I shiver once, tucking the blanket tighter around myself. Sam doesn’t have a blanket, but he doesn’t seem bothered by the cold. He leans back like he belongs there, arms draped over the back of the couch, the firelight flickering across the angles of his face.
“How long until the generator kicks on?” I ask, more to break the quiet than anything else.
“It’s on,” he says simply.
I blink. “It is? How can you tell?”
He tips his head slightly. “Listen.”
I do. And now that I’m paying attention, I hear the low, steady hum somewhere beneath the floorboards, soft and mechanical, like a heartbeat under the house.
“What all does it power?”
“Well pump, so we have water, and the appliances in the kitchen,” he says, then snorts. “Been meaning to upgrade to one that powers the whole house, but the tour kept me busy.”
The tour. Right. The reason he was everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Must’ve been exhausting,” I say.
He shrugs. “Some nights felt like magic. Some nights, I didn’t know who I was when I walked off stage.”
I glance over at him, studying the way the shadows settle beneath his eyes, the way his voice dips just a little.
He’s not just resting out here. He’s recovering.
“I’m sure it’s tough being on the road for so long,” I say, watching the firelight shift across the wood-paneled wall.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice low, thoughtful. “I used to love it.”
I glance at him.
There’s something in the way he saysused to. It’s like the shine wore off a long time ago, but he kept going out of habit. Or obligation.
“But not anymore,” I say softly.
He looks at me then, eyes meeting mine in the low light.
“Is that why you started canceling shows?” I ask.
“One reason,” he says, and there’s no defensiveness in it. Just honesty.
The silence that follows is thick, but not uncomfortable. It holds space for all the things he’s not saying.
“LA makes me feel like that sometimes,” I say, the words slipping out before I can second guess them.
“Like what?” he asks, eyes catching mine in the fire's glow.
“Like I want to just leave it all behind and never look back.” I smile, but there’s not much strength in it. “But it’s not like I have anywhere else to go. You’re lucky that you have this place.”
Sam doesn’t smile back. Instead, he studies me for a second, then shakes his head slowly.
“Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it,” he says. “My great-great-grandfather, Elijah Stone, came here after he lost everything in Virginia. That was after the Civil War in 1886. He came west and built this ranch from nothing with former soldiers and hired Cheyenne cowhands.” He pauses, like he’s deciding how much to give me. “Locals like to say he stole the land. Or paid for it in blood and silver.”
I blink. “That’s a lot of history.”
“It is.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But my point is luck didn’t build this place. It was hard work. And fighting.”
“Fighting?” I echo.
