocking chair, maybe hoping he was still asleep. Still dreaming. Still too tired to call her on it.
But he wasn’t any of those things.
Louis stood. The wood groaned beneath his boots, sharp and sudden in the silence, and Maggie froze mid-step. She didn’t turn around. Just stood there, facing the kitchen, her hand still on the door.
“You gonna pretend you didn’t see me?” she asked, voice low.
“No,” Louis said, voice flat as the horizon. “You were hopin’ I would.”
Maggie’s jaw moved, but no sound came out. He watched her shoulders rise and fall, slow and tight. “I didn’t want a fight.”
Louis stepped forward off the porch, into the sliver of light coming through the window. The early dawn lit half his face, the rest still shadow.
“I’m too tired to fight you,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ left worth swingin’ over.”
She finally turned to face him. Eyes puffy, lips too red, the buttons of her blouse fastened wrong. She didn’t look sorry. She didn’t even look surprised. Just… caught. “I wasn’t gone all night,” she said, like that was the part that mattered.
Louis let out a breath through his nose, dry and humorless. “You think I care how long?”
“What do you want me to say?” she asked, eyes flashing now, defensive out of habit.
“Don’t say nothin’,” he said. “Just go on inside.”
Maggie stood there a second longer, eyes scanning his face for something, permission, maybe. Or softness. But whatever she used to find there, it wasn’t there now.
“Don’t act like this is new,” she said, her voice sharper now, like the guilt had worn off and something colder had settled in its place. “You knew what this was years ago. You knew what I needed.”
Louis blinked, slow, like the words didn’t land at first. “What you needed?” he repeated, low and bitter. “Maggie, I built this whole damn life around what you needed.”
She rolled her eyes. Actually rolled them. “Don’t do this again, Louis. Don’t act like you’re some martyr. You work yourself into the ground every day and expect me to what—wait at the door like a dog? Be grateful when you come in too tired to say two words?”
“I didn’t think I had to say much,” he said. “I thought showin’ up every day counted for somethin’. Thought maybe fixin’ the barn and plantin’ your garden and keepin’ this place runnin’ meant you’d feel like you had someone beside you.”
“You think I give a damn about fences and shutters?” she snapped. “You wanna know what I really needed, Louis? A man. One who didn’t hide behind his chores. One who looked at me like he used to, who didn’t flinch away every time I raised my voice or asked for more than a sack of potatoes and a silent dinner.”
Louis flinched now, just slightly.
“I gave you everything I had,” he said, quieter now. “Worked every inch of this land with my bare hands. Took care of your family when your daddy died. Paid off your brother’s debt. Stayed when it got bad. When you got bad.”
She scoffed, a short laugh that didn’t sound like humor. “Don’t put that on me. You stayed because you don’t know how to be alone. Because you’d rather rot in silence than admit this marriage died a long time ago.”
Louis looked at her, really looked. And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was talking to his wife. She wasn’t. Not really. She hadn’t been in a long time.
“You don’t know the first thing about bein’ alone,” he said. “You’re always off somewhere else, needin’ someone else. David, or whoever came before him. Hell, maybe whoever’s next.”
Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t deny it.
“I didn’t do this to you,” he went on. “You did this to us. You walked away a long time ago, Maggie. I just been keepin’ the lights on.”
She stood there, blinking, her arms still crossed, but her shoulders had dipped just a little. The silence between them pulsed thick.
Maggie stood her ground, eyes narrowing like she couldn’t stand the sight of him just standing there, holding his pain without yelling, without begging. “That’s the thing about you, Louis,” she said, her voice all venom and heat. “You think being quiet makes you strong. Think sufferin’ in silence is some kind of goddamn virtue. But all it ever made you was forgettable.”
His breath caught, just slightly.
“You ain’t a man people remember,” she added. “You’re a man people leave.”
The words landed hard and clean, sharper than any scream ever could’ve been. Louis didn’t flinch this time, he just stood still, like if he moved, the whole structure of him might give out.
Maggie watched him for a beat longer, waiting for something. A reaction. A crack.
He gave her nothing.
