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Priya pressed her lips together.

I led her to the bunkhouse steps. She came, which was not the same as agreeing, but I’d take movement.

Boone set the skillet on the porch rail. Eggs, potatoes, bits of bacon. Josie handed Priya a mug.

“Eat before Doc starts diagnosing everyone,” she said softly.

“Already started,” I said.

Priya sat on the top step.

Not all the way at first. She perched on the edge, mug in hand, weight forward, ready to rise at the first bad latch or unanswered question.

I sat beside her and put the plate between us.

I forked potatoes onto a piece of toast and handed it to her.

She took it. Ate. The sun climbed over the cottonwoods.

Nobody asked Priya a question.

That might have been the miracle.

They followed her orange marks. They used her gate measurements. They unloaded into the spaces she’d chosen and checked the documents she’d prepared and drove down routes she’d mapped.

The work held without her hands on it.

She finished the toast.

I gave her another.

“I’m not agreeing,” she said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I am temporarily observing.”

“Very professional.”

“I may offer limited consultation.”

“Attendance.”

“Consultation.”

“Attendance with opinions.”

She considered that.

“Fine.”

We sat there with our shoulders touching.

Earl and Tuck carried the first panel toward the arena, Tuck holding approximately four pounds of it and acting like a man under siege. Doc followed, criticizing their angle. Ty led the quiet Miles City mare toward the west pens. From the main house, Wyatt came down with the operations binder under his arm, stopped when he saw the yard, and removed his glasses to clean a lens that was already clean.

Priya saw him.

A laugh escaped her.