He nods, looking into the fire now. “Yeah. The elements. Men. Other ranches. Time. All of it. Every generation fought to keep it going. Some days, it feels like the land wants to take it all back.”
There’s a stillness in him when he says that. Not defeat—something older. Worn into him like the shape of the saddle.
“I guess I never thought of land like that,” I admit. “Like something you had to earn every day.”
“You do,” he says. “You earn it, or it eats you alive.”
I’m quiet after that, letting the weight of his words settle in my chest like stone. Maybe that’s what we’re both doing. Fighting different landscapes. His is land. Mine is people. Both are unforgiving.
The room falls quiet again, the fire crackling softly between us. The kind of silence that could stretch into something heavy if he lets it. But he doesn’t.
Sam leans back into the couch, his voice lighter when he speaks next. “You know, Elijah was supposedly terrified of chickens.”
I blink. “What?”
He grins. “My grandfather said Elijah swore up and down they were ‘soulless.’ Wouldn’t go near ‘em. Made everyone else collect the eggs.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “A man who built an empire from the ground up was afraid of chickens?”
“Apparently he could face down a drunk cattle rustler with a rifle,” Sam says, chuckling, “but if a hen so much as flapped its wings too fast, he’d jump like hellfire was coming.”
I laugh harder now, sinking deeper into the couch, the blanket slipping a little off my shoulder. I pull it back up, feeling the warmth in my cheeks and not just from the fire.
“Thanks,” I say after a beat, softer this time. “I needed that.”
He glances at me. “Everyone needs something to laugh at, especially when it gets too quiet.”
“Or too serious,” I add.
“Yeah. That too.”
“What makes you laugh?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can second-guess it.
“Me?” He sounds genuinely surprised, like it’s not something he gets asked often.
I nod, watching him over the rim of the blanket.
He leans back a little, eyes drifting toward the fire as he thinks. The flames cast shadows along his jawline, flickering in the curve of his mouth.
“Kids,” he says finally. “Little ones, especially when they get real serious about something that doesn’t matter, like stacking blocks or naming every dinosaur they know.” A small smile curves his lips. “Old movies with bad special effects. Phern when she’s angry baking. You ever seen someone angrily make a pie crust? It’s something else.”
I laugh softly at that, already picturing it.
He glances at me then. “And dumb stuff. Stuff no one else would probably find funny. Like when a goat slips on ice. Or when my dog used to bark at his own reflection.”
“Sounds like you laugh more than you let on,” I say.
His gaze holds mine a little longer this time. “I used to.”
The words hang there between us, gentle but weighty. Not a confession. Not a cry for sympathy. Just a truth.
“I’m glad you laughed tonight,” I say, my voice almost a whisper.
He nods once, and something in his expression softens like maybe it meant more to him than he’ll say.
He stands. “Well, we should get you back to bed. It’s only going to get colder, and I don’t want you to get sicker than you already are.”
I stand, too, and follow him down the dark hallway to the bedroom.