She huffed like she was bored of the whole thing, turned her back, and walked inside. The screen door creaked, then slammed shut behind her. Up the stairs. Into the spare room. Quiet again. Louis stayed on the porch.
His knees bent slow as he sat back into the rocking chair, his hands clasped between them, eyes locked on the dirt yard stretching out in front of him like a grave he hadn’t dug yet.
The sun was rising now, just enough light to show the lines under his eyes, the way his jaw trembled even though his lips stayed closed. His throat moved as he swallowed hard, blinking once, then again. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Sat like that for a long minute, trying to breathe steady. Trying not to break.
But the thing about silence was—it only held so much.
And his was full.
—
The sun hung high overhead, relentless and sharp, baking the dirt a few shades lighter and turning the air heavy with heat. Cicadas screamed from the trees, and somewhere off near the creek, a bird called once and got no answer. Louis was in the south field, shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his back as he hammered a fresh post into the ground. The fence had been half down for weeks and he finally had enough energy or resentment or both to do something about it.
The days since that fight had passed slow, thick with silence that wasn’t new, just heavier. Maggie had stayed out of his way. Slept in the spare room. Cooked for herself, left without saying where. She hadn’t offered an apology. Hadn’t even offered small talk. And Louis hadn’t asked for either. He preferred it this way. Mostly.
He wiped his forehead with the inside of his arm, squinting at the post to check if it sat straight. Close enough. He leaned into it with both hands, the ache in his shoulder flaring like it always did when he pushed too hard, too long. He welcomed it. The pain gave him something to answer to. Something that made sense.
Out of habit, he glanced toward the house. Maggie’s shape passed behind the upstairs window. Curtains shifted. Then stillness again. He didn’t look twice.
He bent down to grab the next section of barbed wire, careful with his grip. The wire sliced his glove anyway. Didn’t draw blood, but it reminded him how thin the layers were. How everything cut if you held on too tight.
He straightened, rolled out his back, and looked out over the field. Brown and brittle, rows uneven from where the plow had skipped in spring. The barn’s roof was still untouched. The coop door was hanging open again. The tomato garden Maggie had insisted on planting last year had gone to seed and weeds and hornets.
He’d done what he could with the time and hands he had. Which wasn’t much. And still, the work kept piling up like it knew he’d never leave.
He sank to sit on a crate he’d dragged from the shed and pulled the flask from his back pocket—not much left, but enough to burn going down. He didn’t drink much. Not really. But these days, the edge was hard to live on without smoothing it some. The wind kicked up just a little, bringing dust with it. Louis closed his eyes and let it pass over him. Let it pull through his hair and rustle the grass and rattle the broken shutters on the north side of the house he still hadn’t fixed.
The wind died back down, and with it came a stillness so deep it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. Louis stayed hunched on the crate, sweat drying on his neck, flask warm in his hand, when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
He squinted toward the horizon, eyes shaded beneath the brim of his hat. The heat shimmer made it hard to see straight—everything wavered like a mirage—but there, out past the split in the tree line where the old road forked, a wagon rolled slow down the dirt path. One horse. Steady pace.
He set the flask down. Didn’t stand right away. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the figure grow clearer. Not David. Not the peddler from the next county over. Not the preacher’s boy with his basket of tracts and too many questions.
No, this was someone new.
The rider was upright, not slouched. Not in a hurry, but not aimless either. There was something about the way he held the reins, like he’d never driven a wagon long, but he was doing it anyway. Determined. Focused.
Louis stood then, wiped his palms on his jeans. The sun caught on the wagon’s wheels as it jostled over the uneven trail, dust rising in a long tail behind it. When the figure got close enough for features to start forming, Louis took another step forward, brow furrowed.
The man had dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, shirt too clean for someone local. A satchel bounced against his hip, and something long and slim was tied down next to him in the wagon bed—maybe a walking stick. He wasn’t slouching like someone beat down by the West. He looked like he was still learning how to carry it. Louis crossed his arms and stood in the field, watching him come.
The wagon rattled to a stop a few paces from the edge of the field, just where the dirt path narrowed into the gravel strip that cut toward the barn. The horse snorted and pawed at the ground, flanks dusted in road grit, and the rider sat for a second, squinting through the light like he wasn’t sure where to go next.
