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“I’m the ranch manager,” she says.

That takes me aback. She’s quite small, almost birdlike, in her build. Her hair is wispy and a little jaggedly cut at the ends. I can’t tell if that’s on purpose or not. Her eyes are perfectly round, framed in black lashes, and her face is an oval with a pointed chin. One of her front teeth slightly overlaps the other. She has a few freckles on one side of her face, but not really on the other. Despite being thin, she has nice curves, and her jean shorts and white blouse look good on her figure.

Not that I should be looking.

She’s like a breath of fresh air.

“Oh, okay,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Coen Taylor.”

She nods, ignoring my hand and stepping aside. “I know. Come on in. I made pasta.”

I step into the dark hall. The house is nice, homey.

“Go on, straight ahead.”

She’s got a brisk way of speaking. I walk in, entering an open concept with thick wooden walls and an enormous stone fireplace that reaches to the second floor. Everything is the typical ranch style found out in these parts, way nicer than anything I had growing up.

“You hungry?” she asks.

I nod, although I’m not sure. She darts past me and turns on the kitchen light, bathing the dim room in a golden glow that smarts my eyes. Carefully, I set down my bags and take in the interior of the ranch house. It’s nice, a little outdated, but well loved. She opens the oven and takes out a blue and red painted pie dish, peeling back the foil. Inside is a massive pile of chicken and pasta smothered with cheese and white sauce.

My stomach tightens. Maybe I am hungry.

“Want anything to drink?” she asks.

“Uh, just some water is great,” I say.

She pulls out a barstool at the counter and sets the dish on a towel. “Go on. Sit and eat while it’s hot.”

I’m a little confused, but rolling with it. I could have sworn the person I was supposed to meet was Scott Iron’s friend, Bill Maxwell. Sinking down, I watch as she gets herself a glass of white wine. She turns, lifting the bottle.

“Sure you won’t have just a bit?” she says.

I shake my head. “Nah, but I’d take a coffee.”

“Your loss,” she says cheerily, popping it back in the fridge. “So, how was the trip in?”

“Long,” I say. “But good, yeah.”

She pops a cup in the Keurig, and the scent of coffee and faint bubbling of it brewing fills the air.

“How far?”

“New York to here,” I say. “A couple layovers.”

“Where?”

“Uh, Dallas, mainly.”

She nods, frowning. “I’ve never flown anywhere but New York.”

“Really?”

She shakes her head, passing me the mug. “Never had a chance to travel. All me and my sister have ever done is fly back and forth to where our mom lives in New York. You probably think that’s pretty small town of me.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m from a small town.”

Silence. She shifts her weight from left to right. I take a bite and have to pause. I haven’t had food this good in a long time. I’m used to road food, to feeling a little bit uncomfortable from eating things in packages, or being at award ceremonies where the meal is sparse and cold. This tastes normal, like what my mom used to make.