The land was counting on her. Gramps was counting on her. Drowning wasn’t an option. But oh, Sierra was tired.
She stood at the kitchen sink, cold water running over her hands as she scrubbed dirt from beneath her fingernails. The granite dust from this morning’s rescue still clung to her skin, along with the memory of Tom Hendrick’s body sprawled among the rocks. She’d found two hypothermic hikers and one dead rancher. Not exactly the kind of day that made for easy dinner conversation with a ten-year-old.
The kitchen around her told the story of four generations of Blackwood women. She loved this kitchen. Honey-colored cabinets her great-grandfather had built by hand, countertops worn smooth by decades of meal preparation, and the massive farmhouse window that framed the ranch like a living photograph. Exposed beams stretched across the ceiling, darkened with age and smoke from the stone fireplace that dominated the great room beyond. This house had weathered a century of Colorado winters, raised children through the Depression, and sheltered her family through good times and lean.
Now it might not survive her.
Through the window above the sink, empty pasture stretched toward the foothills where granite outcroppings caught the late-afternoon light. The land rolled away in gentle swells covered with October grass, thick and green from recent rains—perfect feed for the thirty head of cattle that should have been grazing there. Instead, fresh tire tracks scarred the muddy ground near the far gate, and the silence felt wrong. Cattle made noise—lowing, shuffling, the sound of life. This quiet was the sound of money walking away in the night.
“Mom, you see me nail that loop on the fence post?” Huck’s voice, bright with excitement, carried across the yard and into the window. “Morrie says I’m getting good enough to enter the junior competition.”
Sierra turned off the water and dried her hands on a dish towel that had seen better decades. Through the window, her son stood in the corral that backed up to the house, coiling rope with the same focused intensity his father had shown at that age. The way Huck tilted his head when he concentrated, the particular way his left eyebrow quirked when he was pleased with himself—his father’s expressions lived on in their son’s face.
“I saw. That was a clean throw.” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out ground beef, onions, and a can of tomatoes from the pantry. Spaghetti again. Simple, filling, and cheap. The kind of meal that stretched a grocery budget already pulled thin.
She’d spent her inheritance on the taxes to keep this place.
“Morrie says if I keep practicing, I might place at the Fall Festival Rodeo.” Huck appeared in the kitchen doorway, his rope still in hand, cheeks red from the cool air. “Can we afford the entry fee?”
Twenty-five dollars. She had exactly eighteen dollars and thirty-seven cents in her checking account until her inherited annuity payment came in next week. But Huck’s face held the kind of hope that made mothers move mountains.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Is that mom-speak for no?”
Sierra started browning the beef in her grandmother’s cast-iron skillet. Set another pan of water to boil. “It’s mom-speak for ‘we’ll figure it out.’”
“Sweet.” Huck dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, pushing aside a stack of bills she’d been reviewing. “Eli Martinez says his dad might sponsor some of the junior riders if they don’t have the money. You know, pay their fees and stuff.”
Her jaw tightened. She didn’t need help, especially not from neighbors who were probably struggling just as much as she was. “We’ll handle our own fees.”
“But if people want to help?—”
“We handle our own business, Huck.”
Huck studied her face the way he did when he was trying to figure out if she was really okay or just pretending. Too smart for his own good, her stubborn, headstrong son. Determined to follow his own renegade heart. And break hers in the process.
Too much like his father in that regard.
“Go hang up that rope properly.” She added onions to the skillet. “Grandpa Elway would have your hide if he saw good rope just lying around.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Huck disappeared toward the mudroom.
Sierra opened the can of tomatoes and dumped them into the pan, then walked over to the garbage and dropped it into the recycling.
Her gaze fell on the folded American flag sitting in its frame, hanging on the wall. Thirteen folds of red, white, and blue. Of course, the gloved officer hadn’t handed it to her. But she’d ended up with it anyway.
That meant something, maybe.
She nearly reached up to touch it when the front door opened and boots stomped across the porch. Heavy work boots, not Huck’s lighter step. “Sierra?”
Walt “Morrie” Morrison pushed through the kitchen door, his hat in his hands and concern written across his ruggedly handsome face. Early forties with steel-gray eyes and the kind of weathered good looks that came from a lifetime working outdoors, Morrie had worked for Gramps for fifteen years. These days, he worked for whatever Sierra could afford to pay him, which wasn’t nearly enough. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and a well-groomed beard framed features that belonged in a Western magazine—all sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. But it was the genuine worry in his expression that made Sierra’s chest tighten.
“Right here. How’d we do today?”
“Not good. Lost another dozen head from the north pasture. Found the fence cut clean through, tire tracks leading toward the county road.”
Sierra’s hand stilled on the wooden spoon. Twelve more head. At current market prices, that was another few thousand dollars gone. “Same spot as last time?”
