"The books."
"Yes."
"The supply costs."
"Yes."
"And now they're fixed."
Matthew stared at her. Rachel waited. He could have said it then.
Anything. Instead, he looked toward the floorboards. When he spoke, his voice was low.
"I won't stop you if you want to go."
Rachel's fingers tightened around the bag handle. He believed he was giving her freedom. She heard only the absence of a reason to stay.
"Thank you," she said.
Matthew's head came up. Something about those two words hit him harder than anger would have. Rachel moved past him toward the doorway.
He stepped aside automatically. Always giving her room. Always careful. Always decent.
She almost hated him for it.
"Rachel."
She stopped without turning. Matthew stood behind her. His hands had curled into loose fists at his sides.
He wanted to say more. She could feel it. But wanting words and speaking them were different things.
Finally, he said, "You don't owe this ranch anything."
Rachel closed her eyes. That was meant as kindness too. It hurt most of all.
"I know."
She walked down the hall. Matthew remained in the little room beside the packed canvas bag for nearly a minute before following. At supper, Rachel served beef stew and cornbread. Matthew sat in his usual place.
The blue-rimmed mug remained untouched beside his plate. Eli looked from one of them to the other and had enough sense not to ask. That night, the ranch settled under a wet spring wind. Rachel lay awake listening to the river.
Matthew sat alone in the ranch office with the ledger open to a page he had not read in half an hour. Between them stood 50 yards of dark yard, one cookhouse, one packed bag, and months of things neither had known how to say. The silence that had once made room for both of them had finally become too large. Neither understood yet that by morning, leaving would no longer be the hardest thing Holloway Basin had to survive.
The storm came before sunrise. Not with thunder. With wind.
It pushed hard down from the mountains and struck the ranch house broadside, rattling shutters and driving cold rain against the windows like thrown gravel. Rachel was already awake. She had not slept much. Her canvas bag sat beside the wall, packed and tied.
She stood at the cookhouse window with a shawl around her shoulders and watched the yard disappear beneath sheets of rain. The spring roundup crew had ridden north the day before with nearly 400 head gathered from the upper range. The plan had been simple. Hold the herd overnight near the lower pasture.
Move at first light. Reach the rail loading pens by afternoon. The storm ended that plan before breakfast. Eli came through the cookhouse door, dripping water from his hat.
"River's up."
Rachel turned. "How high?"
"High enough that the east trail's gone under."
"Matthew?"
"Already riding out."
She looked past him into the yard. Through the rain, she saw Matthew mounting near the barn, his dark coat slick with water. Even from a distance, she could tell something was wrong by the way men were moving.
Not running. Working quickly. That was worse.
Rachel stepped outside. "Matthew!"
He turned in the saddle. For a second, everything from the night before stood between them. Then the ranch took over.
"The herd," she called.
"Coming back."