Louis narrowed his eyes.
Fancy boots. Clean shirt. Something pinned to his collar that definitely wasn’t sweat. The man looked more like someone sent to audit taxes than fix a fence. Louis could already hear the pitch coming: some new tonic for aches, or a traveling knife sharpener, or a God-fearing pamphlet on the righteous path to salvation. He braced for it.
The stranger climbed down from the wagon in one smooth motion, landing light on his feet. He tugged the satchel strap up higher on his shoulder, then turned toward Louis with an easy kind of confidence that didn’t come from years out here—it came from being raised somewhere you never had to flinch when you spoke.
“Afternoon,” the man said, voice crisp and unmistakably English.
Louis stiffened.
Brit. Jesus. Of course.
“Look,” Louis said, dragging a hand down his face, “I ain’t buyin’ any snake oil, and I sure as hell don’t need someone preachin’ to me.”
The man blinked. Then smiled. “Not here to sell you a thing, I swear.”
That accent made everything sound a little too polite, a little too practiced. Louis didn’t trust it. Not yet.
“You lost?” he asked, blunt.
“No, actually.” The man’s eyes flicked over the fields, the sagging fence, the battered barn. “Tomlinson Ranch, right?”
Louis gave a single, wary nod.
“Harry Styles,” the man said, stepping forward and extending a hand. “I saw your flyer in town. The one about the help.”
Louis didn’t take the hand. He just let his gaze drag over the man—Harry—slow and deliberate, like he was trying to read a warning label written in a language he didn’t trust. He took in the clean lines of Harry’s shirt, the softness in his hands, the way the sun hit his face and didn’t highlight a single callus or scar. Too polished. Too soft around the edges. Young, too—early in his twenties.
“You don’t look like you’ve ever lifted anything heavier than that satchel,” Louis said, arms folding across his chest.
Harry let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “Fair enough.”
Louis raised a brow, waiting.
Harry looked back at the ranch, then down at his boots, dusted now from the ride. “I’m studying the land,” he said finally, looking up again. “Flora. Fauna. Soil structures. The way the climate shifts between regions. Been traveling west the past few months.”
Louis blinked, unimpressed. “So you’re a gardener.”
“I’m a botanist,” Harry corrected, tone dry but not defensive. “And no, I’m not expecting this to count for course credit. I just wanted to see the country. Understand it. Get my hands dirty.”
“You sure about that last part?”
Harry’s smile tilted, just slightly. “I might not look like much, Mr. Tomlinson, but I’m not here to be a tourist. I saw the sign. I know what I’m offering isn’t ideal, but I’ve got time, and I learn fast. I don’t mind the work. I could use the quiet.”
Louis chewed on that for a moment. “Not much pay,” he muttered.
“I’m not after your money.”
“Board’s not fancy.”
“Neither am I.”
Louis narrowed his eyes again, searching Harry’s face for a lie. There wasn’t one. Just calm, honest interest. Like he’d meant what he said about wanting to help. Like maybe he really did just need somewhere to land for a while.
Louis blew out a slow breath through his nose. “You ever used a posthole digger?”
“No.”
“A hammer?”
“Yes.”
“A shovel?”
“I’ve dug a trench or two,” Harry said, shrugging. “Though I can’t promise they were pretty.”
Louis squinted toward the sun, then back at Harry. The kid didn’t flinch under the stare, which was something. Most folks got a little nervous when Louis started asking questions like he was sizing up a horse about to be put to pasture.
“You ever slept in a bunkhouse?” Louis asked, dragging the back of his hand across his brow.
Harry shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
“Well, you’re about to. Ain’t much more than four walls and a cot. No stove. No glass in the windows, just screens. Gets hotter than hell during the day, colder than you’d like at night. If it rains, the roof might drip.”
Harry didn’t blink. “I’ve slept under worse.”
Louis grunted. “There’s a bucket for washin’. Outhouse behind the main barn. If you’re expectin’ comfort, I’d suggest turnin’ your fancy horse around now.”
Harry looked back toward the shed where his wagon sat hitched. “He’s not fancy. Just clean.”
