Chapter 7: Chapter 7: The Storm

The storm comes on day four. That's how it works in Hill Country in June—blue sky, still air, and then without warning the horizon turns the color of a bruise and the world holds its breath. I'm in the barn when it hits. Cash is in the tack room. The rain arrives like a fist—sheets, not drops. Wind tears through the open doors. Lightning cracks close enough to turn the world white. "The feed!" I yell. We run together. The new supplements are in the truck bed, getting soaked. Cash hauls bags. I back the truck under the lean-to. We work in silence, in sync, like we've been doing this for years instead of days. By the time we're done, we're both soaked through. We go into the barn. The barn is dim, warm, smelling of hay and leather. Rain hammers the tin roof. I wring out my hair. It's the first time I've worn it down around him—usually it's braided, practical, out of the way. But the rain has loosened it, and it falls past my shoulders in dark waves. Cash looks at me. Looks away. Looks back. "You're staring," I say. "I'm assessing the structural integrity of the barn." "You're a terrible liar." "I'm an excellent liar. I was trained by the United States Army." "So you admit you were staring." "I admit nothing." I grin. Something about the absurdity of it—soaking wet, stuck in a barn, building a brand that might not work—makes me laugh. Cash stares at me. "What?" I say. "Nothing. You just have a good laugh." The compliment lands like a warm stone in my chest. "Tell me something," I say. "About before. The Army." He's quiet for a moment. Then he tells me about a dog named Ranger. A Belgian Malinois. A deployment…