There was another long minute of silence as Hero thought it over. Ruby blew bubbles in the water with her nose. On the shore of the marsh, a trio of fat frogs hopped into the water. Abigail glared at the shore primly, affronted by the commotion.

“I don’t think I have,” Hero said. They sounded distant, but when Houndstooth looked over, they were patting Abigail’s flank with a small smile.

“I had a ranch once.” Houndstooth watched Hero out of the corner of his eye, from under the shadow of his hat. He was ready for them to be skeptical, ready to have to prove his credentials. Hero didn’t look back at him; they simply braced their hands on the pommel of Abigail’s saddle and tilted their head back, their eyes half-closed. Houndstooth managed not to stare at the bead of sweat that ran down the side of Hero’s long throat. “A breeding ranch.”

“Takes time, saving up for a ranch,” Hero drawled without opening their eyes.

“Fifteen years,” Houndstooth replied. He found himself watching the water to keep from watching Hero. Ruby left barely a ripple in her wake; the mosquitoes that landed on the water didn’t move out of her path. “It took fifteen years of work to buy the land. I started when I was seven years old, bottle-feeding sick hops at my uncle’s ranch outside Atlanta every other summer. My father wouldn’t pay for my passage across the ocean, so I worked throughout the year to get the money—I did whatever I could, short of stealing.” He swallowed back memories of his father’s reaction the one time he’d attempted to pick a pocket. “One year, I just didn’t go back home. I stayed, so I could work the ranch year-round.”

“That’s when you knew,” Hero said. It wasn’t a question.

“That’s when I knew,” Houndstooth answered. He took his hat off and used it to scoop up a patch of mostly clean water, dumping it over Ruby’s back to keep her skin from drying out. “I was the best breeder in the country, you know. Back before my ranch burned. Could have been the best in the world.”