Louis didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched like maybe it wanted to. He shook his head and kept going.
“Mornings start early. I’m up before the sun, and you will be too. That fence you saw on the way in? Half of it’s busted. Coop door’s off again. The barn’s got a roof leanin’ more than it stands. Don’t ask for a list—you’ll find the work soon as you walk out your door.”
“I’m not afraid of work,” Harry said, straightening just slightly.
“I ain’t got time to babysit,” Louis added. “You break something, you fix it. You use it, you clean it. You see a job needs doin’, do it. Don’t wait for me to hold your hand.”
Harry nodded. “Understood.”
Louis eyed him again, slower this time. The sun caught the sweat just starting to form at Harry’s temples. His boots were real leather, but too new. No dirt in the laces. No wear on the heels. But he was standing straight, meeting Louis’ eyes without twitching, no sign he was about to make some excuse and head back the way he came.
“Food’s plain,” Louis said after a pause. “I don’t cook much, and I don’t clean after other people. You want more than bread, eggs, and beans, you better know how to use a knife and a skillet.”
Harry smiled softly. “I’m decent with a pan. Not much with seasoning, though.”
“Well,” Louis muttered, glancing toward the house. “You’ll fit right in, then.”
He exhaled slow and nodded toward the bunkhouse, a squat building a short walk from the back edge of the main garden, weathered gray with a lopsided door and a little stone stoop cracked clean through the middle. “That’s yours. If you’re still around tomorrow, we’ll see what kind of hand you are.”
Louis watched Harry cross the yard toward the bunkhouse, long strides steady, wagon creaking behind him as he led the horse toward the lean-to. The boy moved like he was used to fitting into new spaces—just not ones that looked like they were barely standing.
Louis wiped his palms on his jeans and was about to turn back toward the fence line when the front door opened with a groan of hinges. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. Maggie’s boots clicked once on the porch before she stepped into the light, eyes shaded under a wide-brimmed straw hat, mouth painted too red for this early in the day.
“There you are,” she called, voice too casual. “I was gonna tell you, David’s bringing by the seed orders tomorrow. Said he found better deals at the auction upstate.”
Louis didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at her over his shoulder with a look that said he’d rather she’d kept that news to herself. She caught it, but didn’t care. Then her gaze shifted past him. She straightened.
Harry was brushing dust from his sleeves, crouched to unhitch the wagon, sleeves rolled high, forearms taut from the strain. The sunlight caught on the soft sheen of sweat at his collarbone. When he looked up, cheeks flushed, curls a little damp, Maggie tilted her head just so.
“Well now,” she said under her breath, lips twitching. “Who’s this?”
Louis’ jaw ticked.
Harry looked up then, catching the movement, and stood upright.
“Oh, hello,” Harry said brightly, dusting off his palms as he walked up, all polite charm and absolutely unaware of the way Maggie was drinking him in. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not,” she said, voice lighter now, smile sharp. “Not at all.”
Louis stepped in, folding his arms again. “This is Harry. He’s answering the help ad.”
Maggie barely glanced at Louis, her focus still on the man in front of her. “You’re not from around here.”
“No, ma’am,” Harry said, smile widening. “Just passing through.”
She bit her lip like she might say something wicked, but Harry didn’t catch it. Didn’t even seem to notice. His eyes shifted back to Louis like he was looking for a cue.
“Well, welcome,” Maggie said, after a beat. “If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate.”
“I appreciate that,” Harry said easily. “Though I reckon I’ll be bothering Louis more than anyone.”
Louis grunted, watching Maggie out of the corner of his eye. Her expression flickered—just a breath of disappointment that Harry wasn’t playing along—and then she turned back toward the house with a little shrug of her shoulders.
“Seed delivery’s at five,” she said flatly, already walking off. “Don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” Louis muttered.
The door shut harder than it needed to.
Harry looked after her, then back to Louis, brow slightly raised. “She your sister?”
Louis let out a short, humorless laugh. “No. That’s my wife.”
Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Louis said, already turning back toward the fence. “Let’s see how you handle a post digger.”
