I’m not her, so there’s no way I can do that. But I think I might be learning how to be brave in my own way.
Just not yet.
I find Mom and Dad in the kitchen, exactly where I knew they’d be. Dad’s half-hidden behind the newspaper, glassesperched on his nose. Mom’s sipping her coffee, a crossword puzzle spread out in front of her, pen tapping thoughtfully at the edge of the table. It’s the same scene I saw growing up. The only difference is they have more greys in their hair.
I pause in the doorway, taking it in. The peace. The steadiness. The quiet love. It fills something hollow in my chest.
Mom looks up first and smiles. “Morning, hun. Feeling better?”
“I am.” I slide into the seat across from them, folding my hands on the table. “Actually, I have a job interview. With a ranch outside of Wichita.”
Dad sets the paper down, his face lighting up. “That’s wonderful news, kiddo. It’ll be great to have you close again.”
But Mom just watches me, her gaze soft and sharp all at once.
“I thought you loved it out there,” she says gently.
“I do,” I admit. “Or did. There’s just no more room for me to grow out there.”
She hums, that quiet, knowing sound only mothers can make—part acceptance, part question, part intuition. But she doesn’t press. She just nods and goes back to her puzzle.
“Do you mind if I borrow one of the cars to drive out to the ranch?”
Dad waves a hand. “Go ahead. We’re being lazy today. Take whichever one starts first.”
I change into my ranch attire and head out just before eight. The drive to the ranch is long and flat, the Kansas sky wide open above me. Wheat fields blur past, golden and endless. I crack the window, letting the warm wind mess up my hair and whisper through the silence that’s been hanging around my shoulders since the airport.
I don’t know what I’m chasing exactly. But I know I can’t stay still.
The ranch comes into view after a dusty turnoff. Wooden fencing stretched across acres of pasture, thick-bodied cattle grazing lazily beneath the early sun. A metal gate creaks as I push through, my tires crunching gravel as I pull up to a modest, weatherworn house. It isn’t much, but it breathes like home.
A woman steps off the porch, wiping her hands on her jeans. Mid-fifties, strong and sun-browned, she walks like someone who’s never wasted time on things that don’t matter.
“You Olive?” she calls out.
“That’s me,” I say, climbing out and offering my hand.
She shakes it firmly. “I’m Connie. I run this place, more or less. You ready to work, or are you just here to kick tires and waste my time?”
I blink, then smile. “I’m ready to work.”
“Good. Come on, then.”
She doesn’t waste a second. We walk along the perimeter fence toward the sorting pens while she rattles off questions. Have I worked with cattle? Know the difference between a bred heifer and an open one? Can I vaccinate, tag, brand, assist a breech birth if it comes to it?
“Yes,” I answer. “All of it.”
“Where’d you learn?” she asks, glancing at me sideways.
“Worked at a ranch out west the last few years.”
“You leaving a good job, or a bad man?” she asks bluntly.
I huff a dry laugh. “Maybe both.”
Connie nods like she’s heard that answer a hundred times and it never surprises her. We stop near the chute, where a pair of ranch hands are guiding bawling calves into the alley. The smell of manure, dust, and sun-warmed metal fills the air, and for the first time in weeks, I feel steady. Not whole. But grounded.
Connie eyes the men, then turns back to me. “I need someone who doesn’t flinch when shit gets messy. Someone who showsup before dawn and doesn’t complain if a cow needs pulling in the middle of the damn night.”
