Page 33 of The Fire Line

He picked up the folder, whatever had been on his face before replaced by the grin Harris was getting used to. “Thanks for the beer.”

“Sure.”

Harris opened the door.

Jay paused on the porch and glanced back toward the living room. “Still think you should fix that window.”

“Off my porch, Navarro.”

Jay smiled. “Good night, Harris.”

After he left, Harris looked at the western wall. The window had been fine for years. Navarro had been inside for twenty minutes before deciding the cabin required renovation.

Harris pulled the curtain shut hard enough to rattle the rings.

* * *

Jay was proud of himself. He had spent twenty minutes alone with Harris in his secluded cabin, nearly maneuvered the conversation somewhere personal, and then complained about the man’s windows instead. This qualified as restraint.

Romy would have been deeply impressed if Jay made the mistake of telling her, which he would not.

For the next two days, Jay made no attempt to manufacture an intimate conversation with a rancher who had not requested one. He spent Monday in a water-rights meeting that lasted four hours while producing perhaps thirty seconds of usable material. Tuesday disappeared into sound logs, scheduling, and access routes. During all of it, he managed several entire interactions with Harris without announcing a single fact about his sexual preferences.

Excellent restraint. Romy had been wrong.

Jay enjoyed this victory immensely.

On Tuesday afternoon, he found Harris repairing a latch near the west barn while Willa and June covered the concrete in chalk drawings.

June ran up holding a piece of blue chalk and pointed at a shape beside Jay’s boots. “That’s Rain.”

The drawing resembled a potato with six legs.

“Beautiful,” Jay said.

June narrowed her eyes. At four, she could detect insincerity more reliably than several executives Jay knew.

Harris glanced over from the latch. “You’re in trouble.”

“With June?”

“Yup. Should’ve figured out where the real authority sits by now.”

June marched away with the wounded dignity of an artist misunderstood in her own time.

Willa tore past in the opposite direction, pink chalk in one fist and her entire body aimed at a wheelbarrow. Harris caught the back of her dress without fully turning and redirected her several feet to the left while his other hand continued tightening the latch.

“Walking.”

Willa slowed immediately.

“You need something, Navarro?” Harris asked.

Oh, right. Jay was still standing there.

“Uh, yeah. Priya wants to confirm tomorrow’s access route.”

“Map’s in my truck.”