They worked in silence for a long while. Louis handed Harry a pair of work gloves, then motioned toward the posthole digger leaning against the crate. No instruction beyond that. He wanted to see what the kid would do when left to figure it out. To his surprise, Harry didn’t ask questions. Just looked down at the tool for a second, adjusted his grip, and got to work.
He was clumsy at first—too much wrist, not enough weight—but he found rhythm quick. By the third hole, his sleeves were soaked through and his curls stuck to the back of his neck. He grunted with effort, muscles tight, jaw set. He didn’t complain once. Louis kept to his own stretch of fencing, watching from the corner of his eye.
The kid was softer than the ranch deserved, but there was something solid under all that. He didn’t fold. Didn’t whine. And when he hit a patch of root on the fifth hole, he didn’t call for help—just got on his knees and started hacking at it with a spade like it insulted his pride.
Louis appreciated that. Quiet, stubborn tenacity. It reminded him of someone he used to be.
The sun was dipping low, shadows growing long when Harry finally spoke again.
“This land’s old,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, not looking over.
Louis didn’t answer right away.
Harry stood up straighter, stretching his back with a soft groan. “You can feel it in the dirt. The way it breaks different under your boots. You plowed this whole property yourself?”
Louis nodded once. “Mostly.”
Harry toed the edge of the hole he’d just finished. “Soil’s better than I thought it’d be. Dry, yeah, but it holds. There’s depth here. Roots run long.”
Louis leaned against the fence post he’d just set, squinting at the horizon. “It’s been worked hard. Too long. Don’t give back what it used to.”
Harry crouched again, brushing dirt from his hands. “Still got life in it, though. Just tired. Like it’s waitin’ for someone to treat it right.”
Louis let the silence stretch another moment, gaze drifting over the tired stretch of land that wrapped around them. The wind had died down again, and all that was left was the creak of the old oak behind them and the sound of dirt shifting under boots.
Then, flat and low: “If you’re lookin’ to study plants, what the hell you doin’ here?”
Harry didn’t take offense. Just huffed a breath, half a laugh, and leaned back on his heels. “’Cause it’s dry and old,” he said. “That’s the point.”
Louis looked over, squinting.
Harry shrugged, wiping his palms on his thighs. “Back east, everything’s green. Too green, even. Rain’s too regular, ground’s too soft. You can throw a seed in the ground and it’ll grow outta guilt. But here?” He gestured toward the scrub hills and yellowed pasture. “Things don’t just grow because you want them to. They grow because they fight for it. Because the land’s stingy and stubborn, and the roots gotta earn their keep.”
Louis’ mouth twitched, just slightly. “You got a real poetic way of talkin’ about weeds and dry dirt.”
Harry chuckled, low in his chest. “Weeds tell you more than flowers ever do.”
Louis grunted, but it wasn’t disagreement. He stuck the posthole digger in the dirt again, twisted it down, pulled up a fresh scoop. Dust floated around them, settling on sweat-damp clothes and in the creases of their necks.
Harry watched for a beat, then grabbed the shovel and started clearing out the loose earth. “They say the West is where things end,” he said after a minute. “But to me, it always felt like it’s where things start if you can stand the wait.”
Louis kept digging, jaw tight, but something in his shoulders relaxed just slightly. “That some book-learned thing or just what you tell yourself when you’re alone on a trail?”
Harry smirked. “Little of both.”
The silence settled again, but it felt different this time. Not empty. Just quiet. Honest.
They worked like that for a while, passing tools back and forth, settling into a rhythm. The sun dipped lower, cutting gold through the trees, and Harry stopped now and then to sketch something quick in the little journal he kept tucked in his satchel. A plant here. A cracked seed pod there. Notes in looping, careful script.
Louis didn’t ask what he was writing. Didn’t need to.
By the time they called it for the day, six posts stood solid in the ground, lined clean, wire stretched between them. Louis stepped back from the last post, gave it a rough shake. It didn’t budge. He dropped the mallet with a soft grunt, then bent to pick up the coil of leftover wire, winding it slow as he looked toward the bunkhouse, then back to the house behind it. Windows still dark. Curtains still drawn. No sign of Maggie, which meant no telling what kind of evening it’d turn out to be.
