Maddie tried not to think about her conversations with Adam. If it had been a debate, he’d made a good case: there were clear harms—her current legislator was terrible—and if Adam managed to get more Democrats elected, some advantages.

So instead of pummeling his case as she should’ve, she’d been intrigued.

Clearly that was a mistake.

Take the inherency: she couldn’t win. There were structural hurdles he couldn’t just wave away—there was no fiat in real life.

Plus, his plan had too many steps (effects topicality!) and running to make a point would hurt her job and clients. If it had been a round, she would have run a Heidegger kritik and been done with it.

But this wasn’t debate. When people like you don’t get involved, who the hell do you think gets into the game? Adam’s words floated in her mind at the grocery store, on the treadmill, and when she tried to work.

She knew the answer too: Mike fucking Hoagland. His only constituencies were gas and mining companies and industrial farmers. Actual people, the ones he should’ve been helping, he ignored except to get them worked up about regulation and liberals chipping away at constitutional rights. He’d poisoned the well and was now complaining about the price of bottled water. It was an elegant, if contemptuous, solution.

So Sunday morning, she texted Adam. I’m not saying yes. But when someone runs, aren’t they exactly like their opponents? Thinking they have the all the answers?

He responded almost immediately. The difference is you’re right.

Well, that’s handy.

You have the facts on your side. Plus, there’s no self-interest or grift at play here.

Not from me, maybe. But for you… ; )

Damn it, why had she added a flirty emoji?

Adam was…well, the years had been kind to him. Filling out his lanky frame and adding some maturity. She’d been expecting the same irreverent kid she’d known, the guy who loved to play Devil’s advocate and took nothing literally, but he’d turned into a thoughtful, idealistic man. Frankly, he’d made her feel like an asshole for assuming the worst about him.

Maddie had wanted to press him, to ask more about it, if only because she’d gone through something similar in college. Sociology classes had changed her from a shallow moderate to someone who wanted to burn the system down and start fresh. That didn’t mean she should accept Adam’s offer, of course—and it definitely didn’t mean she should send him flirty texts—but his transformation threw her all the same.

Luckily, he ignored her emoji misstep and answered, That you’d wonder about this makes me more certain than ever you should run.

That was clearly toadyism, but the rest she couldn’t dismiss as easily.

The next morning, she assembled the day’s mélange of paperwork. She also printed out the required candidacy forms, signed them, and slid them into a file folder. Just in case.

Driving in the pale dawn light, Maddie headed to the county jail for some first appearance hearings—domestic violence, drunk driving, disorderly conduct—and then she met with clients before driving back to her office.

“I know about the hearing at the district court at 11,” she called to Ruth. “I just forgot to print the plea agreement.” Because she’d been distracted by things she wasn’t going to do, like run for political office.

“There’s a message from Judge Roscoe on your desk. Looks urgent. I put it on the top of the pile.”

Juvenile court was the bane of Maddie’s existence because the kids’ stories were crushingly, unrelentingly sad. Parents who were abusive or absent, indifferent schools, homelessness, hunger, a lack of opportunity… Her juvenile clients all too often had never had a chance.

“Thanks. I’ll take a look.”

As her ancient office printer grinded away, she read her messages. At any given time, Maddie might have seventy or even a hundred cases. The week days were for putting out fires and her weekends and evenings were for getting caught up. Every client mattered, every case was important. She couldn’t abandon them.

In staying here and taking this job, she’d made a commitment. She wasn’t flighty and dissatisfied like those other people. She had roots, and they didn’t make her tetchy. She could thrive where she’d been planted, damn it.

But Adam was saying she didn’t have to choose.

It was discombobulating, and she didn’t have time to get turned upside down even if she might be able to do a lot of good there.

Hours later, after she settled one case and took some more calls and did another hearing over a video link, she curled up on a bench outside the election office at the Hill County Courthouse to write a request for admission on her phone.

Decision time.

Adam had said she would be candidate number eight. Eight progressives running in winnable districts. If he stuck around for another cycle, presumably there’d be another eight candidates. Maybe more.

And with control of the legislature, anything was possible.

They could do sentencing and policing reform. They could prioritize treatment and prevention. They could help kids so they didn’t end up in juvenile court in the first place.

On the other side there was the possibility of failure—public, expensive, crushing failure. Plus, it would distract her from her work. It might even suggest she wasn’t satisfied with her work.

