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"She's up," I say.

"Go make that girl breakfast. Use the good butter."

"I don't have good butter."

"Then go buy some. And Deck?"

"Yeah."

"Call me tonight. I want details."

She hangs up. I pocket the phone, open the fridge, and assess my options. Eggs, cheese, the last of the bread, butter that's apparently not good enough for my mother's standards. Sausage from Henderson's farm, frozen, but it'll thaw fast in a pan.

The bathroom door opens. Footsteps in the hallway. She appears in the kitchen doorway wearing my flannel and nothing else. Buttons half-done, hem at her thighs, sleep still in her eyes. Curls wild around her face.

Something in my chest folds over. Quiet, permanent. A crease that won't iron out.

"Morning," she says.

"Coffee's on the counter."

She pours a mug. Adds milk from the fridge without asking, same as she did on Monday. Settles into my mother's chair, legs folded under her, mug in both hands.

"How long have you been up?" she asks.

"A while."

"Checking cattle?"

"Not yet."

"What were you doing?"

"Talking to my mom."

Her eyebrows rise over the rim of the mug. "At five in the morning?"

"She's an early riser."

"What'd you tell her?"

"That there's a woman in my house who broke my pumpkin and won't leave."

The laugh. God, the laugh. She throws her head back, the flannel shifts on her shoulder, and the morning light catches the brown of her skin against the red plaid. I grip the spatula harder.

Breakfast happens fast. Scrambled eggs, sausage, toast with the butter my mother would disapprove of. She eats standing next to me at the counter because the table still has her laptop on it, our elbows bumping, my hip against hers.

"What's the plan today?" she asks through a mouthful of eggs.

"Fence repair. Feed delivery at nine. After that, I need to move the cattle from the north pasture to the east field before the temperature drops this weekend."

"Can I help?"

"You ever moved cattle?"

"No."

"Then you'll learn."