“You’re welcome to wash up at the pump,” Louis said finally, nodding toward the side of the house. “Or inside, if you don’t mind the water takin’ its time to run warm.”
Harry looked up from where he’d been coiling rope. “Appreciate that.”
Louis shrugged, rolling his shoulder where the old ache was already flaring. “If it’s a good night, Maggie might cook somethin’ worth eating.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, catching the if.
Louis didn’t elaborate.
“And if it’s not a good night?” Harry asked.
Louis gave a quiet huff, more breath than laugh. “Then it’s beans or nothin’.”
He didn’t bother looking back to check Harry’s reaction. Just slung the wire coil over his shoulder and started up the slow path toward the house. Gravel crunched under his boots in a rhythm that felt older than him—walk the field, fix the fence, check the windows, guess the mood. Always the same damn pattern.
Behind him, he heard Harry’s lighter footsteps catching up, steady but quiet like he knew not to crowd too close.
As they neared the porch, Louis glanced at the kitchen window. No flicker of light. No clatter from inside. Just stillness.
Definitely not a good night.
He adjusted the wire on his shoulder and reached for the screen door. “You can rinse off inside,” he said. “Just don’t take long. Pipes groan like hell if they’re pushed.”
Harry gave a nod, respectful. “Thanks.”
Louis stepped into the house first, the air cooler but not comfortable. It still held onto the heat from earlier, thick and stale. He dropped the wire by the door with a soft clank and kicked off his boots.
The kitchen was dark. Empty. No supper smells. No clatter of plates. Maggie wasn’t there. Not even a note this time.
Louis’ jaw tensed, but he said nothing. He just turned to hang his hat on the hook and muttered, “I’ll dig out some bread.”
Harry hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he should follow further. Louis caught it.
“You want to eat, come in,” he said, already heading toward the pantry. “Ain’t got the manners for proper hostin’, but there’s butter somewhere if you don’t mind diggin’.”
Harry stepped inside, slow and quiet, like he didn’t want to disturb the house—like he could feel its tension just hanging in the walls. He glanced around once more before speaking, his voice light, thoughtful. “You’ve got a rough drawl,” he said. “Not just western. It’s… older.”
Louis glanced over from the pantry, hand closing around a half-stale loaf. “That right?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, stepping farther in and setting his satchel down by the door. “Not sharp like the townsfolk I’ve passed. Yours sounds like it’s been weathered in. Like the land shaped it.”
Louis raised an eyebrow. “You flirtin’ with my voice now?”
Harry smiled, not quite shy, but not bold either. “Not intentionally.”
Louis let the corner of his mouth tug upward before he looked back to the shelf. He pulled a tin of preserves down and set it beside the bread. “You study that too? Accents and all?”
“Not officially,” Harry said, leaning against the counter. “But I’ve always liked the way people sound when they belong somewhere. You sound like you were born with dust in your throat.”
Louis huffed, shaking his head. “Ain’t the most flattering thing I’ve ever heard.”
Harry just smiled. “Didn’t mean it as an insult.”
Louis sat at the table and tore the bread in half, handing a piece over. “Didn’t take it as one.” He kept his eyes on the bread as he chewed, but his ears burned.
He wasn’t used to hearing anything nice, not about him, anyway. Not for a long time. Maggie used to flatter him, once, back when things were soft and new. But that’d dried up same time she did. These days, he was lucky if she said his name without biting it off halfway through.
So the fact that Harry had said something without agenda, without force, just plain and easy, it hit somewhere low in his chest he didn’t expect.
You sound like you were born with dust in your throat.
Hell, maybe he was.
He reached for the jar of preserves and busied his hands with the lid, like maybe that’d distract from the way his mouth suddenly felt dry. Like he hadn’t just tucked that compliment away where things rarely got in anymore. Harry sat across from him, easy posture, like he wasn’t even aware he’d said something that landed like that. He was already spreading jam on his bread, completely content with the silence.
Louis cleared his throat and passed the butter across the table, not looking up. “Folks usually say I sound tired,” he muttered.
Harry looked up briefly, a faint crease between his brows. “Well, maybe you are,” he said gently. “But tired is not the same as weak.”
