I press the pen to the page again.
The grief isn’t as sharp as it once was, but it hasn’t dulled into something manageable either. It’s changed shape. It surfaces in unexpected moments, like when the sky turns a certain color at sunset or when the air carries a scent that triggers a memory I had long forgotten.
Some days, missing you feels like a bruise that’s finally begun to fade. Others it’sas if I’ve pressed directly on it without meaning to.
Tonight, it feels like I’m grinding against it.
I’m learning not to numb that feeling. I’m trying to sit with it instead. It’s harder than I expected, which Dr. Patel reminds me is normal during our weekly call.
The distant hum of an engine and the crunch of gravel cut through the night.Knox and Teagan.I let the chair drop onto all four legs and stand, stretching out the stiffness in my back. The night air is cool as I step inside the bunkhouse and close the door behind me. After setting the journal on the desk, I run my palm over the worn leather.
On the edge of the bed, I remove my boots, tugging them free one at a time as the truck comes to a stop. Outside, doors shut, and their voices fade as they make their way toward the main house. I peel off my shirt and toss it onto the empty bed beside mine. Once I’ve removed my pants, I lie down on the thin mattress, fold my hands over my chest, and stare at the ceiling.
I roll onto my side to face the small nightstand and adjust my pillow so I can see Rosie. My throat tightens, and I whisper into the dark, “I love you, dreamer.” The words feel both full and—for the first time—insufficient. “I’m still here. Still yours.”
And I’m trying… God, I’m trying… not to let living make me forget you.
I’m awake before the sun crests the horizon, lying in bed and gazing at the ceiling while the house still sleeps around me. There’s a particular kind of quiet that exists in these minutes. The rare silence before boots hit the floor, coffee brews, and cattle start bawling for feed. It’s the only time the ranch doesn’t feel like it’s asking something of me.
I roll onto my side and glance at the window. For the first morning in a while, frost doesn’t cling to the edges of the glass. Winter in Montana doesn’t arrive gently. It settles in fast, a crisp, biting iciness that sinks deep into your bones.
Spring arrives with less of a bang and more subtlety. It slips in quietly, softening the edges of winter one morning at a time. The ground turns slick with thaw, breathing up the scent of damp earth. The creek runs louder, and birds return to the cattails as if someone flipped a switch.
I dress in layers, not forgoing my thermals and jacket that always smells faintly of hay. Spring may be coming, but thecold still lingers. I pull my hair into a braid as I walk toward the front door, my fingers working by memory.
When I step onto the porch, the air is sharp enough to wake me fully, though it lacks winter’s cruelty. The grass is wet with melting frost instead of being locked in it, and the ground gives slightly beneath my boots as I cross over to the barn. Snow still clings to the mountains.
Horses shift in the stalls, greeting me as I enter, their ears flicking toward the sound of the door. Daisy lets out a soft huff when she sees me, her breath clouding the air. “And good morning to you, too.” I drag my palm along her neck, feeling the warmth of her beneath my palm. Her twitch beneath my touch. She’s solid and steady, and I envy that sometimes.
As I run my hands over her, my thoughts wander. I’ve thought about last night more than I’d ever admit to anyone. The Dew Drop was exactly what it always is—loud, crowded, familiar. Knox spent the night tangled up with Jess. I smiled and small-talked with boys I’m not interested in, while pretending not to notice how often my gaze drifted to the door. I knew he wouldn’t come. Yet, part of me hoped he might change his mind.
I head out as the barn doors creak open behind me, letting in a sliver of pale morning light. I don’t have to turn to know it’s one of my brothers. I can tell by the weight of the footsteps and the faint drag of one foot, the result of an injury that put a tragic end to what was going to be a remarkable bull riding career.
“Morning,” Deacon says, his voice low and already fully awake.
“Morning.”
He steps into the stall beside Daisy’s, starting on his own horse without further comment. Deacon, like Dad, is the kind of man who doesn’t waste words. While Knox is the opposite, all noise and reckless charm. Between the two of them, I’ve grown up in a constant tug-of-war between restraint and chaos.
Dad comes in a minute later, boots heavy against the packed dirt, coffee Thermos in hand. He gives me a nod, the closest thing to affection he offers in the mornings. Knox and Easton trail in behind him, still half asleep, hats low over their eyes.
“Morning,” Easton drawls, his sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular forearms dusted with dark hair.
“Morning,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
He moves like he’s trying not to take up too much space, which is ironic, considering how much of it he naturally commands. He heads toward the stall where Ranger waits, his dark head lifting in recognition. Easton runs a hand down the horse’s nose first, easy and unhurried, before reaching for the saddle. I watch him longer than I should from the corner of my eye.
“We’ll push the south herd out to the far pasture before the heat sets in,” Dad announces. “Storm’s coming in tonight. They’ll need to be on higher ground.”
We fall into rhythm automatically, saddling up our horses. Leather creaks and metal clinks as tack comes off hooks worn smooth from years of use. I grab Daisy’s saddle and swing it onto her back. She shifts under the weight, earsflicking toward me, but settles when I run a hand down her neck. After tightening everything, I check it again to be certain.
Dad steps past me, grabbing his gloves. “Mount up. We don’t got all day.” Deacon and Knox waste no time following after him. The three of them are past the paddock by the time I lead Daisy into the morning light. She snorts and tosses her head, restless with the promise of movement as I climb onto her saddle.
“Let’s go.” I click my tongue, but she balks. Her hooves couldn’t be more planted to the ground unless they were encased in concrete. I shift in the saddle and squeeze lightly with my heels. “Daisy.” She flicks an ear at me, clearly hearing me just fine and still not moving.
I glance over my shoulder at Easton. He lingers near the barn doors, adjusting something on Ranger’s bridle, not in any hurry.Of course.I turn my attention back to my stubborn horse and try again, firmer this time. She shifts her weight but still refuses to step forward.
“You don’t have to wait,” I call over my shoulder to Easton.
