Lena said nothing.
“My foreman thought it was nonsense. I checked anyway.”
He held up the letter.
“Saved almost eight hundred cattle.”
Harold looked at Lena.
Slowly.
Dawson read the signature.
“L.H.”
Lena closed her eyes.
Years earlier, she had discovered Becket’s scheme while inspecting a feed delivery for her father.
Harold had ordered her not to interfere.
“It isn’t our concern,” he had said.
So Lena had written warnings anonymously to several ranches.
She had forgotten about it.
Dawson had not.
“That could have been anyone,” Harold muttered.
Dawson looked almost amused.
“She used the same odd way of forming the number seven that Lena uses in your ranch ledger.”
Lena opened her eyes.
He had noticed her handwriting?
“I started paying attention after that,” Dawson said.
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“You barely spoke to me.”
“You barely stayed in the room.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“But I noticed.”
Heat moved into Lena’s face.
Dawson continued.
“I noticed that whenever your father bragged about solving a ranch problem, you were standing somewhere behind him looking exhausted.”
Eliza’s lips parted.
“I noticed when the Hail herd stopped losing calves after someone started keeping individual health records.”
Lena looked down.
“I noticed the new water rotation.”
Her fingers tightened around the letter.
“The grain contracts.”
His voice softened.
“The injured mare you slept beside for two nights because she wouldn’t let anyone else near her.”
Lena looked at him.
He remembered that?
“You saw?”
“I was riding past the south pasture.”
Dawson stepped closer.
“You thought nobody saw you, Lena.”
His eyes held hers.
“I saw you.”
Something inside her broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
It simply cracked after twenty-six years of being held too tightly.
Lena began to cry.
She hated herself for it.
She turned away immediately.
“Don’t.”
Dawson stopped.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be kind to me because you feel sorry for me.”
His face changed.
“I don’t.”
“Everyone feels sorry for me eventually.”
“I don’t.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
Lena laughed bitterly and gestured toward herself.
“Look at me.”
“I am.”
“No, really look.”
“I have been.”
Her voice faltered.
Dawson came one step closer.
“I know exactly what you look like.”
The room went silent again.
“I know you’re nearly six feet tall. I know you hate yellow dresses because you think they make you look pale. I know you braid your hair when you’re nervous and pull it into a knot when you’re working. I know you drink coffee too strong and that you always give the best biscuit to whoever comes through the kitchen last.”
Lena stared.
Dawson continued.
“And I know you’re strong enough to pull a calf from a difficult birth, patient enough to balance a ledger with three missing receipts, and stubborn enough to write warnings to ranchers who never thanked you.”
A tear slipped down Lena’s cheek.
His voice dropped.
“So don’t ask me to look at you as though I haven’t already been looking.”
Harold suddenly slammed his fist against the table.
“That is enough.”
