Chapter Five
~ Rawley ~
The county electric office had all the ambiance of a DMV holding cell: strip-mall beige walls, warped bulletin boards with curling flyers, and the kind of fluorescent lighting that turned everyone the color of boiled ham. A sagging ficus tree hunched near the door, its leaves glossy with dust.
The woman behind the counter wore her reading glasses on a sparkly beaded chain and had a perm that hadn’t been in fashion since the Cold War. She took one look at me—shaved head, tattoos crawling up my arms like grapevines—and found a new reason to rearrange the paperwork on her desk.
I’d seen the type before, hundreds of times, but I gave her the polite version of my smile and filled out the form she slid toward me.
Jojo took the seat beside me, doing his best impression of furniture.
He kept his knees together and his hands folded tight in his lap, staring at the pattern in the tile like he was trying to memorize it.
I could feel his anxiety humming through the air, sharp and green as wild onion. Omegas didn’t do well in government buildings, not out here. Too many rules, too many eyes.
“Please fill out both sides and initial the highlighted boxes,” the clerk said, the “please” balanced on the edge of threat. She didn’t look at me directly, but I could see her watching the reflection of my shoulders in the window glass behind the desk.
I filled in my name, the ranch address, and the rest of it.
She’d highlighted every other line with a pink marker that bled through to the back.
I took my time, printing each letter in the tight, precise script the Navy had drilled into me.
When I reached “additional occupants” I put a single slash, but she noticed.
“Will anyone else be living at the residence?” She said it with that soft upward lilt that invited a long answer.
I didn’t give one. “Myself. Ranch hand. That’s it.”
She peered over her glasses, eyes settling on Jojo for the first time. “And you are…?”
Jojo startled, like he’d been caught pocketing a muffin. “Just—um, I’m here to help with the paperwork.” His voice was small, but didn’t shake. I liked that. He kept his gaze pinned to the countertop.
“Uh-huh.” She jotted a note in the margin, then adjusted the stack so the top form was perfectly square with the edge of her keyboard. “You new to town?”
“No,” I said, and left it there.
The silence stretched. She tapped her pen against her lip, then started typing the information in with two stiff fingers. “The old Steele place has been empty for a while. You related to the previous owners?”
I saw what she was doing. Not just verifying residency—she was trying to slot us into the local hierarchy. Out here, bloodlines mattered more than bank accounts.
I kept my eyes on her. “I’m Rawley Steele. Place was my granddad’s.”
She made an “ah” sound, the kind people made when they realized you were the one from the obituary or the family scandal. “Your grandfather was quite the character. Used to ride in the Christmas parade with a rooster on his hat.”
“That was him,” I said.
Another click, a little slower this time. “We’ll need a deposit to reconnect service. Out of state, that’s five hundred up front.”
“No problem.” I pulled the wad of bills from my back pocket. She blinked, and I watched her recalculating her original assessment of me.
As she counted the cash, she kept one eye on the register and the other on Jojo. “How long you been in Black Butte?” she asked him, tone casual, but the weight behind it obvious.
He hesitated, like he was afraid of getting the answer wrong. “A couple months, maybe.”
“You settle in okay?” She was still counting, but her face went softer, like she was trying out a mom voice.
“Yeah. I like it fine,” Jojo said, so quiet I almost missed it.
She looked back at me. “Ranch is a lot of work for one man and a… helper. You got livestock yet?”
I let my fingers drum on the counter, slow and deliberate. “We got horses. Some fence work to do before I bring in anything else.”
She nodded, satisfied for now, then typed a few more lines. “Your helper have a last name?”
My jaw flexed. I felt Jojo shrink back half an inch. “Stinson,” I said. “He’s family, in a way.”
That shut her up for a second. She stapled the forms with a forceful pop, then slid them back to me for signatures.
The air changed. Jojo’s scent shifted, tight and metallic with nerves. I caught his eye, gave him a quick shake of my head. It was the only comfort I knew how to offer in public.
When I slid the paperwork back, I made a point of standing just a little closer to Jojo, making it clear whose side he was on.
“Electric should be live by tomorrow afternoon,” the clerk said, voice clipped. “If you need a meter reading, you’ll have to let the tech inside. He’s not supposed to, but if you leave a note on the door, he can—”
“We’ll be there,” I said.
She reached for the next set of forms, but stopped when she realized I hadn’t moved. “Anything else?”
I smiled, all teeth. “No. Thank you, ma’am.”
