I wake up the next mornin' to a sound I don't recognize.
Not the rooster—he's still doin' his thing at 5:47 on the dot, God bless his militant little heart. This is different. This is a mechanical sound. A grindin', clankin', engine-turnin-over-but-not-quite-startin' sound that's comin' from somewhere outside my window.
I stumble out of bed, squintin' against the mornin' light, and look out the window.
Callum Brennan is in my barn.
He's standin' next to the ancient tractor—the one that looks like it fought in Korea—with the hood up and a wrench in his hand. He's wearin' the same gray t-shirt and jeans he always wears, his hat settin' on the tractor seat, his dark hair messy from sleep or wind or both.
He's fixin' my tractor.
At six in the mornin'.
Without askin'.
I pull on a robe—well, a jacket, because I don't have a robe; I packed for a weekend, not a homestead—and walk out to the barn.
"What are you doin'?" I call from the door.
He doesn't look up. "Your fuel line was clogged. I'm cleanin' it."
"I didn't ask you to do that."
"Tractor needed doin'. You want it to run or not?"
"I—yes. I want it to run. But—"
"Then let me work."
He says it without malice. Without attitude. Just a simple statement of fact, the way you'd say "let me breathe" or "let me blink." He's fixin' my tractor because it needs fixin', and that's the end of the discussion.
I stand there for a second, arms crossed, watchin' him work. His hands move with the kind of confidence that comes from years of practice—the kind of hands that know exactly what they're doin' without consultin' a manual or a YouTube video.
"You always just show up and start fixin' things?" I ask.
"When they need fixin'."
"That's not an answer."
He finally looks up. Those green eyes. They're different in the mornin' light—softer, maybe, or maybe I'm just seein' what I want to see because I haven't had coffee yet and my defenses are down.
"Your grandaddy couldn't fix things toward the end," he says. "His hands shook too bad. So I'd come over, check on things, make repairs. Got in the habit."
"And you're just gonna keep doin' that? Even though he's gone?"
"The tractor don't know he's gone. It still needs runnin'."
He goes back to work.
I go inside and make coffee—his good coffee, the kind that doesn't strip paint—and bring a mug out to the barn. I set it on the workbench next to him.
He looks at it. Looks at me.
"Thanks," he says, and takes a sip.
"You're welcome."
We stand in the barn while he works on the tractor and I drink my coffee. Mornin' light catches the pale scar along his arm whenever he reaches for a wrench.
I'm not noticin' these things.
I am a professional woman with a plan. I am here for ninety days. I am not gonna be distracted by a man in a gray t-shirt who fixes tractors at dawn and brings me groceries and puts his hand on my shoulder when I'm cryin'.
Nope.
Not gonna happen.
"How long were you in the Army?" I ask, because small talk feels safer than watchin' him work.
"Eight years."
"Where were you stationed?"
"Fort Hood for a while. Then overseas."
"Where overseas?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The wrench turns. The bolt tightens.
"Afghanistan," he finally says. "Twice."
"That's—" I stop. I don't know what to say to that. "Thank you for your service" sounds like somethin' you put on a bumper sticker. "That must've been hard" sounds patronizin'.
"It was what it was," he says, and his voice has that closed-door quality again. The one that says this conversation is over.
I let it go.
"The cattle," I say, changin' the subject. "You said you know 'em all by name."
"I do."
"How? There's forty-something of 'em."
He straightens up and wipes his hands on a rag. "You know how you know people? The way they walk, the way they talk, the way they stand? Cattle's the same. Every one of 'em has a personality. A way of bein'. You spend enough time with 'em, you learn who's who."
"You're tellin' me you have forty-three individual relationships with cows."
"Forty-four. One of 'em had a calf last week."
"Of course she did."
A brief smile touches his mouth. It's there and gone, like a bird landin' on a branch and flyin' away before you can focus on it.
"Come on," he says. "I'll introduce you."
"I just met my rooster. I'm not sure I'm ready for more animal relationships."
"He ain't your rooster. He's everybody's rooster. And he's got a name."
"Let me guess. Earl?"
"Junior."
"Earl Junior? Like the tow truck guy?"
"The rooster was here first. Earl Junior was named after the rooster."
I blink. "You're serious."
"This is Copper Creek, Harlow. Everythin' is named after everythin' else. It's like a recursion problem in computer code."
"Did you just make a computer reference?"
"I had a life before the ranch."
He walks out of the barn and I follow, because apparently that's what I do now—I follow Callum Brennan through gates and pastures and into situations I don't understand.
