Page 19 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Cody

I don’t appreciate people messing with my system.

That isn’t something I say out loud, because it sounds obsessive when phrased that way, and I prefer to keep my reasoning structured rather than defensive.

The explanation I give, when necessary, is that Ironwood runs on precision, and precision requires consistency, and consistency requires oversight.

What I don’t say is that oversight requires control.

And control requires me.

Which is why, standing in the doorway of the main office and watching Annie Wright work at my desk—because it is my desk, regardless of where it physically sits—I can feel the first fracture in something I’ve spent years holding together.

She doesn’t really belong here.

That was my first assessment.

It still is.

Electric blue hair twisted into a shape I can’t quite name, piercings catching the light, clothes that read as practical but not compliant. The kind of presentation that encourages people to underestimate her before she has to prove them wrong.

I understand that strategy.

I just don’t trust it.

What I trust are systems, patterns, repetition, and the absence of error. What I trust is what can be proven, tracked, and verified without interpretation.

Which is why I stand still longer than necessary, observing.

Her desk appears disordered at first glance, papers spread in a way that would normally irritate me enough to correct on sight, but the longer I watch, the more the structure reveals itself.

Nothing is misplaced. Nothing is random. Each document sits within reach of the next logical step, each note positioned where it will be seen exactly when needed.

It isn’t my system.

But it works.

I adjust my glasses once, then remove them as I step fully into the room, the shift from observation to interruption intentional.

“Annie.”

She looks up, attention snapping into place without hesitation, which is exactly what I expect and still something I note.

“Cody? Is everything alright?”

I set the file down in front of her and open it to the page she marked earlier, the annotations clean but not formal, efficient without being rigid.

“Walk me through this.”

There’s no need to specify further. If she understands what she’s doing, she’ll know where to begin.

Her gaze drops to the page, scanning, her thumb tapping lightly against the side of her camera in a rhythm I’ve noticed but haven’t categorized yet.

Thinking.

Processing.

Then she leans forward, anchoring herself to the work in front of her.