The wagon rolled forward, creaking toward the road. Blaze stood with his hands on his hips, watching the dust trail fade.
The ranch yard felt too quiet without them. The chickens pecked in the dirt, horses shifted in the corral, and the wind rattled the dry grass. Blaze turned back toward the barn, rolling his shoulders.
Work waited. Always work.
He split wood until sweat darkened his shirt, then hauled water from the well. The sun climbed high, burning down on his neck. As he worked, his thoughts circled the same words Rachel had spoken.
Mrs. Kane says Pa stole gold.
Blaze swung the ax harder, burying it deep in the block. He yanked it free, chest heaving.
“They don’t know nothin’,” he muttered.
Still, the whispers clung like burrs. Every trip into town, every passing glance, every lowered voice. Folks might smile to his mother’s face, but their eyes always drifted to Blaze, measuring him against a story they’d already decided was true.
Blaze set another log, raised the ax, and brought it down with a sharp crack. He split the wood clean in two, but the ache in his chest remained.
“Pa weren’t no thief,” he whispered. “And I’ll prove it if I got to.”
“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”
“Reckon the boy’s out back.”
“Thought his ma handled the orders.”
“Maybe she’s in town. Don’t matter, long as we unload.”
Blaze straightened, ax still in hand. Sweat streaked his face. He leaned the handle against the block and stepped toward the barn.
Two men had pulled up in a wagon stacked with burlap sacks of feed. Their hats drooped low, dust coating their boots.One clambered down, grunting as he untied the ropes. The other sat on the bench, chewing a stem of grass.
“You Buckeye?” the man on the ground asked.
“Name’s Blaze,” Blaze replied.
“Close enough,” the man said. “Got twenty sacks for ya.”
“Stack ’em by the barn,” Blaze said.
“That’s the plan,” the man said.
The other man on the bench spat into the dirt. “Hot work for a boy.”
“Hot work don’t scare me,” Blaze said.
“That so?” the man asked with a grin.
“That’s so,” Blaze replied.
The first man chuckled, hefting a sack onto his shoulder. “Boy talks like he’s twice his age.”
“Folks say he’s got reason to,” the man on the bench said.
“Folks say a lot,” Blaze said flatly.
The men glanced at each other. One raised his brows.
“You hear the talk then?” the bench rider asked.
