Page 78 of Knotting the Cowboys

I look down at my jeans, now decorated with straw, mud, and things I don't want to identify. Somehow, I don't mind. The calf butts against my hip weakly, seeking attention, and I stroke its head without thinking.

"See?" Austin grins. "Natural caregiver. The animals know."

His clean linen scent mixed with antiseptic should be clinical, impersonal. Instead, it speaks of comfort, of someone who makes hurting things whole. As we stand together in the pen,watching the calf grow steadier on its feet, I feel something inside me grow steadier too.

The equipment shed looms before me like a test I didn't study for. After the success with the calf, I'd been riding high on accomplishment, but Maverick's presence changes the atmospheric pressure. He leans against a massive tractor, arms crossed, looking like trouble in worn denim and engine grease.

"Ready for the real work?" he asks, and there's that smirk again—the one that says he remembers every sound I made this morning. "Hope those delicate hands can handle more than baby animals."

I bristle at the challenge, which is probably exactly what he wants. "My hands are fine."

"We'll see." He pushes off the tractor, circling it with predatory grace. "Flat tire. Tools are there." He points to a chest that looks like it hasn't been organized since the Clinton administration. "Figure it out."

No demonstration. No patient explanation. Just expectation and those green eyes watching to see if I'll sink or swim. It's so different from River's gentle guidance or Austin's enthusiastic teaching that I almost protest. Then I remember this morning—how he'd pushed me through the security drills, never accepting "I can't" as an answer.

Fine. Two can play this game.

I approach the tool chest like it might bite, sorting through wrenches and things I can't name. The tractor is massive upclose, its tire coming up to my waist. I've changed car tires before—how different can it be?

Very different, as it turns out. The lug nuts are the size of my fist and torqued tight enough to defeat mortal strength. I strain against the wrench, feeling Maverick's eyes on me, refusing to ask for help. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool October air.

"Physics," he says finally, when I'm red-faced and panting. "Leverage beats strength every time."

He doesn't show me—that would be too easy. Instead, he waits while I figure out how to use a longer wrench, how to position my body weight, how to break the seal with steady pressure instead of frantic pulling. When the first lug nut finally gives, the satisfaction is fierce.

"Good," is all he says, but something in his tone makes the single word feel like a medal.

I work in silence for a while, muscles straining as I remove each nut. Maverick doesn't offer help, but he doesn't leave either. He's there when I struggle with the jack, pointing out the reinforced frame points without touching. There when the old tire won't budge, mentioning casually that rust makes things stick.

"You always this hands-off?" I grunt, fighting with the spare tire that weighs more than Luna.

"Depends." He moves closer, ostensibly to check my work but really just to be annoying. His scent—metal and leather and something uniquely Maverick—makes thinking harder. "Some things need hands-on attention. Others, you learn better by doing."

The innuendo isn't subtle, but I'm too focused on not dropping a tire on my foot to respond. When I finally get it mounted, aligned, and start threading the lug nuts back on, he makes a sound that might be approval.

"Where'd you learn this teaching method?" I ask, tightening nuts in the star pattern I remember from driver's ed. "The Frustrate Your Student school of education?"

His laugh is sharp but not unkind. "Foster care, actually. Twelve different homes in ten years. You learn real quick that nobody's going to hold your hand. Either you figure it out or you don't survive."

The casual delivery doesn't hide the weight of the words. I pause, wrench in hand, studying him. "That's..."

"What it is," he finishes, shutting down any sympathy before it can form. "But it taught me to be resourceful. To watch, learn, adapt. Skills that kept me alive then and keep everyone safe now."

He moves to a section of fence, running his hand along the wire. "Come here. Different lesson."

I follow, grateful to leave the heavy tire behind. My arms ache and my jeans are now decorated with grease to go with the calf-pen stains, but there's something satisfying about the physical evidence of work.

"Fence tension," Maverick explains, showing me how to test the wire. "Too loose, cattle push through. Too tight, it snaps in weather changes. Has to be just right."

His hands guide mine to feel the proper resistance, and that spark from this morning returns. Static from the dry air, maybe, but it jolts through me nonetheless. He doesn't let go immediately, his fingers wrapping around mine to demonstrate the testing motion.

"Trust but verify," he says, his voice lower now. "That's how you stay safe. Check everything, assume nothing, always have a backup plan."

"Sounds exhausting," I manage, hyperaware of his proximity.

"It is." He releases my hands, stepping back. "But it's better than being caught off guard. Than losing people because you got comfortable."

There's history in those words, trauma that shaped him like the foster system did. I want to ask, but he's already moving on, leading me to an irrigation pump that looks like it's seen better decades.

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