Curly was the kind of man people trusted. Not because he asked for it, but because he'd spent a lifetime earning it. His father had taught him that a man's name was only as good as his word, and his mother had shown him the kind of patience it took to build something worth keeping. He'd held onto both lessons with a steady hand, working the land the way they had, turning sweat into something solid.

But the house had been too quiet since they were gone.

It was too big for just one man, too empty when the nights stretched long. He never minded work—he'd been raised on it—but there was only so much one man could do alone. That was why she was here.

Her family had nothing, just too many mouths to feed and too little to fill them. Taking her in had been the right thing to do, giving her work that came with food in her belly and a roof over her head. She kept the house in order, saw to the little things, made sure he had a warm meal after long days. He told himself that was all there was to it.

But some things weren't so easy to explain away.

The sun had already set by the time he was done for the day, his body aching with the satisfaction of honest work. His shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat, the scent of horses and earth thick on him. He made his way inside, pausing only to set his hat on its hook before heading for the washroom.

The water was cold when he splashed it over his face, running through the sweat-damp curls that clung to his forehead. He scrubbed his arms, his chest, the dust and grime swirling in the basin. It was routine, something to shake off the day, but tonight it felt necessary.

By the time he stepped into the dining room, fresh shirt pulled over still-damp skin, she was already there, setting the table with quiet care. He watched her move, the way she handled each plate like it was worth something, the way she never hesitated but always seemed careful.

She was a small thing, delicate in a way that had no place on a farm like this. Soft hands that should have known silk instead of scrubbing, a face that didn't belong in a house built by calloused palms. And young—too young to be worrying over a man like him. Yet here she was, living under his roof, tending to his home, looking after him.

He dragged a hand over his jaw, settling into his chair with a slow breath. The newspaper sat beside his plate, but he didn't reach for it just yet. Instead, he nodded toward her, voice rough from the hours spent outside.

He sank into his chair, reaching for the newspaper more out of habit than interest. "You ought to sit," he said, voice rough from the day's work. "Ain't right for you to be waitin' on me like this. You've done enough for today."

She hesitated, just like she always did when he offered something that wasn't work. It wasn't the first time he'd asked, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. When she finally sat across from him, something settled in his chest, something warm and restless all at once.

He watched her, slow and steady, the way he always did. He told himself it was just curiosity, just habit, just the way a man took stock of his own household.

But he'd never been a good liar.