Page 49 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“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.