Page 14 of 11 Cowboys
“I think you’re sharp. And honest.” I pause. “And I think you’ve got more in common with us than you want to admit.”
That stops her. I see the flicker behind her eyes. Something hit a nerve.
“I read your articles,” I add. “Before you stopped writing.”
Her mouth opens and closes, a flush rising up her cheeks. “You did?”
“Yeah. You’re better when you bleed a little on the page. This article, it could help us, or it could ruin us.”
“It’s not my intention to mock you,” she says, looking up again. “I’m not in this for sensationalism. I want the real.”
“I believe that.”
“But I have to tell the truth.”
I rub my stubbly chin, studying her as she shifts on the edge of her seat. She seems nervous, and I’m not sure if it’s me or the questions. “I want you to. The truth doesn’t scare us.”
But even as I say it, uncertainty rattles through me. Do I even know the truth resting behind all the individuals in this family? I’d like to think so, but people keep secrets and hide their feelings like needles in hay bales.
All I can do is hope that Grace will do our story justice. There are many ways of presenting the truth, and I’d rather she steered away from the one that looks like a horse’s ass.
We sit together, and the tension eases between us, her posture shifting. It’s still straight and proud, but lessdefensive. She pushes her hand through her hair, and it falls back into messy, dark waves.
“I’ll confess that even though I’ve been a journalist for a lot of years, I’ve been removed from the subjects of the stories in my magazine for well over a year. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to care about the people behind the words,” she says. “To care about getting it right. But I do care. I won’t screw it up.”
“You won’t,” I say firmly.
She exhales slowly. “I don’t want to interrogate your family about their deepest wants. I’d rather live alongside them for a few days and pick up what I need that way, if that’s okay. And I didn’t bring a photographer with me. I want the pictures to have a candid, retro feel. I’m going to take them myself.”
It’s a sensitive approach that doesn’t fit with her polished, bright-eyed, sharp-mouthed, red-lipped persona, but I find I appreciate it.
This isn’t a movie-scene moment where we lean across the desk to share long, intense eye contact while rising classical music builds the tension, but there’s something in the room with us that’s real and humming in my chest. Respect, maybe. Or understanding. An appreciation for the fact that she’s thought about our family and life and tailored her approach to it.
And that’s worse than attraction because I can ignore a pretty face, not that there are many around these parts, but I can’t ignore someone who sees the cracks and works out how to step around them without disturbing the ground or, worse, flinching. That sensitivity is hard to find.
Grace stands first and smooths her jeans. There’s a shadow of dust across her shirt that she may not have noticed. I wonder when she last got dirt under her fingernails and if her first instinct was to wash her hands.
“Thank you. For being honest. I appreciate your candor and aligning our expectations.”
I nod, and she turns to leave, pausing in the doorway. “For the record... this story’s going to touch a lot of people, and I hope it helps you find what you’re looking for.”
And then she’s gone.
I recline in the chair for a while longer. Through the window, I watch Grace cross the yard, sunlight catching the curve of her spine and the fall of her hair.
And I’m left wondering why I feel less sure about what I’m looking for than I did before she arrived.
***
Later that afternoon, I search for my younger brother, Dylan, and find him in the barn. It’s cooler inside, smelling like animals, sweat, leather, and sawdust; real, honest things that don’t change on you.
He’s hunched over the workbench, oiling tack with slow, even strokes, bridle laid out flat and buckles gleaming. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t say anything, but he knows I’m here.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You still worried about her?”
He pauses for a second. Enough to answer without answering. Then he sets the bridle down and wipes his hands on a rag, eyes still on the bench.
“She’s a reporter, Con. If you bring a stranger into something like this, you better be damn sure.”
