Page 100 of Josephine and Clay

He follows anyway.

The ranch office is small, tucked off the back hall where the house gets quieter. It used to be Dad’s domain, then Boone’s, then somehow all of theirs depending on the day. I’ve avoided it most of my adult life. Too many ledgers, too many documents, too many reminders that running a ranch is less about riding across open land looking impressive and more about drowning slowly in bills, feed orders, veterinary records, and tax forms.

Mom has boxes stacked against one wall, folders spread across the desk, and an expression that suggests she’s already regretting asking for my help.

“I need those sorted by year,” she says, pointing to one stack. “And before you get creative, I mean actual years. Not whatever weird system exists inside your head.”

I lower myself into the chair with a careful breath, stretching my cast out beside the desk. “Years. Got it.”

For a while, we work in quiet.

Mom sorts receipts. I separate bank statements and insurance forms into piles that slowly begin to make sense. Rusty sleeps under the desk, snoring loud enough to be offensive.

The room smells of paper, dust, and the lavender sachets Mom hides in drawers. Sunlight cuts across the desk, catching in the floating dust. Every so often Mom mutters to herself about missing invoices or Boone’s handwriting or whether Dallas moved a file without telling her.

It should annoy me.

It almost doesn’t.

That’s been happening more lately. Things that used to crawl under my skin don’t always hit the same. The ranch sounds. The family noise. Mom fussing. Rusty following me as if I’m worth keeping track of.

Even Josie.

Especially Josie.

I haven’t seen her since the calf. Not in person, but we’ve texted a little. Enough to make me stare at my phone more than any grown man should. Enough to make me smile once in front of Faith, which was a mistake because she immediately asked who I was talking to and then made a face because she was going to dig until she hit bone.

I told her it was Earl Haskins.

She didn’t believe me.

No one would.

My phone buzzes now where it sits on the desk, and my attention snaps to it before I can stop myself.

Mom notices. “Expecting something?”

“No.”

She looks at me over her reading glasses.

I flip the phone face down without checking it. “Sorting by year. Very focused.”

“Mm.”

“That sound means you think you know something.”

“I know many things.”

“Terrifying.”

She goes back to her papers, but I can feel her curiosity sitting there, warm, patient, and dangerous.

I sort faster.

That’s when I find it.

At first, it’s just an envelope near the bottom of an old box, tucked between tax files from years ago and a worn folder labeled equipment repairs. It doesn’t belong with the rest. Everything else is neat, filed, accounted for. This is different.