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Here.

Not because Boone owned the ground. Because I had chosen the life happening on it.

A calf came through the chute, black nose wet, eyes wide. I drew the dose.

Across the yard, Boone looked up at the exact moment I looked toward him. He did not smile. Boone rarely wasted one across distance. He touched two fingers to the center of his chest. Our signal.

You good?

I closed my hand around the clover and nodded.

Yes.

Not fine.

Good.

There was a difference.

***

After the last truck left, the ranch sounded so quiet all of a sudden. No children on the fence. No calves bawling through the chute. No Cash trying to sell dangerous animals as a financial strategy. Only peepers by the creek, a horse shifting in the near pasture, and bathwater running inside Boone's cabin.

I stood in his kitchen wearing his flannel and very little dignity.

My shoulders were pink from the sun. My lower back ached. There was dirt behind one ear, vaccine marker on my wrist, and something inside my left boot that had been stabbing me since noon.

I had never been more pleased with myself.

Boone came from the bathroom with his sleeves pushed up.

"Boots."

"I can remove my own boots."

He stopped in front of me.

I sat on the bench.

"Good choice," he said.

"Your influence is oppressive."

"Mm."

He knelt and took off my boots.

A pebble fell out of the left one. I pointed at it. "Sabotage."

Boone set both boots by the door. "Bath's ready."

"I can also wash my own hair."

"I know."

That was not the same as permission.

Warmth moved low in me.