Day six. The Mule Barn Feed & Supply.
Cash and I walk in together. The effect is immediate.
Earl Watkins—seventy-three, built like a barrel, white mustache with its own zip code—sees us and his eyes widen.
"Sutton Cooper. And Cash McCallister."
"Earl."
"Together."
"Together."
"In the same truck."
"It's a long story."
"I've got time. Dolores!"
Dolores appears from the back. "Well, well, well."
Cash, beside me, is laughing with amusement.
"Stop laughing," I mutter.
"I'm not laughing."
"You think this is funny."
"It is funny. Two families that haven't spoken in forty years walk into a feed store together. That's a punchline."
"It's my life."
"Same thing."
Beth Ann Briggs from the local paper arrives seventeen minutes later. Snaps a photo before I can protest.
Cash reaches into his pocket and produces a small metal tag. Two C's, intertwined. Polished copper. Handmade.
"This one's for you," he says.
I take it. The tag is beautiful. Simple. The kind of craftsmanship that takes time and skill and the kind of attention to detail that says: I made this for you. Because I was thinking about you.
"When did you make this?"
"Last night. I'm handy with metal."
I close my fingers around it. The copper is warm from his pocket.
"Thank you," I say, and my voice softens in a way that scares me.
He looks at me. "Write the brand story, Sutton. The real one. The feud. The families. The land. Write about the thing that almost destroyed everything—and the thing that saved it."
"What saved it?"
He holds my gaze.
"You did."