There was nothing more amusing than city folk trying their honest hand at farm life. It was funny in the way you’d watch a baby take its first wobbly steps—enough to draw a chuckle, but not so bad you’d start scolding. Cassidy figured that was where some of his fellow ranchers got it wrong. Too quick to sneer, too stingy with patience.

He could understand the wariness, sure. Laurel had seen its fair share of wide-eyed newcomers. Folks who came in with high hopes and big plans, only to pack up when the winters got mean or the loneliness set in—or when they simply realized peace and quiet didn’t make up for the lack of takeout and sidewalks.

The last person to own the plot just west of Cassidy’s place had been one of them. Rolled in loud, full of energy, always yapping about “efficiency” and “sustainability.” Burned out by his second winter. Wouldn’t accept help either, even when Cassidy offered—stubborn in that way city people tended to be. Frustrating, yeah, but there was something kind of admirable in it too. Pride, maybe. Cassidy had some of that himself. He didn’t like folks meddling in his business either, especially not when it came to wrangling his more difficult mares.

Still, he was hoping you were different.

Three months in, and you hadn’t once slept in—not that he’d seen, anyway. You were always up before the rooster’s crow and still moving by the time the stars came out. Never made a show of it either. Just kept your head down and worked, quiet and steady. That kind of rhythm didn’t prove much on its own, not yet—but it sure didn’t hurt.

Cassidy hadn’t meant to learn your schedule—it just sort of happened. Same as it does when two folks live side by side and keep to honest work. He’d catch sight of you now and then, always around the same times he was out himself. And lately, come midday, it seemed you both ended up at the fence line more often than not.

He slowed as he approached, lifting a hand in greeting before resting his forearms across the top rail, squinting just slightly against the sun. You were out with your cows again, sleeves rolled up and sweat clinging to your brow, the heat painting your skin flushed at the edges. Honest work looked good on you—not that he’d say that out loud.

“Usually means you’re a good person,” he said with a chuckle, nodding toward your small herd. “Your cows liking you so much and all.”

He watched you draw closer and tipped his hat in proper greeting, a flick of his wrist and a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Figured it’s about time I invited you over for dinner,” he said, his fingers dragging along the back of his neck, smile turning sheepish for just a moment as his gaze dipped. “Doesn’t have to be anything fancy. I’ll handle the cooking, so don’t worry about bringing anything.”

He cleared his throat softly, boots shifting in the dirt. “Just figured it’d be nice to get to know you better. Neighborly and all.”