The cattle see him comin' and some of 'em start movin' toward the fence. Not all of 'em—just a few, the bold ones, the ones who've apparently decided that Callum Brennan is worth the effort of walkin' across a pasture.
"That's Bessie," he says, pointin' to a black cow with a white blaze on her face. "She's the matriarch. Been here longest. She'll be the first to check you out and the last to trust you."
"Sounds like someone I know."
He gives me a look. "She's also the one who had the calf. Little bull. I named him Diesel."
"Diesel."
"He was born the same day my truck needed a new diesel engine. Seemed appropriate."
"You named a calf after a truck repair."
"It was a significant truck repair."
I can't help it. I laugh. A real laugh—the kind that comes from my belly and surprises me because I haven't done it in weeks.
Callum looks at me when I laugh. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see somethin' shift in his eyes—somethin' warm and quick, like a match strikin'.
Then he looks away.
"That's Gus," he says, pointin' to a big bull standin' by the water tank. "Don't mess with Gus. He's got an attitude."
"And that one?"
A smaller cow, redder than the others, is standin' off by herself.
"That's Ruby. She's shy. Got bullied by the others when she was young. I put her in a separate pasture for a while and now she keeps to herself."
"You separated a cow because she was bein' bullied?"
"Cattle can be cruel, Harlow. Just like people."
He says it so matter-of-factly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world—like of course he noticed that a cow was bein' bullied and of course he did somethin' about it. Because that's who he is. That's what he does.
I look at him. He's leanin' on the fence, hat tipped back, watchin' the cattle with the kind of quiet attention that most people reserve for sunsets or their phones. And I think about what my grandfather wrote in the notebook: Callum Brennan is the best man I know.
I'm startin' to see what he meant.
We spend the next hour walkin' the fence line. Callum shows me where the weak spots are—places where the posts are rottin' or the wire is loose. He shows me the well and how to check the pump. He shows me the stock tanks and how to make sure they don't get too low in summer.
I ask questions. He answers them. Not with enthusiasm—Callum Brennan doesn't do enthusiasm—but with patience. With the kind of steady, competant explanation that tells me he's done this before. He's taught people about this land.
He taught my grandfather.
Or maybe my grandfather taught him. I'm not sure which direction it went.
By the time we're done, it's nearly noon and the Texas sun is beatin' down like it's got a personal grudge against the earth. My shirt is stuck to my back and I've got dirt on my jeans and a blister on my heel from my impractical sneakers.
"You need boots," Callum says, lookin' at my feet.
"I know."
"Feed store on Main has 'em. Tell Earl Junior to measure your foot. He knows boots."
"Everyone in this town knows everythin', don't they?"
"That's small towns for you. Nothin' to do but know each other."
"Sounds exhaustin'."
"It can be." He pauses. "It can also be good. Depends on what you're lookin' for."
We're standin' by the fence line—his side, my side, the wire between us. He's on his side, I'm on mine. It's a metaphor for somethin', but I'm too tired and too hot and too confused to figure out what.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he says. "Gotta check the east pasture. Fence is saggin'."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." He puts his hat on. "But the fence needs checkin'."
He walks away.
I watch him go.
Then I go inside, take a cold shower—because the hot water heater is apparently as old as everything else in this house—and sit down at the kitchen table with the Elise letters spread out in front of me.
I need answers.
I need to know what happened to my mother. To Elise. To the family I never knew I had.
And the only person who might have those answers—the only person left alive who was here, who knew my grandfather, who might know the truth.
I pick up the phone and call Mr. Caldwell.
"Mr. Caldwell, it's Harlow James. I need to ask you about a woman named Elise."
The silence on the other end of the line is heavy.
"Miss James," he says slowly, "where did you hear that name?"
"In my grandfather's letters. In the attic. There's a box of letters from a woman named Elise. She was—" I stop. Swallow. "She was my grandmother."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I think," Mr. Caldwell says carefully, "that you should come to my office. Tomorrow mornin'. There are things we need to discuss."
"What things?"
"Things I promised your grandfather I wouldn't say over the phone." His voice is gentle but firm. "Tomorrow, Miss James. Ten o'clock. And bring the letters."
He hangs up.
I set the phone down.
Ranger puts his head on my knee.
"Well," I say to him, scratchin' his ears, "this is gettin' complicated."
He licks my hand.
Scout, sittin' by the door, does not.
He just looks at me with those skeptical eyes that say: It's been complicated since you got here, sugar. You just weren't payin' attention.