forty-five
The door clicked shut behind Maggie, and silence settled over the hospital room like dust. Anson stared at his father’s weathered face, at the new lines carved around his eyes, the extra silver threading through his dark hair. Eight years had aged them both. The painkillers were wearing thin, and each throb in his bandaged hands felt like a heartbeat, counting out the seconds of awkward silence between them.
Wendell shifted in the vinyl chair, the material squeaking beneath his weight. His fingers traced the brim of his hat, turning it slowly like he was working a piece of leather.
“Bad burns?” he asked finally, nodding toward Anson’s bandaged hands.
“Second degree. Some third.” Anson flexed his fingers slightly, wincing at the pull of raw skin. “Doctor says I might lose some mobility.”
His father’s face darkened. “In your line of work, that’s?—”
“Yeah.”
More silence. The wall clock ticked loudly enough that Anson could hear it over the beeping of his IV machine. He’d imagined this conversation a thousand different ways during his sentence. Sometimes with shouting, sometimes with tears. Occasionallywith reconciliation. But mostly, he’d imagined his father walking away—again.
“I should’ve visited.” Wendell stared down at his hat. “In prison. I should’ve been there.”
The admission hung in the air between them, unexpected and raw.
“Yeah,” Anson said again, because what else was there to say? Eight years of silence couldn’t be erased with a single apology.
“I was angry.” Wendell’s voice roughened. “And scared. My son, facing manslaughter charges. I didn’t know how to...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I was a coward.”
Something sharp twisted in Anson’s chest—not forgiveness, not yet, but maybe the possibility of it. “We were never good at talking.”
“No.” His father’s mouth quirked in a sad approximation of a smile. “Your mother was the talker. After she died—” He cut himself off, throat working. “I focused on the ranch. Thought if I could just keep that going, keep her dream alive, everything else would...”
“Fall into place?”
“Something like that.” Wendell met his eyes directly for the first time. “I was wrong. Let you drift away while I was trying to hold onto her.”
Anson swallowed against the tightness in his throat. His mother had been gone fifteen years now, but some days the loss felt as fresh as yesterday. For both of them, apparently.
“I made my own choices, Dad.” The words tasted like ash, like smoke still clogging his lungs. “I walked into that warehouse. I set that fire.”
“Because that contractor’s equipment killed your men.” Wendell’s voice hardened. “I read the court transcripts. All of them.”
Surprise flashed through Anson. His father had never mentioned the transcripts. Had never acknowledged understanding why Anson had done what he did.
“Doesn’t change what happened.” Four bodies. Four lives extinguished. “I killed them.”
“And you’ve paid for it.” Wendell set his hat on the bedside table, decision made. “Your mother always said you felt things too deeply. Carried everyone’s pain like it was your own.”
The mention of his mother—of how well she’d known him—landed like a blow, knocking all the air from his lungs. He turned his face toward the window, where darkness pressed against the glass, and blinked hard against the burning in his eyes.
“I’m proud of you. What you did today. Running into that fire to save people.” Wendell cleared his throat. “Your mother would’ve been proud, too.”
A strangled sound escaped him before he could stop it, and he closed his eyes against the sting of tears.
“I need to head back to Pennsylvania early tomorrow,” Wendell said after a moment. “Got animals to tend to. But I wanted to see you. It was overdue.”
He blinked hard, trying to keep the tears back. “I’m really glad you came, Dad.”
Wendell stood and collected his hat. He hesitated for a moment, then went to the door, but stopped and turned back. “That girl of yours—Maggie. She’s something special.”
“Yeah,” Anson managed. “She is.”
“Don’t let her go.”
