The numbers visible on the desk were enough.
Equipment loan.
Operating note.
Hay revenue.
Fuel.
Veterinary expenses.
Cattle estimate.
Petra stood there long enough that Declan noticed.
“Problem?”
“Can I look?”
He rubbed his face.
“You're going to anyway.”
“No.”
She meant it.
That mattered to him.
Declan pushed the ledger toward the empty chair.
“Look.”
Two hours later, Petra understood why he always looked tired.
The ranch was not failing.
Yet.
That word mattered.
Cash flow was tight enough that one equipment breakdown could create catastrophe.
The operating loan came due in January.
Hay revenue had been poor.
Feed prices were rising.
The cattle sale needed to go well.
Petra leaned back.
“You’re not bankrupt.”
Declan almost laughed.
“Comforting.”
“You're badly timed.”
“That sounds nicer.”
“It isn't.”
She went through numbers again.
Then pointed.
“The Foothills Growers charity auction.”
“What?”
“You usually sell three steers there?”
“Sometimes.”
“Put your best two in the charity lot.”
Declan frowned.
“Those usually get bid higher because businesses compete publicly.”
“Yes.”
“You've been looking at sale sheets?”
“I keep books for farmers.”
“Kept.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“You don't work there anymore.”
“Fine.”
“I kept books for farmers.”
He smiled.
Petra continued.
“The charity lot gives you exposure before spring contracting too.”
Declan considered.
“You think it'll help?”
“I think it might.”
She closed the ledger.
“Your call.”
Declan looked at her.
“Our call.”
Petra’s eyes lifted.
The word was new.
Our.
He sounded uncertain saying it.
She smiled.
“Then let's think.”
The boys noticed changes before they admitted noticing Petra.
Bills sorted.
Food stores inventoried.
A broken supplier account corrected.
South fence repaired.
Root cellar organized.
Winter blankets aired.
Mice removed from pantry.
One week, Petra saved nearly four hundred dollars after noticing the feed company had incorrectly added delivery charges to an order covered under a regional contract.
Declan looked at the corrected bill.
“You enjoy this.”
“Numbers?”
“Winning.”
Petra smiled.
“Sometimes.”
He kissed her temple.
Beau entered at that exact moment.
Stopped.
Petra moved away instinctively.
Beau noticed.
That hurt all three of them.
He set his gloves down.
“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“North water line’s leaking.”
Declan stood.
Petra returned to the ledger.
Nobody mentioned the kiss.
That night, Declan lay beside her in the bedroom that had once belonged to him and Carol.
Petra had spent her first week considering whether she should ask to rearrange it.
She never did.
Eventually Declan moved several things himself.
Not photographs.
Furniture.
A chair.
An old chest.
Small changes allowing the room to become present tense.
He lay on his back.
“You moved away.”
Petra knew what he meant.
“Beau came in.”
“So?”
“He doesn't need to watch us.”
“Why?”
“Because it hurts him.”
Declan turned.
“You're my wife.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn't have to pretend otherwise.”
Petra looked toward the ceiling.
“I’m not pretending.”
“Then what?”
She took a breath.
“Giving them room.”
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
Declan became quiet.
Petra turned toward him.
“They didn't choose me.”
“I did.”
“I know.”
“That’s different.”
He frowned.
Petra continued.
“They lost their mother.”
“Then four years later you told them another woman was moving in.”
“They don't hate me.”
“Beau might.”
“He doesn't.”
“You sure?”
Declan smiled faintly.
“He barely likes me some days.”
Petra laughed.
Then Declan became serious.
“He's protective.”
“Of Carol?”
“Of the boys.”
“Of this place.”
“Of me, probably, though he’d rather die than admit it.”
Petra looked at him.
“So I’ll give him time.”
Declan reached across the bed.
Took her hand.
“You're good at this.”
“What?”
“Not making everything about yourself.”
She smiled sadly.
“I've had practice.”
He wondered what that meant.
Petra never elaborated.
She came from a family of six.
Three brothers.
Two sisters.
Petra in the middle.
Her body had been discussed since childhood.
Too broad.
Too heavy.
Too much appetite.
Too difficult to dress.
Her mother loved her but worried publicly about whether anyone would marry her.
Her brothers treated her competence like convenient furniture.
Useful.
Reliable.
Always available.
When Petra announced she was marrying a widower with five sons, her brother Lewis had laughed.
“Of course.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“You found a man who needs a housekeeper.”
Petra never forgot it.
She had married Declan partly because he never spoke to her that way.
He saw her usefulness.
Yes.
But he also saw the person.
He asked what she wanted.
He listened when she disagreed.
He knew her favorite pie was lemon despite preferring apple himself.
He knew she hated crowded rooms.
He knew she slept with the window cracked even in winter.
He knew she wanted chickens someday.
He knew she had never been west of Calgary before meeting him.
That mattered.
The boys were harder.
Beau remained distant.
Cole softened slightly.
Rhett watched.
Nate challenged.
Jamie simply existed around Petra with careful politeness.
Then one Sunday evening she found Jamie sitting in the dark.
He held Carol’s photograph.
Petra stopped in the doorway.
“I brought your shirts.”
Jamie quickly turned the picture face-down.
“I was just…”
“You don't have to explain.”
She set the laundry on his dresser.
Then sat on the edge of the bed.
Not close.
Enough.
Neither spoke for perhaps a minute.
Petra looked at the photograph.
Carol stood beside the ranch house.
Hair blowing.
Laughing.
“You know what I always notice about her?”
Jamie looked up cautiously.
“What?”
“Her eyes.”
He looked toward the photo.
“She had good eyes.”
Jamie swallowed.
“She smelled like cherry almond.”
Petra smiled.
“Hand cream?”
He nodded.
“The pink bottle.”
“She always put it on after dishes.”
Petra stored the detail away.
Not for strategy.
Because Jamie had trusted her with it.
“Thanks for telling me.”
He looked surprised.
“You don't mind?”
“What?”
“Talking about her.”
Petra’s heart tightened.
“No.”
“She was your mother.”
Jamie looked down.
“Beau thinks…”
He stopped.
Petra waited.
Jamie did not continue.
She stood.
“Your shirts are clean.”
“Thanks.”
“Goodnight.”
As she reached the doorway, Jamie said:
“Petra?”
She turned.
“Yeah?”
“Mom used to make cinnamon bread when it snowed.”
Petra smiled.
“I don't know her recipe.”
Jamie shrugged.
“I do.”
That was the first thing they ever did together.
The next Saturday, Jamie stood at the counter while Petra followed instructions from a stained index card Carol had written years earlier.
Petra deliberately did not improve the recipe.