Louis blinked. That one landed too. He didn’t know what to do with that either, so he just shoved a piece of bread in his mouth and chewed until the burn behind his eyes settled.
Harry wiped a bit of jam from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, eyes flicking once around the dim kitchen. His gaze lingered on the empty space by the stove, the untouched hooks where an apron should’ve been, the cold stovetop.
He didn’t mean to ask, not really, but it came out anyway—quiet, not prying. Just curious. “Will she not eat with us?” he said. “Your wife?”
Louis’ hand stilled on the rim of his plate. He didn’t answer at first. Just leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the window above the sink like maybe he could will the answer into the dark beyond it.
“She don’t much care to,” he said finally.
Harry waited, respectful, but didn’t pull the question back.
Louis didn’t like the way the word wife sounded out loud. Like it didn’t belong to him anymore. Like it never had.
“She goes off sometimes,” he added. “Doesn’t say where. Comes back when she wants to. Sometimes not till morning. Sometimes not at all.”
Harry’s brow furrowed, just slightly. “That doesn’t bother you?”
Louis’ jaw tensed, his thumb running slow along the edge of his plate. “Used to,” he said, voice tight. “But I stopped wastin’ energy on what ain’t mine to fix.”
The room went quiet again. This time heavier.
Harry looked down at his hands, then back at Louis. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to step where I shouldn’t.”
“You didn’t,” Louis said. “Better you know the kind of house you’re working under.”
Harry gave a small nod, thoughtful. “Not the kind of quiet I expected.”
Louis’ mouth twitched, dry. “Ain’t the kind of marriage I expected, either.”
That shut them both up for a while.
Louis stood first, collecting the plates and stacking them beside the basin. He didn’t wash them, just needed to move. Needed something to do with his hands. Harry didn’t offer to help, didn’t fill the space with words, just let it be what it was.
Which, for Louis, was maybe the kindest thing anyone had done for him in a long, long while.
Harry leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead for a moment before settling again, voice soft with a tired kind of ease. “I’ve slept in worse places than a bunkhouse,” he said. “Most nights I just pull a blanket over me in the back of the wagon. Wake up stiff and hungry and half-covered in dust.”
Louis didn’t look up. Just poured a bit of water into the basin and watched it pool over the cracked ceramic.
Harry went on, the edges of his voice smoothing out, like he was remembering it and telling it all at once. “Some towns, they see a stranger and offer you a place to rest, but it’s not hospitality. It’s a test. Like they want to see how quick you’ll make yourself small, how fast you’ll thank them for nothing.”
Louis gave a faint grunt. “Sounds about right.”
Harry’s lips pulled into a crooked smile. “You didn’t ask questions. Gave me work, a roof, a chair. That’s more than most.”
Louis finally looked over. “Didn’t say it was permanent.”
Harry met his eyes, steady. “Didn’t ask for that, either.”
The room held still after that, just the soft creak of the walls and the wind nosing around the corners of the house. Louis leaned against the sink, arms crossed, letting his gaze settle somewhere past Harry’s shoulder. The edges in him, sharp as rusted wire most days, weren’t as jagged tonight.
Harry shifted in his chair, brushing a few crumbs from his lap with lazy hands. “I’ll take a walk about tomorrow morning,” he said, voice soft but certain. “Have a proper look around, get to know the place. If that’s alright.”
Louis nodded. “Stick to the fence line. Stay clear of the southern ridge. Ground’s soft near the old creekbed.”
Harry lingered a moment before heading toward the door. “I meant what I said, by the way. About being grateful. This work gives me time to think. Let my boots stay in one place for a bit. That’s more than I’ve had lately.”
Louis gave a low hum. “Ain’t many men that admit to needin’ time to think.”
Harry glanced over his shoulder, smile small but sincere. “A lot of them do. Just don’t say it out loud.” He stepped outside into the dark, the door clicking shut behind him. A few minutes later, the lamp in the bunkhouse flickered to life, a soft glow across the yard.
Louis stayed at the sink a moment longer, listening to the quiet. And for the first time in longer than he could name, the house didn’t feel like it was swallowing him whole. Just holding still. Waiting.