Page 61 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Across the room, Carl Benson is already arguing with Margaret O’Hara about some incident involving a fence, a truck, and a level of user error that could’ve been prevented with better planning.

Riley is behind the bar, drying glasses with the expression of a man who has long since accepted that half the job isn’t serving drinks but observing people implode with as much dignity as they can manage.

Somewhere near the jukebox, someone’s laughing too loudly at a joke that almost certainly didn’t deserve it.

I take a drink, more because it gives me something to do with my hands than because I particularly want it, and make the mistake of letting my attention drift.

That’s what starts it.

Not the bourbon or Reid. Not even the potluck, though that probably qualifies as contributing context. The actual issue, inconveniently enough, is that I can’t stop replaying details I have no business replaying.

Annie in the church hall looking simultaneously braced for impact and annoyed at herself for it. Annie laughing at something Abilene said with enough surprise in it that the sound seemed to catch even her off guard.

Annie sitting between Duke and one of the Willow women, shoulders gradually dropping over the course of dinner because her body had begun to believe it wasn’t under active threat.

None of that should still be occupying space in my head, and yet it’s there, persistent as static, interfering with every attempt I make to sort my thoughts into something more productive.

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Reid says.

I set the glass down carefully. “That isn’t a thing.”

“It is when I’ve known you for fifteen years.” He tilts his head, study disguised as laziness. “So, what exactly are we pretending this is about?”

“We’re not pretending anything.”

“Good. Then tell me.”

I should redirect. I know that. There are at least six cleaner conversational exits available to me, all of them preferable to the current trajectory.

I could mention Jake and the delivery logs. I could mention the contract inconsistency Tessa flagged. I could mention the access timestamp that still hasn’t aligned with anything I trust.

All of those would be grounded, useful, and true.

Instead I say, “She’s becoming a variable.”

Reid’s eyebrows lift. “That’s a very Cody way to refer to a woman.”

“I’m speaking precisely.”

“You’re avoiding.”

“I’m not.”

“Cody.” He waits until I look at him. “The accountant?”

I don’t answer immediately, which is answer enough.

Reid leans back, exhales through his nose, and smiles the way he always does when he thinks he’s reached the center of everything before I’ve finished constructing the walls around it. “Well. That took less time than expected.”

“This isn’t what you think it is.”

Riley appears at the edge of the table with a fresh round I didn’t ask for and sets it down without comment, though the fact that he hangs around for half a second longer than necessary suggests he’s already decided this conversation is worth passive monitoring.

“That depends,” Reid says. “What do I think it is?”

“That I’m interested in her.”

Reid glances at Riley. Riley glances at him. The two of them don’t say anything for one whole second, which is enough to make me regret having gone anywhere near direct language.