Rachel looked through the rails. "Most men reverse that."
"I've learned not to."
Something in the way he said it changed the air. Not enough to name. Enough to notice.
They ate noon dinner in the High Mesa kitchen. Beef stew. Bread. Coffee in thick white mugs.
Matthew sat across from Rachel at a table scarred by years of knives and hot pans. No polished parlor. No servant hovering. A ranch cook named Ben set the pot down and left them to it.
Rachel looked toward the window. "You don't eat with the hands?"
"Sometimes."
"Why not today?"
Matthew took a drink. "I wanted to talk to you."
She looked at him. "About the stallion?"
"No."
Rachel set down her spoon. There it was. The thing she had been avoiding.
Matthew rubbed one thumb along the coffee mug handle. "My brother's buried above the north pasture."
Rachel said nothing. He continued. "His name was Daniel."
The wind touched the window. "We were bringing cattle down from summer range eight years ago. Weather turned early."
Matthew looked at the coffee instead of her. "I knew it was getting worse."
Rachel waited.
"I pushed the crew anyway."
His jaw tightened. "We were a day behind. I thought losing cattle would ruin us."
"What happened?"
"Snow came in harder than forecast. Daniel went back for three strays."
Matthew's hand closed around the mug. "He didn't make it to camp."
Rachel did not tell him it wasn't his fault. She did not know if that was true. People said things like that too easily. Instead, she asked, "How old was he?"
"Nineteen."
Matthew looked toward the mountains. "I was 26."
Rachel folded her hands in her lap. "You found him?"
He nodded. The movement was barely there. "Next morning."
Silence sat between them. Not empty. Heavy. Matthew finally looked at her.
"After that, every decision felt different."
Rachel understood now. The way he stopped instantly when she said stop in the foaling stall. The way he waited with the frightened colt. The way he asked instead of assuming.
Not weakness. Memory.
"You think if you decide wrong, somebody pays for it."
He held her gaze. "Usually somebody does."
Rachel looked down. "That doesn't mean refusing to decide is safer."
"No."
"Do you?"
He almost smiled. "Sometimes."
She leaned back. "At least you're honest."
"Trying to be."
Rachel turned her coffee mug in a slow circle. "Most people think you're frightening."