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Wyatt appeared in the doorway.

I put the marker down.

He looked down at the drawings again. The stern feed-store cow. The mare with the blue tail. The mountain in striped pants. Boone’s animals, which had now become a pair of upholstered furniture items with ears.

His gaze paused on the low table.

The shelves.

The morning light.

Something in his face shifted. It was not envy, exactly. Not resentment. Wyatt loved his brothers. That love was visible in the things he carried so they did not have to. But love did not protect a man from noticing when everybody else had found somewhere soft to land.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

“There are sandwiches.”

“I ate.”

Cash came up behind him. “He’s lying.”

“I am not.”

“What’d you eat?”

“Breakfast.”

“What?”

“A breakfast food.”

“The man has built an airtight case,” I said.

Wyatt looked at me.

Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth moved.

Not a smile. Wyatt probably recorded smiles as depreciation.

But close.

Wyatt looked at Boone. “North field. Tomorrow at six.”

Boone nodded.

“Cash, call the bench outfit. Do not agree to a price.”

“I understand commerce.”

“The trailer sale suggests otherwise.”

The words landed, too sharp for the warm room.

Wyatt’s jaw tightened.

Cash did not grin.