But if she wasn’t going to challenge Mike Hoagland, no one was.

She slid her phone away and opened the folder. All paperwork looked the same really—innocuous, boring. If she submitted these papers, though, everything would change.

Through the window into the office, she could see the assistant chatting with someone in the back. The clock behind him read eleven minutes to closing time. Then he turned off one of the lamps.

“We certainly never leave right on time,” she muttered. But later, Maddie would say that being rushed pushed her over the edge.

Legs trembling, she crossed the hall and opened the door. “I, uh, have an oath of candidacy for you.”

The guy chuckled. “You’re squeaking in under the wire. Come on in.”

A few minutes later, she sent Adam a text. Okay. I’m in.

Three weeks later, Maddie stood backstage at her first campaign rally. On the other side of an ad hoc red curtain were her campaign’s mostly high school and college-aged volunteers, her family, Ruth and some other people from her work, and a handful of other supporters. Someone was playing guitar on the stage, and then she was supposed to give a speech. Her. A political speech.

From the moment she’d decided to challenge Hoagland, Montana Tomorrow, Adam and Chad’s company, had taken over.

All of the staff had descended on her house the Saturday after she’d filed. They had opinions about her hair style and clothing, what role her family should play in the campaign, when she should take her leave at work, how they should design her website, and the way she should talk on social media.

Even her personal life.

“Do you have a boyfriend? A fiancé?” Chad had asked. “Any romantic thing that will affect the campaign?”

“Um, no.” She hadn’t had the time or inclination to date since law school, and there was a decided lack of single men—at least ones who didn’t have a problem with her job or politics—in Fallow. “There hasn’t been anything interesting in that department for years.”

She’d glanced across her living room and caught Adam watching her with curiosity, but his attention had immediately skittered toward the fireplace.

Yeah, that was probably safer.

“There doesn’t tend to be a lot of attention on candidates’ personal lives in races like this, but since you’re single, Hoagland’s gonna bring it up.” Chad had grimaced apologetically. “Maybe not directly, but he’ll talk about his family and Montana values. Lots of pictures with of him with the grandkids. That sort of thing.”

“Whereas I’m a cold, lonely career woman who uses taxpayer money to defend violent criminals?”

“That’s what he’ll say, yes.”

“Awesome. So glad I’m doing this.”

“You put yourself through law school and work for the integrity of the justice system. You don’t need to apologize.” Those had been Adam’s first words since arriving at her house. His voice was low, earnest.

She’d wished he’d go back to being an asshole. It was easier when he was an asshole. But matching his tone, she’d said, “I’m not.”

The look he’d given her made her chest burn.

After more questions, the social media and technology guy, Garrett, and the speechwriter, Kendra, had dragged her out to a field on her aunt and uncle’s farm to record a campaign announcement video.

The words had felt sharp in her mouth, and she suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands. “My name is Madison Clark, and I’m running because I have a progressive vision for Montana.”

Should she say she was a progressive, or should she try to sound like a moderate? Should she lead with criminal justice reform, which wasn’t popular, or go with something softer, like a renewable energy agenda for the Hi-Line?

They did several different versions, but eventually Adam had said, “This isn’t working. She sounds all focus grouped. Let’s do it again, but this time, only talk to me, Maddie. Just off the cuff, tell me why you want to do this.”

“I doubt they’ll let me use that kind of language,” she’d teased.

“See, you’re already better.”

With his smile fizzling in her blood, she’d looked at the camera again. “I’m running because I know the people of my district.”

That felt more natural, more like her, and it was true. “They need better schools and more opportunities. Kids take off because there aren’t many good paying jobs here, but the communities they leave are decimated. Mining is destroying our land and climate change is damaging our agriculture. People are struggling without treatment or rehabilitation options and then ending up in expensive prisons that don’t make us safe and only injure lives and families. I’m—”

She’d wet her lips, trying to think of the right word. “A pragmatist. I’ve spent my life working hard to make our criminal justice system fair. What I realized is I was staunching problems rather than fixing the things that cause them. Mike Hoagland has been in the legislature for more than a decade, and he hasn’t improved his constituents’ lives at all. But I will, and that’s why I’m running.”

A few seconds had ticked by.

“Garrett, did you get all of that?” Adam had asked.

“Yup.”

“The sound levels are good?”

“Perfect.”

“Get it out, then. That’s the one.”

