The invitation came as a text from Grant, three days after the foal stood on steady legs. A photo of a raw steak on a plate, captioned with a single line: Friday. I’m cooking. You’re eating. No arguments.
Bryce read it twice, standing beside the frame of his cabin with a hammer still in his hand. The timber delivery had come and gone, the frame was up, and the afternoon light was slanting through the bare rafters. He thumbed a reply—What time—and got an answer almost before he’d pocketed the phone.
Six. Bring a beer. Bring an appetite.
He brought both, plus a six-pack of something local he’d found in town, and drove over by road at a quarter to six with the sun still high and hot.
The deck at Ironstone was already loud by the time he reached it. Grant was at the barbecue, a pair of tongs in one hand and a beer in the other, mid-sentence about something that had Callan laughing and Mauve shaking her head. Tessa was sprawled in a deck chair with her boots off, bare feet propped on the railing, and Saige was at the esky, pulling out bottles and handing them round.
“There he is,” Grant called, and the tongs pointed at Bryce like a weapon. “The fence whisperer himself. Get in here.”
Bryce set the six-pack on the table.
“You’re on time,” Elara said, appearing from the kitchen door with a bowl of salad in her hands. Her hair was loose, not in the usual work ponytail, and she’d changed out of her jeans into something lighter. “Grant’s been timing the steaks since four.”
“They’ll be perfect,” Grant said, without looking up from the grill.
“They’ll be charcoal,” Elara said, and set the bowl down. “He puts them on, gets distracted, and we eat hockey pucks. Last time I had to use a knife to cut yours.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times.”
“Three times in five years is a statistical anomaly.”
“It’s a pattern, love.” Elara caught Bryce’s eye and smiled. “You’re the guest of honour. You get first pick of whatever survives.”
Bryce laughed, pulled a beer from the esky, and found himself a seat.
Tessa shifted in her chair, making room. “Sit down, sit down. You’re making the place look untidy, hovering like that.”
He sat. She was close enough that her knee nearly brushed his.
“So,” she said, turning to face him properly, “how’s your place coming along?”
Bryce took a pull of his beer. “Slowly.”
“Cabin?”
“Frame’s up.”
“And you’re doing it yourself.”
“Mostly.”
Tessa smiled. “You’re a bit of a handyman.”
Bryce shrugged. “I know how to do a few things.”
“A few?”
He took another drink.
Grant flipped a steak with more enthusiasm than skill, sending a gout of flame up from the grill.
“Careful,” Callan said, from his seat by the railing. “You’ll set the deck on fire.”
“I’ve got it under control.”
“You’ve got it under control the way a chook has control of its own head after it’s been chopped.”
Mauve snorted into her beer. “Callan, that’s the worst simile you’ve ever come up with.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s horrifying.”
“Same thing.”
Grant flipped the steak again, inspected it, and nodded to himself. “This one’s for Bryce. He’s the guest. He gets the good one.”
“They’re all the good ones,” Elara said, from the kitchen door. “You just have different opinions about what ‘good’ means.”
Saige appeared behind her, a bowl of potato salad in one hand and Grant’s beer in the other.
“Dad, the potatoes are done. I checked them with a fork, like you said, and they’re actually soft this time.”
She took a quick drink from the beer.
Grant held out his hand.
“Oi.”
“What?”
“Mine.”
Saige handed it back.
“I was checking it.”
“You’re fifteen.”
“I know how old I am.”
“Good. Then you know why you’re not drinking my beer.”
Saige laughed, set the bowl down, and flopped into a chair next to Mauve, stealing a chip off Callan’s plate as she passed.
“That’s my girl,” Grant said. “See? I taught her well.”
“You taught her to check potatoes,” Elara said. “I taught her to cook.”
“We’re a team.”
“We’re a team that would starve without me.”
Bryce laughed.
Tessa looked over at him.
“You don’t do this much, do you?”
“Do what?”
“This.”
Bryce looked around the deck. “Not really.”
“Working alone suits you?”
“I’m used to it.”
Tessa smiled and reached for her beer. “Fair enough.”
The steaks came off the grill in a cloud of smoke, and Grant distributed them with the pride of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Bryce’s was, against all odds, perfect—charred on the outside, pink in the middle, the kind of thing you’d pay for in a restaurant.
“Not bad,” Bryce said.
Grant beamed. “See? I told you.”
“You told me they’d be perfect,” Elara said. “It’s the first time you’ve been right.”
“I’m right all the time.”
“You’re right about horses and people. You’re wrong about everything with a flame.”
“That’s a very narrow definition of wrong.”
“It’s the definition that matters.”
Mauve leaned across Callan to grab the salt, her arm brushing his chest.
Callan looked at her. “Elbows.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Probably.”
They went back to eating.
“So,” Grant said, leaning back in his chair with his plate balanced on his knees, “how much more have you got to do on that cabin?”
“A lot.”
“You need a hand?”
“I’ve got it.”
“I know you’ve got it.”
Bryce looked at him.
Grant shrugged. “Offer’s there.”
“I know.”
The evening stretched on. The sun went down and the cicadas reached a fever pitch that made conversation a little louder.
Saige finished her dinner and disappeared inside.
Grant leaned back and looked at Bryce.
“We’re having a party next weekend.”
Bryce looked up. “Another one?”
“A bigger one. Some of this lot, plus a few other friends from town.” Grant took a drink. “Adults only. Saige’s staying with a friend.”
“You have to come,” Tessa said.
Bryce looked at her.
She smiled. “You do.”
“He’s doing that thing,” Mauve said.
“What thing?”
“The thinking.”
“I’m allowed to think.”
Callan nodded. “Dangerous habit.”
“I’m not overthinking it.”
“You are now,” Tessa said.
Grant laughed. “It’s just a party. Good people, food, drinks. Come if you want.”
Bryce looked across at Elara.
She tilted her head slightly.
“You might enjoy yourself.”
Bryce took another drink.
“Alright.”
Tessa grinned.
“See?”
“It’s one party.”
“Of course.”
Grant pointed his beer at Bryce.
“Dress nice.”
Bryce frowned. “What does that mean?”
Elara laughed.
“You’ll work it out.”