She gave me the change, and I scooped it up, then rested my hand on the small of Jojo’s back as we left. He didn’t jump—just glanced up at me, blue eyes wide and clear, and for a split second, I could feel the tension in him loosen.
The office door closed behind us, glass rattling in its frame. I let my hand linger a second longer, then dropped it to my side.
Jojo exhaled. “You really think she’ll have it on tomorrow?”
“She’s got to. It’s her job.” I scanned the parking lot out of habit. “You do okay in there?”
He nodded, then scuffed his shoe on the curb. “She didn’t like me.”
“Don’t matter. She’s not the one you need to impress.”
He smiled, small and private, but it was enough.
I guided us to the truck, keys already in hand. “Next stop: hardware store.”
Jojo climbed in, clutching the clipboard like a shield. “Can we get a coffee first?”
I grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”
* * * *
The Black Butte Hardware Emporium sat on the edge of town like a combination fallout shelter and feed lot, the only place for fifty miles that still sold nails by the pound and fence wire by the spool. The sign out front was a sheet of painted tin, faded to the color of dried hay.
In the parking lot, a huddle of old ranch trucks and battered Subarus testified to a customer base that knew the value of a dollar and the lifespan of a good carburetor.
Inside, it smelled like fertilizer, engine oil, and the fresh-cut bite of lumber. The aisles were tight, shelving units crammed with everything from roofing tacks to beekeeping kits. It was the kind of place where you could buy a live trap and a sack of gummy bears in the same transaction.
I took the battered cart from the entry and handed it to Jojo, who blinked at it like he’d never pushed one before. “We’re gonna be here a while,” I said. “Stick close.”
He nodded, scanning the ceiling as if memorizing the layout, then fell in behind me. I started down the list: fencing staples, baling wire, two rolls of 14-gauge for the pasture line.
The cart creaked under the weight, but Jojo never let it drift or wobble, steering it with the same obsessive focus he brought to cleaning the kitchen.
He moved quiet, but his eyes missed nothing.
I saw him run a thumb along the edge of a galvanized bucket, then tap a sack of seed potatoes to see if they were sprouting.
In the gardening section, he stopped to read the label on a spray bottle of organic pest repellent, lips moving as he absorbed the fine print.
I made a mental note of it, then doubled back to the appliance aisle.
The store owner, a short, wiry man in a camo vest, met us there. He grinned, revealing two chipped teeth. “You the one fixing up the Steele place?” He said it like he already knew the answer.
“That’s me,” I said.
“Thought so. You got your granddad’s face. Only, y’know. Meaner.”
I almost laughed. “Looking for a stove and fridge. Something basic, reliable.”
He nodded, leading us to a battered lineup of appliances. Jojo hovered at the edge of the aisle, trailing his fingers along the cool enamel of a chest freezer.
“These are all last year’s models,” the owner said. “But we test ’em before we sell. You want propane or electric on the range?”
“Propane,” I said. “Electric’s too finicky.”
He nodded like he approved. “We can deliver and install. Haul away the old if you got one.”
I shook my head. “It’s bare. You deliver?”
“Thursdays. Add it to the tab?”
“Cash.”
He whistled, then looked at Jojo. “You the new hand?”
Jojo startled, then nodded, hugging the clipboard closer. “Just started this week.”
The owner’s gaze softened a little, and I saw Jojo relax in response.
“We’ll take this one,” I said, tapping the sturdiest-looking stove. “And the fridge with the glass shelves.”
The owner jotted it down, then peeled off to help another customer with chicken wire. I scanned the next section—animal feed, salt licks, and a stack of wormers. I flagged him back down. “You got layer feed in stock?”
“Twenty tons in the back. You running chickens?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but I want to get ready.”
He nodded, scrawled on his pad, and promised to set aside a half-pallet for me.
While he hustled off, I turned to look for Jojo—and found him squatting in front of a wire pen, eyes huge, staring at a mess of baby chicks huddled under a red heat lamp. The pen was crowded with yellow fluff and the chorus of chirping was near deafening.
He was frozen, fingers curved over the rim of the mesh, shoulders hunched to hide his excitement. But the change in his scent was unmistakable: the nervous tang gone, replaced by something sweet and clean and alive.
I’d never seen him look so happy.
I watched a moment, then made my way over. “You want to grab a dozen?” I asked, voice pitched low.
He turned, startled. “What?”
I jerked my chin at the chicks. “Every farm needs chickens. You know how to care for them?”