Page 7 of The Fire Line

“I’ll holler if I need you.”

Walt’s mouth tightened. “Ain’t dead yet.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You were thinkin’ it loud enough.”

He stepped back but remained in the doorway while Harris cleaned the contacts and reset the switch. Walt had spent most of Harris’s childhood treating the limits of his body as a private disagreement, something that might surrender if he refused to acknowledge it long enough. Apparently Harris had inherited the habit along with everything else.

The gauge steadied. Only then did Walt leave, his boots dragging slightly over the gravel in a way he would have denied if Harris mentioned it.

By the time Harris reset the pressure, the eastern ridge had begun to pale. At this hour, before the lodge woke, the ranch was simply itself. The barns were dark, horses shifted softly in their stalls, and nobody was asking where breakfast was served or whether the trail ride would be scenic enough for photographs. In another couple hours, guests would begin moving through the lodge, and now there would also be a goddamn film crew among them.

Harris had never wanted the guest business the way the rest of the family did. He understood why it existed. Cattle didn’t bring in enough anymore, not reliably, and the ranch had bills whether beef prices were good or not. Cabins brought money. Weddings brought more. Trail rides and corporate retreats kept roofs repaired and hay coming in.

That didn’t mean he had to enjoy children screaming near the corrals, photographers backing into places they had no right going, or strangers appearing on trails Harris had ridden since he was old enough to sit a saddle. Given the choice, he would have kept the place mostly to themselves: the horses, the cattle, the land, his family coming and going. That was plenty.

Evan had pushed hardest for the documentary, though Elise and the rest of them agreed the money and attention were too useful to refuse. The ranch needed both badly enough that Harris had eventually run out of objections that mattered.

When he reached the cabin, the production schedule was waiting on the kitchen table beneath the blue ceramic bowl Claire had bought during the first year of their marriage. The bowl still held his keys because it worked, which was reason enough to keep a thing.

His interview had been circled.

4:30 P.M.

HARRISON SHAW — INITIAL INTERVIEW

45 MINUTES

Forty-five minutes was enough time to reset a stretch of fence or clean three stalls. A long damn time to sit under lights and explain himself.

* * *

By four twenty-seven, Harris had run out of legitimate reasons not to enter the lodge.

Della came out of the interview room carrying untouched coffee, the skin around her eyes pink. Harris straightened from the wall before he could stop himself.

She read the question before he asked. “He didn’t do anything wrong. Some things are just hard to talk about.”

Harris looked toward the closed door. “All right.”

She straightened the edge of his collar. “Try not to go in there looking for a reason to dislike him.”

“I already dislike him.”

“Well, that saves time, I suppose.”

“Ma.”

“What?” Her mouth softened. “You know, you’re very handsome when you’re being unreasonable.”

Harris’s eyes went briefly skyward.

Della patted his arm, apparently satisfied with the damage she had done, and headed toward the dining room when one of the kitchen staff called for her. If Navarro had upset her, she would have protected Harris from that knowledge whether he wanted protecting or not. But she had not looked like she was protecting him. She had looked tired and sad and certain Jay was not responsible.

That would do for now.

The interview room had been arranged so it barely looked arranged: one chair near a north-facing window, a bookshelf behind it, soft light from the side. Every cable had been taped neatly along the baseboard instead of crossing the floor.