Page 55 of Saltwater Cowboy

Back in the kitchen, I wrapped up her plate and set it aside in case she decided to come down. I sank into my chair, my own plate waiting where it belonged, the table looking as it always had.

Just me.

The quiet stretched around me, familiar and steady. I ate, savoring the stillness, knowing it wouldn’t last.

The rhythmic scrape of my fork against the plate was the only sound in the house. I took my time, letting the quiet settle around me like an old habit.

By the time I finished eating, the house felt even emptier. I rinsed my plate and placed in the dishwasher—another routine, another piece of normalcy. But when I glanced at the wrapped plate on the counter, a nagging thought tugged at me.

Would she come down?

I doubted it.

Still, I left the kitchen light on as I made my way upstairs. Her door was still shut, and the house had gone silent again. I hesitated for a second, then shook my head and kept walking.

She didn’t need me prying.

Back in my room, I stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Wippowa nights were slow, the kind that made you sit with your thoughts whether you wanted to or not.

And right now, mine kept circling back to the combative woman down the hall.

I showered and settled onto the couch with a new book, letting the dim light and quiet wrap around me. For the first time all day, peace. I lost track of time until I heard the familiar click of a door.

Glancing toward the stairs, I caught sight of Rose easing the bedroom door shut behind her. I turned back to my book, feigning disinterest.

She moved carefully down the stairs, light on her feet, as if trying not to make a sound. Granger stirred from his spot beside me, stretching before padding after her into the kitchen.

“Oh, hey, buddy,” she murmured, her voice carrying a soft sadness. I heard the jingle of his collar. “Did your dad spit in my food?”

I smothered a laugh.

“Probably.” She answered her own question.

The rustle of aluminum foil reached me as she unwrapped the plate. A beat of silence. Then—

“Mmm.”

Good sign.

I listened as she fumbled around the kitchen, stubbornly refusing to turn on a light.

“Where are the stupid knives in this place?”

I rolled my eyes. She really was something else. Sighing, I dog-eared my page and pushed off the couch.

The moment I flicked on the light, Rose gasped, clutching her chest as she stumbled back.

“Holy shit!” she hissed. “Are you crazy?”

Leaning against the doorframe, I met her wide eyes. “Probably.”

She straightened, exhaling sharply.

“Knives are in the first drawer on the left,” I said, nodding toward the island before turning back toward the couch.

Behind me, I heard the drawer slide open, the clink of metal as she grabbed what she needed. Then the soft hum of the microwave. When she finally sat at the kitchen table, I hesitated, unsure if I should join her.

Silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of her fork against the plate.