The whole place was silent except for the groan of timbers shifting under their own weight.
Blaze stopped on the ridge, the cold wind stinging his eyes.
“This was home,” he whispered. “Ain’t nothin’ left.”
His boots carried him down slowly, every step heavy. The air thickened with the stench of smoke, ash, and blood. He passed the broken corral, the scorched remains of a wagon wheel, and the black skeleton of the porch.
And then he saw her.
His mother lay in the ruins of the house, where Wilder had cut her down. Still wrapped in silence, still waiting for him.
Blaze froze. His throat closed; his chest buckled.
“Ma . . .” Blaze whispered. “I’m back.”
The words felt hollow on his tongue, carried by the pale dawn wind. He stood at the edge of the blackened yard, smoke still curling from the ruins.
Where skin showed at the collar and face, it was seared and blackened, features blurred by the fire’s work.
The sight hit him harder than any shot.
Blaze’s knees nearly buckled. “Ma,” he whispered. The word came out small against the vast, bright sky.
He walked toward her, each step careful as though the scorched earth itself might open beneath him. Her hair clung in brittle, darkened strips. Her hands were curled as if holding on, fingers blackened and stiff.
He dropped to his knees beside her and put his forehead against the side of her hand, the heat of the morning sun washing over them both.
“I’m here now,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Ma.” The apology had nowhere to land. He felt empty, small.
The sun broke low on the horizon, spilling red light across the land. Blaze wiped his eyes and pushed himself to his feet.
“I’ll get you buried,” he said. “Proper, best I can do.”
***
He glanced at the barn ruins and spotted the half-burned shovel leaning against a fallen beam. He walked over, picked it up, and drove it into the earth near the cottonwoods.
The soil was dry and hard-packed. Each thrust of the shovel rattled his arms. Sweat stung his eyes, but he kept digging.
“This ain’t right,” he muttered. “You deserved better than a hole in the ground by yourself. Pa should’ve been here. Rachel should’ve been here. You should’ve had a marker, a preacher, somethin’ decent.”
His breath came hard. He leaned on the shovel.
“But it’s just me.”
He looked at her still form again, wrapped in the blanket he’d pulled from the rubble.
“I’ll make it right, Ma,” Blaze said. “I’ll give you peace. And then...” His voice hardened. “Then I’ll find him.”
The grave took shape slowly. It was a shallow trench carved into the stubborn earth.
Blaze’s hands blistered; his shoulders burned, but he didn’t stop.
“Not stoppin’ now,” he muttered, driving the shovel down again. “Not leavin’ you half-done.”
The trench deepened inch by inch, the cruel earth resisting him every step. Each time the blade struck rock, Blaze pried it free and tossed the stones aside. His palms split open, raw against the wood, but the sting only drove him harder.
“You’d tell me to pace myself,” Blaze said, his breath coming ragged, sweat streaking through the soot on his face. “Say a man’s no use if he breaks himself on the first job.”
