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I blink, nodding. “Yeah, just nervous to have somebody new on the ranch.”

“We get new wranglers every summer.”

“I know, but he’s not a wrangler.”

We’re both quiet, eating until our plates are empty. It’s getting later, and our new arrival is supposed to show up around eight. I pull my phone from my pocket and swipe the screen, making sure he hasn’t texted. Dad had his agent, Jamie Iron, send over all his info this morning, making sure I knew not to share it. It’s been a strange experience, interacting with a celebrity. Everything is super-secret, piles of NDAs. Part of me wants to look him up online, but part of me is afraid of what I’ll find. I decided a few weeks ago it was probably better to keep my head down and just get through this.

“I’m gonna go lock up the barn,” Serena says, getting up and grabbing my plate. “Might take me a minute. Diesel is out in the pasture, and he needs put away.”

That’s her horse, a wild dappled gray gelding she’s been working with for a while. Both of us have new horses, given to us by the neighboring ranch that sells barrel racers. Mine needs to be broken, but I haven’t had the time. Maybe I’ll start getting up early and working with her.

“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll handle everything here.”

She leaves, dropping the dishes in the sink as she goes. I sit in the stillness for a while. Then, I make up a plate and go knock on the office door. There’s a beat of silence, and then Dad coughs.

“Come on in, Brina,” he calls.

I go, crossing to set his plate on the desk. Once upon a time, Dad was a problem for everyone this side of Wyoming. He was a wrangler, a bull rider, a notorious womanizer, but he calmed down a bit when he married Mom and took to ranching. I wouldn’t know it, not looking into his kind blue eyes, creased with heavy wrinkles from never wearing sunscreen in the heavy western sun.

“You had a good day?” he says.

I nod, sinking into the chair opposite him. “Yeah, just getting ready for the newcomer.”

“I don’t know if I’ll stay up to meet him,” he says. “Pretty beat today.”

“It’s okay. He’ll be here all summer. I can get him fed and checked in.”

He clears his throat again, reaching for his thermos. “What’s dinner?”

“Chicken alfredo.”

“My favorite.”

He smiles, and I smile back, accepting the worn hand reaching for mine. He’s got faded tattoos, big scars, and calluses thicker than leather on his fingers. I pat the back of his hand, gripping it gently.

“So how well do you really know Jamie Iron?” I ask.

He takes a bite, thinking. “Jamie’s father, Scott, was a good guy, a good friend.”

“But how long’s it been since you saw Jamie?”

“Dinner’s good,” he says. “Great job again, Brina.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say quietly.

He gathers his thoughts.

“Jamie came around after the divorce. You probably don’t remember it,” he says. “He was young then. It was before Scott passed. He wanted to make sure he was checking on me.”

“That was nice of him.”

His eyes go soft. “I’ll always check up on you like that, baby. I know this spring has been tough.”

Truthfully, it’s been tough since last fall, when Dad’s health started going downhill. It was a long time coming. I noticed he was having trouble swinging up on his horse. Then, he was struggling to grip things and couldn't use tools well. He fell on the front porch, and that was when I forced him to go to the doctor, only to be told he couldn’t outrun years of hard living anymore. It would be easier if it were an actual diagnosis, something we could treat.

We missed out on the calving season, the planting season.

Now, I’m in the aftermath, trying to get back on track.