34
Dinner felt like a dangerous kind of peace.
Talia had not known there was such a thing, but there it was, sitting between them in Gordon’s cottage, warm as lamplight and fragrant with garlic, roasted vegetables, chicken, herbs, and something she did not want to name too quickly.
Maybe comfort.
Maybe wanting.
Maybe the beginning of a mistake she would never regret.
Gordon sat across from her at the small table near the window, eating like a man who had spent the day hauling half the ranch from one building to another.
He did not rush, though. That surprised her.
He tasted everything, asked what she had put in the sauce, complimented the chicken twice, and looked genuinely offended when she suggested he could save some for tomorrow.
“This is not tomorrow food,” he said.
Talia laughed. “Everything can be tomorrow food.”
“No. Leftovers are tomorrow food. This is tonight food.”
“You do realize there’s enough here for four people.”
He looked at the serving dish. “Not if I stay focused.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“I work hard.”
She smiled at him over her glass of water. “That is true.”
His eyes warmed.
That was the problem with Gordon. Compliments did not bounce off him the way hers often did. They sank in, as if he had been deprived of them for so long that even the smallest kindness made him stop and take notice.
It made her want to give him more.
It also made her afraid of the damage she could do.
For a while, they ate without trying to define the shape of the evening.
The cottage was quiet except for the clink of forks against plates and the occasional sound of Gordon’s chair shifting when he reached for more rice.
Outside, the sky deepened into that blue-gray stretch between sunset and full dark.
The ranch settled around them, distant and alive.
Talia looked around the cottage.
It had been furnished thoughtfully, but not personally.
Not yet. Everything was clean and sturdy.
The couch looked comfortable. The curtains were simple.
The kitchen had what a person needed, but almost nothing that said Gordon had chosen it.
His boots by the door said more about him than the furniture did.
“You need art,” she said.
Gordon looked up from his plate. “Art?”
“On the walls.”
He glanced around as if noticing the empty spaces for the first time. “I suppose.”
“And bookshelves.”
His expression softened. “For the reading room.”
“Yes. For the reading room.”
He nodded like that was now official.
Talia took a sip of water and set the glass down. “I worked on the article this afternoon.”
“I figured.”
“I’m not ready to show you.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.” She pushed a piece of carrot around her plate. “I just wanted to say it before you wondered.”
“I wondered.”
That made her look up.
He smiled faintly. “But I wasn’t going to ask.”
“Thank you.”
“You said you’d show me when you were ready.”
“I did.”
“I believed you.”
That settled over her, simple and heavy.
She looked down at her plate. “I’m still trying to figure out the frame.”
“The frame?”
“The angle. What the article is really about.” She tapped her fork lightly against the edge of the plate. “You are not the story Martin wanted.”
“Your editor.”
“Yes.”
“He wanted dirt.”
“He wanted scandal.”
Gordon nodded. “And what do you want?”
The question was gentle, but it landed hard.
Talia leaned back in her chair and studied him.
“What do you think of cowboys?” she asked.
His brow lifted. “That’s a turn.”
“It’s related.”
“To my question?”
“To the article.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin, thinking. “Cowboys in general?”
“Yes.”
Gordon leaned back too, his fingers resting around his glass. “I think cowboys are a breed unto themselves.”
Talia smiled and reached for her notebook from the corner of the table.
Gordon’s gaze dropped to it. “That sounds like I said something useful.”
“You did. Keep going.”
He looked amused, but he humored her. “You can think you know what a cowboy is because of boots and hats and horses, but that’s like saying you know cattle because you saw one cow.”
She wrote quickly. “Go on.”
“There are different kinds of cattle. Bulls, steers, heifers, cows, calves. Different temperaments. Different jobs. Different dangers. You handle them all differently or you get yourself hurt.”
“And cowboys are the same?”
“In a way.”
“Explain.”
Gordon looked toward the window, as if the ranch itself could help him answer.
“Luke is like a good herd bull.”
Talia’s pen stopped. “I cannot wait to hear this.”
Gordon’s mouth curved. “Not because he’s mean.”
“I would hope not.”
“Because everybody knows he’s there. He doesn’t have to make noise all the time. He doesn’t have to charge every fence. His presence sets the order. If trouble comes, he’ll meet it head on, but most of the time, he’s watching. Deciding. Keeping the whole place steady.”
Talia wrote that down, slower this time.
“That is a very good description of Luke,” she said.
“It’s true.”
“What about Eli?”
Gordon smiled. “Eli is like one of those clever old cows who has figured out how every gate works.”
