Chapter 8 #3
Because it’s Ironwood, yes. But not the version of Ironwood I see when I’m measuring liabilities, feed counts, and staffing gaps.
Not the version people use in brochures or at fundraisers or in town when they say our name as a title instead of a place.
This is something else.
“You took this here?”
Annie gives me a look. “No, I faked the whole ranch for artistic credibility.”
I glance at her.
She sighs. “Yes. Here.”
I look back at the screen. “Show me.”
Her expression changes at that. Surprise again, but this time smaller. Less guarded. She expected disinterest and got curiosity instead.
She clicks to the next image.
The north barn in early morning, shadows striped across the packed dirt, one loose strand of hay caught on a latch so clearly it feels intentional.
Then another: Duke in the kitchen doorway without knowing he’s being photographed, all lazy posture and warmth, one hand braced on the frame, face turned half away in a rare second of stillness.
Then Cody outside the office window, head bent over a ledger, profile severe enough to look carved from the same hard logic he’s built his entire life around.
Then one of me. I know it before my brain fully catches up to the image.
Fence line.
Evening.
My father’s glove in one hand.
I’m turned slightly away from the camera, looking toward the north boundary, jaw set, posture angled forward, bracing against something that hasn’t shown itself yet.
“When did you take this?”
Annie goes still. “The other evening.”
“Why?”
She shrugs once, but there’s care in it. “Because the light was good. Because you looked like part of the ranch instead of the man trying to control it.”
The words land somewhere I don’t have language for fast enough to defend against them.
I study the image again.
She’s right.
There’s no performance in it. No authority or projection of certainty. Just the shape of a man carrying too much and not putting any of it down.
Most people don’t see that version of me because I make sure they don’t.
Annie saw it anyway.
“That one’s not for public use,” I say.
Her mouth curves faintly. “Noted.”
She clicks forward again.
The shots get stranger the longer she goes. Better, too. Details I would never think to isolate and yet recognize instantly once she does.
A coil of rope against red barn wood. Rainwater gathered in the shallow dent of a metal trough. Boot prints crossing in dust.
Duke’s guitar left against the kitchen wall with morning light hitting the strings. Cody’s color-coded tabs spread over a ledger, a mind turned inside out.
A horse mid-turn, eyes bright, movement blurred just enough to look alive rather than still.
I become aware, slowly and inconveniently, of how close I’m standing to her.
Close enough to smell her shampoo. Vanilla and rain. Close enough to hear the soft click of her nails against the trackpad.
Close enough that if she leaned back half an inch, her shoulder would hit my hand.
I step back.
“You’re good,” I say. The words come out rougher than intended.
Annie looks up at me, skepticism already loaded. “That sounded painful for you.”
“It was a true statement.”
“From you, that counts as glowing.”
I ignore that. “How long have you been shooting seriously?”
“Since I was twenty-one.”
“And accounting?”
“Since I was twenty-four.”
“Photography first.”
She nods. “Numbers pay better.”
That bothers me. It’s compromise dressed up as practicality, but I’m not sure why the idea of her putting this part of herself second lands as irritation in me rather than simple understanding.
“You should charge more.”
Her brows lift. “For the ranch shots?”
“For any of it.”
She studies me, probably trying to decide if I’m mocking her. I’m not. That seems to unsettle her more. “I do fine.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Then she closes the laptop halfway and sits back on her hands, gaze fixed on me.
“What do you actually want, Silas?”
The question is fair.
I could lie. Ask something about the office. Mention the contract, the paperwork, the consultation charges. Keep this procedural.
Instead I hear myself say, “I wanted to see if you were alright.”
She blinks.
“Why?”
The simplest answer is because I’m responsible for this house.
The truer answer is because all day I’ve been carrying a low tension under my skin with her name attached to it, and I wanted visual confirmation that she was intact.
Working, breathing, existing somewhere I could see rather than imagine.
I don’t say either version.
“You seemed… unsettled yesterday.”
Annie’s expression shifts. “I’m fine.”
I know enough to hear the lie.
I also know enough not to force the truth out of someone when they’re not offering it freely.
“If something happens,” I say, “you tell me.”
Her gaze narrows. “Something happens?”
“On this ranch, I mean,” I say evenly. “If something feels wrong, you tell me.”
She holds my stare for a long second, reading the edges of the command for whatever else might be hidden in it.
“Do you do this for all your staff?”
The answer should be yes.
It is yes.
It’s also not only that.
So all I can do is nod.