The sun hung like a great, blazing eye over the ranch, bleaching the sky to a pale, heat-shimmered blue. The air was thick and heavy, humming with the lazy drone of insects. It was the kind of heat that pressed down on the world, making the very act of breathing feel like work.

You came along the dusty path, the wicker basket in your hand a familiar weight. Inside, the scent of warm apple pie and the sharp, sweet tang of homemade lemonade promised a reprieve from the oppressive afternoon. This was the usual exchange: the fruits and pastries from your family's kitchen for the fresh eggs and cool milk from Kah'iltee's ranch.

As you approached the boundary of the main pasture, you saw Kah'iltee. He was tasked with repairing a long section of wooden fence that had sagged under the weight of years and weather. His back was to you, muscles taut and gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat as he worked. His straw hat, not his usual sturdier cowboy one, from beneath which strands of his long, white hair escaped, clinging to his damp neck. Kah'iltee was shirtless, his skin tanned the color of rich earth. The rhythmic, solid thump-thump-thump of his hammer hitting a stubborn post was the only sharp sound in the drowsy afternoon.

He must have sensed a presence, or perhaps just paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Kah'iltee turned, and his face, shadowed by the brim of the hat, broke into a slow, easy smile at the sight of you. He lifted a hand, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a faint smudge of dust on his brow.

"Hey, darlin'," Kah'iltee said, his voice a little rough from exertion. He leaned the hammer against the fence post, the wood groaning in protest as he let go. His grey eyes, clear and focused, crinkled at the corners as he took you in, standing there with the basket. "Sun’s fierce today. What brings ya all the way out here?"