Talia laughed. “That sounds insulting.”
“It’s a compliment.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Eli acts easy, but he sees everything. He knows how to slip pressure without looking like he’s moving. If there’s a weakness in a fence, he’ll find it. If there’s a way to get somewhere nobody expects, he’s already there.”
Talia grinned. “So Eli is a sneaky cow.”
“A strategic cow.”
“I am absolutely writing sneaky cow.”
“Do not quote me saying that.”
“No promises.”
Gordon shook his head, smiling.
“And Dwight?” she asked.
“Dwight is a working steer.”
Talia tilted her head. “That sounds less flattering.”
“It isn’t. A good steer does what needs doing. Strong. Reliable. Doesn’t waste motion. Doesn’t make a lot of fuss. You can build a day around him and trust he’ll carry his part.”
“That sounds like Dwight.”
“It is.”
“And you?”
Gordon looked away.
There it was.
The hesitation.
Talia waited.
Gordon was getting better at answering, but some doors still stuck when he tried to open them.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Yes, you do.”
His gaze returned to hers, wary.
She leaned forward. “Luke is the herd bull. Eli is the strategic cow.”
“Please stop saying that.”
“No. Dwight is the reliable steer. What are you?”
He looked down at his hands.
For a second, she thought he might refuse.
Then he said, “Maybe I’m a young horse people thought was ruined before anybody really trained him.”
Talia’s chest tightened.
Gordon kept his eyes down. “Not cattle, I guess.”
“It counts.”
“I was handled wrong. Spooked easy. Dangerous if cornered. Not because I wanted to hurt anybody, but because I was scared and didn’t know what else to do.
” He rubbed one thumb across the back of his hand.
“Then I came here, and instead of putting me down or selling me off, Luke gave me work. Edye gave me food and a place at the table. Earl gave me tools. Elise gave me rules. Nia gave me orders. Malik gave me my hat back sometimes.”
Talia’s throat tightened.
“And now?” she asked.
His eyes lifted.
“Now I’m learning to stand still when a good hand reaches for me.”
For a moment, Talia could not write.
The words were too much.
Too honest.
Too exactly the thing her article had been trying to find.
She lowered her pen. “That may be the truest thing you’ve said to me.”
“I’ve said a lot of true things to you.”
“I know.”
“That one’s useful?”
“That one is more than useful.”
His gaze stayed on hers a second longer.
Then, as if he needed to move away from himself, he reached for his water. “My turn.”
She groaned lightly. “I knew that was coming.”
“Our agreement.”
“I am aware.”
He set his glass down. “Why did you choose journalism?”
Talia’s fingers tightened around her pen.
Gordon watched her. “When it’s clear your parents’ careers caused you pain growing up.”
She looked away.
There were questions that offended because they were invasive.
This one hurt because it was fair.
“That’s a good question,” she said.
“I know.”
She looked back at him, and his face was so sincere that irritation was impossible.
“I’m not sure I have an answer.”
He nodded, giving her room.
Talia set her notebook aside and folded her hands in her lap. The food between them was suddenly forgotten. The cottage felt smaller, but not in a bad way. More like the walls had leaned in to listen.
“My parents were journalists,” she said.
“I know.”
“Not local-news journalists. Not community stories or town meetings or school board scandals. They chased the big things. War. Disaster. Political unrest. Human suffering in places people only looked at when someone made them.”
Gordon said nothing.
“They were brave,” she said. “Everyone told me that. All the time. Your parents are brave, Talia. Your parents are important. Your parents are doing meaningful work.”
Her mouth twisted.
“And they were. I know that. I’m not pretending they weren’t.
But when you’re a kid, brave and important don’t tuck you in.
Meaningful work doesn’t show up at school plays.
It doesn’t remember your favorite cereal or notice when your little sister stops sleeping through the night because she thinks the next phone call might mean someone died. ”
Gordon’s eyes softened.
Talia looked down. “My grandmother raised us. She did what she had to do. She kept us safe. But she never let us forget we were an obligation.”
“These girls are yours, not mine,” Gordon said softly.
Talia looked up sharply.
He remembered.
Of course he remembered.
She nodded. “Yes.”
The room went quiet.
Talia drew in a careful breath. “So why did I choose journalism? I don’t know. Maybe because it was the only language of value I understood. Maybe I thought if I became good enough at the thing that took my parents away, they would finally see me.”
She laughed once, without humor. “How pathetic is that?”
“It isn’t pathetic.”
“It feels pathetic.”
“It sounds human.”
That almost broke her.