17. Proving It #2
She is quiet for a long moment. The office settles around us, the ranch sounds coming through the window, the particular mid-morning energy of the ranch doing what it always does.
"You've been planning this since before the Weston situation," she says. Not a question.
"Since week three," I say. "Maybe week two."
Something shifts in her expression. The careful professional layer that has been sitting over everything since Monday peeling back slightly at the edges.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks.
I look at her across the desk. "I wanted to show you instead."
She holds my gaze for a moment.
Then she looks at the notebook. The figure. The contractor note I've written in the margin. The access road added in fresh ink from this morning.
"The wash station," she says. "Remy's right about that. Four hours a week is conservative."
"It's on the list."
"The south cabin needs a new water heater."
I turn to a fresh page. "Tell me."
She leans forward in the chair across the desk, her elbows on her knees, her expression fully present and professional and something underneath that which is neither of those things.
She starts talking about the ranch the way she talks about it when she's not managing anything, openly, specifically, with the easy fluency of someone who knows every inch of a place.
Like she's been waiting for someone worth telling.
I write it all down.
Every word.
Weston Blackthorn shows up at noon.
I'm at the barn with Silas when his truck comes through the gate, clean as always, moving with the unhurried confidence of a man who has decided he's going to have a conversation whether or not the other party is expecting one.
He parks in his usual spot with his usual ease and climbs out with his hat on and his hands in his pockets and the expression of a man who has received a message he'd like to discuss in person.
Silas looks at the truck. Looks at me. Says nothing.
"Keep working," I tell him.
I walk across the yard to meet Weston before he gets to the barn.
We meet in the middle of the ranch yard, which is nobody's particular territory, which I suspect is why he aimed for the barn rather than the office. The barn is Laney's space, the office is mine, and the yard is neutral. Weston knows the geography of this ranch better than I'd like.
"Beckett," he says. Easy smile. Measured eyes.
"Weston." I stop at a comfortable distance. Not aggressive. Not accommodating. "I got the impression from Marcus that you had some questions about Silver Mesa."
"I heard you declined the inquiry."
"I did."
He nods slowly, looking around the property with the assessing eye he always brings here. "Place is looking good. You've put work into it."
"We have," I say. The plural is deliberate.
He catches it. His eyes come back to me. "I want you to know the inquiry was legitimate. No games. I think Silver Mesa is an exceptional property and if you ever consider a change of direction I'd want to be first in line."
"I appreciate that," I say. "It's not going to be relevant."
He looks at me for a moment. Reading something. "You're staying."
"I'm staying."
"And Laney." He says her name with the careful tone of a man who has filed a lot of information about a situation he's been observing for months. "She's part of that calculation."
I look at him directly.
"Laney Jenkins has built something at this ranch that I have enormous respect for.
She runs this operation with a competence that I've never seen matched and she does it because she loves this place.
" I pause. "She's not a calculation. She's the reason this ranch became worth fighting for in the first place. "
Weston is quiet for a moment.
Laney appears from the direction of the equipment shed behind me. I hear her boots on the gravel, know her stride, know she's heard at least the last part of what I said.
Weston sees her over my shoulder. Something moves across his face that he puts away quickly. He looks back at me with an expression that has lost its competitive edge and replaced it with something more straightforward.
"She deserves someone who sees that," he says. Quietly. Meaning it.
"I know," I say.
He looks at the ranch one more time. The barn, the pastures, the hill line, the whole of Silver Mesa in the noon light. Something in his expression is genuinely appreciative rather than acquisitive.
I understand for the first time that Weston Blackthorn actually loves this land even if his methods of showing it are questionable.
He extends his hand.
I shake it.
"Good ranch," he says.
"Good neighbor," I say back. Meaning it as much as he meant his.
He gets in his truck and drives back down the ranch drive and doesn't look back.
I turn around.
Laney is standing ten feet behind me with her arms crossed and her hat pulled down and an expression that is working very hard to stay neutral and not quite managing it.
"She's the reason Silver Mesa is what it is," she says. Flat. Quoting me back.
"True statement," I say.
"You said that to Weston Blackthorn."
"I did."
"In the middle of the ranch yard."
"That's where we were standing, yes."
She looks at me for a long moment. The neutral expression gives up entirely. What's underneath it is warm, unguarded, the fully open version of her that I have come to understand is the most valuable thing on this entire property.
"You're insufferable," she says.
"You love me," I say.
She holds my gaze for one more second.
"Yeah," she says quietly. "I do."
She walks back toward the equipment shed with the unhurried stride of a woman who has just said something true and is completely at peace with it.
I stand in the middle of the ranch yard and watch her go and think that Weston Blackthorn did me an enormous favor by showing up today.
I'm never going to tell him that.
The piano gets tuned on Friday afternoon.
I arranged this three days ago, a man named Gerald from San Antonio who comes out to ranch properties with a portable kit.
He has the patient calm of someone who has been doing this for thirty years and has seen pianos in worse shape than this one.