He tipped his hat in a small, subtle motion that landed like a punch in my chest. Then he stepped back outside, pulling the door shut behind him. And for the first time since setting foot back on Callahan land, I exhaled without shaking.
Ten
Tessa
The funeral took place three days after the argument in the kitchen. They were the longest three days of my life. Every hour felt heavy. Every phone call felt like it took something from me. The paperwork, the condolences, the casseroles, the decisions, they all blurred together until I felt hollowed out.
When I arrived at the small white church in River’s Edge, the parking lot was already full. Trucks and old sedans sat everywhere in crooked rows. People dressed in muted colours gathered on the steps, murmuring to each other with the soft, reverent tone small towns used when someone important passed.
Ray had been important here.
I stood on the bottom step for a long moment, clutching the hem of my black dress, trying to steady my breathing. The sky was pale, thin clouds drifting across the sun, softening the light. The air smelled faintly of wild sage. Somewhere nearby, cattle mooed, a reminder of the life outside this one moment.
When I finally walked inside, the sanctuary was already packed. Every pew was filled, and chairs lined along the backwall. People turned as I entered, familiar faces from childhood, neighbours, ranchers Ray argued with, old friends who loved him anyway.
And I wasn’t ready to face any of them.
But I did.
I made my way down the centre aisle to the front row, the spot reserved for me, and sat alone for only a moment before I sensed him.
Turning around, I saw Wyatt step into the aisle. He wasn’t wearing his hat. His hair was combed back, still damp, and he wore a black jacket that fit him too well. His gaze swept the room until it found me, and for a second, neither of us looked away.
He walked down the aisle with the other pallbearers, but when he reached the front, he sat beside me as Ray had explicitly written in his funeral instructions. The pew groaned slightly under his weight. His presence filled the small space between us. I stiffened, but I didn’t move away.
The minister stepped up to the pulpit, smoothing the pages of his notes. “Good morning,” he began gently. “We are here to honour the life of Raymond Callahan, a man who worked hard, argued harder, and loved in a way that wasn’t always spoken aloud, but was always felt.”
A soft ripple of warm laughter and murmurs of agreement moved through the crowd.
The minister continued. “Ray’s life changed the day he became a father in the most unexpected way. Many of you know the story. One morning, more than twenty-three years ago, he opened his front door to find his two-year-old niece standing on his porch with a grocery bag of clothes and no explanation.” My throat tightened, and my hands went cold.
“He never discovered who brought her to him,” the minister said. “He only found a short note inside the bagtelling him that he needed to look after Tessa. And from that moment on, she became his whole world.”
My vision blurred. The room tilted. I felt Wyatt shift next to me, but he didn’t touch me. He didn’t speak. He just stayed exactly where he was.
“He raised Tessa as his own,” the minister continued. “He taught her how to work the land, how to care for animals, how to be stubborn, how to be strong, and how to fight for the things that matter.” I lifted the tissue to dab at the tears that came freely.
My jaw trembled. I pressed my fingers together so tightly my knuckles hurt. Wyatt shifted, and he put his arm over the back of the pew, gently wrapping his big hand around my shoulder.
“Ray wasn’t perfect,” the preacher said, smiling faintly, “but he was present. And that mattered. It mattered to the child he took in, and it mattered to this town.”
Wyatt’s breath slowed beside me. I could feel it even though he hadn’t moved closer.
The minister opened the floor for memories. People stood and talked about Ray’s kindness, his temper, the way he fixed fences for neighbours without being asked, and did not worry about his own work. The way he pretended it annoyed him when children offered to help, but secretly loved it.
When he gestured for me to speak, my chest tightened painfully. My throat closed. Words backed up behind my tongue, but none of them would come out.
Wyatt’s shoulder brushed mine as he stood. A whisper of contact. But it steadied something inside me, and I hated that it did. He reached out his hand to help me stand, and I took it.
The church blurred around the edges as I moved toward the pulpit. My voice wavered at first, but I forced myself to speak.
“It’s hard to believe after all these years, I still don't knowwho left me on Ray’s doorstep. I don’t even know if he is truly my uncle, but it never mattered,” I said softly. “He took me in. He taught me how to be part of this town and gave me a home. And for every hard moment we had, and there were many, I knew he loved me. He loved me the best way he knew how. I will miss him terribly. Thank you, Uncle Ray, for making me the woman I am.”
A few sniffles echoed across the room.
When I sat back down, my hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together again. Wyatt didn’t look at me, but his jaw tightened in something like restraint or understanding. Maybe both.
Then it was time.