Once they’d edited it and boosted the colors or something to make the wheat behind her impossibly green, it had gone viral.

“You’ve raised nearly $20,000 in two weeks,” Adam had told her over the phone during a daily check-in call.

The number shocked the hell out of her, especially given the $170 per person campaign contribution limit. “Why are all those people giving me money?”

“You’re young, pretty, articulate. You’re passionate about justice. It’s why we wanted you to run.”

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?”

Adam hadn’t answered, just moved on to something else, and she’d wanted the words back. Why did she keep baiting him?

Even now, he leaned against the wall next to her, looking way too attractive in a suit that hadn’t come from Men’s Warehouse and typing on his phone.

When he’d asked her to run, it had sounded personal, like he’d be the one by her side. But Montana Tomorrow was a bigger and more professional operation than she’d realized—and that made her a little sad.

Get it together, Clark. You aren’t doing this to flirt.

She took out the notes Kendra had jotted down for her. They’d agreed she shouldn’t sound too polished and she should ad lib as much as she could, but the news cameras would be there. Mike Hoagland would probably be the one yelling at her on TV tonight. Served him right.

In many ways, her life hadn’t changed: too much time at work, too much stress, not enough sleep. There was just the added anxiety about the election on top of it. All of this would only be worth it if she won. If all of Adam’s candidates did.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, glancing over.

“A little. It’s not the public speaking, it’s more that court is so…boring.” She was rarely surprised during trials. She knew all the judges and district attorneys, and she could predict, almost down to the word, what they’d do or say. The impersonal grind of court coupled with the fact that people’s lives were at stake was almost too depressing to contemplate. “This isn’t like that at all. I have no idea what to expect here.”

“You’re going to be great. You nailed that intro video, and you’re raising money faster than anyone else we’re managing.”

“At first you thought I sucked.”

“Only because you weren’t being you.” He watched her for a few beats. His eyes were such a deep brown. “I didn’t ask you to do this because I wanted some robo candidate. I want you.”

It was nerves, she knew it was nerves, that had her wanting those words to be about her and not about the politics, the job. He was cute, smart, vaguely annoying—she’d always thought that. And only stress had her turning it into some hopeless crush. She had to cut it out.

But instead, she made it worse. “You’re different than you used to be. More…intense.”

“Mm. You’re different too.”

“When I was seventeen, I wanted…” She wasn’t sure how to finish that. She hadn’t looked ahead much. She probably had seen herself leaving at least for a bit. But when she’d only gotten as far as Bozeman, she’d seen how every Christmas, fewer and fewer of her friends came back. Then they didn’t even bother to send cards or return calls or come home at all.

“I think I was sort of selfish then.” She played with the notecard in her hand. “Kids are narcissists. I was too. But now…I really want this to work.” She hadn’t realized how much so until she said it aloud. But she wanted to win this seat. She wanted to have a real impact on policy. She wanted to change this state.

“That makes two of us.”

She held his gaze. On the other side of the curtain, the music finished and Garrett took the mic and introduce her mom, who was her campaign manager on paper.

All the while, Adam looked at her. Just looked at her. The corners of his mouth were tipped up, not in a smile—it was too hot, too intense for that—but in an acknowledgement.

She could taste it, the ambition, the wanting between them. She knew hers was personal and professional and messy and the result of too many lonely nights.

His she couldn’t parse at all.

“Go get ’em,” he finally whispered.

He pushed off the wall and held the curtain open for her.

With a confidence she didn’t feel, she stepped under his arm, into the light and the applause. The crowd had grown when she’d been hiding. She couldn’t believe she knew this many people and that they all supported her. Her dad was wiping his eyes, and her brother had the video camera out, and her mom was beaming.

There were two steps up to the stage, and Adam held out a hand to help her. She took it without thinking, then immediately drew a sharp breath. Nerves, it was nerves. But it was also the first time she’d touched him, and his skin was warm and his grip strong. He gave her hand a bracing squeeze and then released her.

Maddie hugged her mom, and then she gave her spiel from the intro video. Her voice sounded strange, high and taut with a metallic echo from the PA system. She’d probably get used to that.

“This is not something I expected for myself,” she finished. “I wish I didn’t feel like I had to do this. But Montana needs leadership, and this district needs a different vision, a better one. So that’s why I’m running, and I’m going to win.”

She locked eyes with Adam, who gave a firm nod. She was in it now for real.

And he was with her.