Some hid the price until after the woman believed the help had been free.
The Cowboy stood.
He was taller than she expected.
Close enough now that she noticed the old scar along his jaw.
The dust on his shirt.
The smell of leather, horse, cedar, and heat.
The Younger Sister stepped toward the shed.
“I’ll get tools.”
The Older Sister caught her wrist.
“No.”
The Younger Sister leaned closer.
“We have three cattle outside the line.”
“We’ll fix it.”
“With what?”
The Older Sister looked toward the pasture.
Another longhorn had begun wandering toward the gap.
The Cowboy did not speak.
He did not need to.
The ranch made the argument for him.
The Older Sister released her sister’s wrist.
Then looked at him.
“One meal.”
“Water for your horse.”
“You sleep nowhere near the house.”
His mouth shifted.
“That last part wasn’t in my offer.”
“It is now.”
The Cowboy replaced his hat.
“Fine.”
The Younger Sister smiled.
The Older Sister glared at her.
“Get the tools.”
He worked without performing.
That was the first thing that unsettled the Older Sister.
Men who wanted women to notice them generally made noise.
They grunted dramatically.
Explained obvious things.
Turned every lifted object into an exhibition.
The Cowboy did none of it.
He removed the broken post.
Dug.
Measured.
Reset.
Tamped earth hard around the cedar.
Replaced sections of wire.
Tensioned the line.
Moved to the next post.
The Younger Sister followed him.
At first because she wanted to help.
Then because she clearly wanted to look at him.
The Older Sister watched from the porch.
She was supposed to be mending a shirt.
The needle had not moved for nearly ten minutes.
The Cowboy leaned into the post driver.
His sleeves were rolled high.
Forearms darkened by sun.
Hands marked with old scars.
The Younger Sister handed him a tool.
Their fingers almost touched.
The Older Sister looked down at the shirt.
Missed the fabric completely.
The needle stabbed her finger.
She swore.
The Younger Sister looked toward the porch.
Smiled.
The Older Sister lifted one finger in warning.
Her sister’s smile widened.
By late afternoon, the fence stood straighter than it had before the storm.
The Cowboy walked the line.
Pressed each post.
Checked tension.
Then nodded.
“That’ll hold.”
The Older Sister approached.
She hated how relieved she felt.
“How long?”
He looked toward the western sky.
“If another storm comes?”
“No.”
She pointed toward the fence.
“How long will it hold?”
The Cowboy considered.
“Years if you keep cattle from leaning on it.”
The Younger Sister laughed.
“That sounds impossible.”
“Usually is.”
The Cowboy bent down to gather tools.
The Older Sister noticed a dark patch of sweat between his shoulders.
She looked away.
The Younger Sister did not.
The Cowboy noticed that too.
He said nothing.
That somehow made it worse.
The Older Sister crossed her arms.