Rachel shifted the sacks. "For what?"
"Getting in your way."
"You're not."
His eyes stayed on her face. "You've been avoiding me."
"No."
"Rachel."
It was the first time he had used her first name. No Miss Hart. No distance. Just Rachel.
She looked toward the barn door. "People are talking."
"I know."
"My father thinks you're courting Lillian."
Matthew's brows drew together. "Does he?"
"You know he does."
"I suspected."
"That's nearly the same thing."
"No, it isn't."
Rachel tightened her grip on the sacks. Matthew lowered his voice. "Have I done something wrong?"
She looked at him then. Really looked. There was no amusement in his face. No game.
That made it harder. Rachel had seen men behave kindly when they wanted something. She had seen them listen when listening was useful. She had watched attention move from her to Lillian so often that she had stopped being surprised by the movement.
Matthew was standing close enough that she could see a small scar near his jaw. Waiting. Rachel could have asked him directly. Why do you keep coming here?
Why do you remember what I tell you? Why do you look at me when Lillian is standing three feet away? She could have made him answer. Instead, she lifted the grain sacks.
"Nothing yet."
Matthew's expression changed. Not anger. Something quieter.
"Yet?"
Rachel stepped around him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hail."
She walked into the barn before he could stop her. Inside, she set the sacks down and stood with both hands against the feed bin. Outside, Matthew remained where she had left him for several seconds.
She could see his shadow beneath the door. Then it moved. Hoofbeats crossed the yard. Rachel did not look out the window.
But when they faded toward High Mesa, she realized she had been listening to every one. For two days, Matthew did not return. Rachel told herself that was useful. The farm had enough work without a giant rancher appearing every few afternoons and making everybody behave strangely.
George had begun counting Matthew's visits as though they were deposits in a bank. Lillian had started changing dresses before supper if hoofbeats sounded in the road. Rachel had begun noticing things she had no business noticing.
The way Matthew took off his hat before entering the barn. The way he waited for an answer instead of asking a question twice. The way his voice softened around nervous horses. So two days without him should have been peaceful.
Instead, Rachel caught herself looking north every time a rider passed. By the third evening, snow began falling. Not heavily, just small, dry flakes that drifted sideways across the yard and gathered along the fence rails. George had gone into Cedar Ridge that morning with Eli to settle an account at the feed store and collect a repaired harness.
He had expected to be home before dark. By seven, he was not. Rachel stood at the kitchen window with one hand around a coffee mug gone cold. Lillian sat at the table sewing lace onto a sleeve.
"They'll stay in town," Lillian said.
Rachel looked toward the road. "If the North Cut drifts, they won't have a choice."
"Then stop staring. You can't pull them home with your eyes."
Rachel turned. "You sound like Ma."
Lillian's needle paused. "So do you sometimes."
Neither said anything for a moment. The wind pressed snow against the glass. Then came a sound from the barn.
A sharp wooden thud. Rachel set the mug down. Lillian looked up.
"What was that?"
Rachel was already reaching for her coat. "The bay mare."