“Four mechanics already quit. What makes you think you’re any different?”
Clayton Reeves did not bother hiding his amusement.
He stood in the center of a machinery shop large enough to park a small aircraft inside, surrounded by nine silent green-and-yellow machines and the smell of diesel, hydraulic oil, cold steel, and old hay.
Behind him, the enormous sliding doors had been pushed open to the Montana morning.
Beyond them stretched several thousand acres of Reeves Ranch—brown grass turning gold beneath an early-autumn sky, black cattle scattered across the lower pasture, and snow already dusting the mountains fifty miles west.
Two ranch hands stood a few steps behind Clayton.
One was tall and broad, maybe thirty-one, wearing navy coveralls with his arms folded across his chest.
The other was older, leaner, and looked less amused.
Both were watching Maya Carter.
More specifically, they were watching the battered red toolbox she had just set on the concrete floor.
Its corners were dented.
One latch had been repaired with a brass pin.
The red paint had faded to almost orange along the handle.
Compared with the diagnostic carts, wireless scan tools, and dealership equipment already scattered around the shop, it looked like something salvaged from a barn sale.
Clayton nodded toward it.
“You bring anything built this century?”
Maya looked down at the toolbox.
Then at him.
“Me.”
The older ranch hand turned his face to hide a smile.
Clayton did not.
He was fifty-eight, tall, weathered, and broad through the shoulders despite the beginnings of age around his middle. His tan canvas jacket looked expensive only because everything about him looked used without looking neglected. Gray had spread through his short brown hair. Deep lines bracketed his eyes.
He had spent his entire adult life building Reeves Ranch from the sixteen hundred acres his father left him into one of the largest privately owned cattle operations in that part of Montana.
People in three counties knew his name.
Most called him Mr. Reeves.
Employees called him Clayton only after working for him long enough to survive the privilege.
Maya had known him seventeen minutes.
She already suspected they were going to dislike each other.
Clayton pointed toward the first tractor.
“Four certified mechanics.”
“So you said.”
“Two from dealerships.”
“Yes.”
“One flew in from Denver.”
“I heard you.”
“The last one claimed he had thirty-five years’ experience.”
Maya looked at the tractor.
“What did he prove?”
Clayton’s expression tightened slightly.
“He said the fuel-control module was bad.”
“And was it?”
“He replaced it.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The younger ranch hand in navy coveralls smirked.
Clayton noticed.
His eyes went back to Maya.
“Machine ran for eleven hours.”
“Then?”
“Quit in the hay field.”
Maya nodded.
“What did the mechanic say?”
“That another module failed.”
“Same module?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
Clayton sighed.
“You mechanics love that word when you don’t have an answer.”
Maya picked up her toolbox.
“Show me all nine.”
“That all you’ve got to say?”
“Would you prefer a speech?”
This time the older ranch hand did laugh.
A quick cough covered most of it.
Clayton turned his head.
The man immediately found something fascinating near the floor drain.
Maya walked toward the tractor nearest the door.
It was a John Deere 8R series with the side panel already open.
The dealership mechanic had left diagnostic leads hanging from the service port.
Maya set her toolbox down, pulled on a pair of worn gloves, and leaned into the engine compartment.
Clayton stayed where he was.
“Battery’s good.”
“Good.”
“Starter?”
“Good.”
“Fuel?”
“Good.”
“Compression?”
“Good enough.”
“Codes?”
Clayton rattled off three.
Maya looked back.
“You memorized them?”
“I’ve heard them enough.”
She reached for the diagnostic connector.
The retaining clip was scratched.
Not worn.
Scratched.
Two narrow fresh marks cut through old dust.
She said nothing.
She moved toward the second machine.
A smaller tractor.
Different engine.
Different hours.
Different service history.
She opened the panel.
Checked the harness near the control module.
Another mark.
Not identical.
But similar.
The third machine was a forage harvester.
The fourth a baler tractor.
The fifth a wheel loader.
The sixth another 8R.