The six pallbearers, Wyatt included, stood and walked toward the casket. Wyatt took the front right position, closest to me. The wood looked heavy, carved from simple pine, exactly what Ray would have wanted.
They lifted it in one smooth motion.
My breath cracked.
Wyatt’s fingers curled around the handle, and I watched his shoulders shift as he adjusted the weight. His face didn’t move, but I could see the tightness behind his eyes.
They carried my uncle out of the church and into the sunlight.
I followed. My steps were unsteady, but I forced each one. People fell in behind us, their heads bowed, their hands folded.
The cemetery overlooked the open range, a rolling stretch of foothills, golden grass, and wide sky. It felt too big. Too quiet. Too permanent.
As the pallbearers set the casket down over the open grave, a breeze ran through the grass, whispering across the hillside. Birds circled overhead. The sun slid behind a thin cloud, dimming the light.
The minister spoke again, but the words washed over me. Istared at the casket, willing myself not to fall apart in front of everyone.
When the time came to throw the first handful of soil, I stepped forward, but my knees nearly buckled. Wyatt moved before I could collapse.
He placed his hand gently, but firmly, around my waist. He didn’t push; he didn’t guide. He just kept me upright. His warmth anchored me in a way that made my throat burn.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured quietly enough that only I could hear it.
I hated that I needed it. And I hated even more that I believed him. I hated him. Except I didn’t, not really, at least not today.
I released the soil. It hit the wood with a soft thump that broke something inside me. When I stepped back, my breath hitched. Wyatt didn’t touch me again, but he remained close, standing slightly behind me, like a wall between me and the rest of the world.
One by one, people followed. Soil. Flowers. Whispered goodbyes.
Eventually, the long walk back from the gravesite funneled everyone toward the parking lot. I expected people to drift to their trucks and head for the church, because that’s what the minister announced, but instead the crowd was shifting north, chatting in small clusters, pointing toward the outskirts of town. I frowned and turned to my friend Brooke just as she looped her arm through mine like I was a toddler she wasn’t confident would stay upright.
“Where is everyone going?” I asked.
“To the brewery,” she said with a sympathetic little squeeze. “Wyatt closed the place for the afternoon. Said it was the only spot big enough to hold everyone.”
I stopped walking, my boots sinking into the gravel. “The brewery?”
She blinked at me as if I’d asked what a cow was. “Hargrove Brewing. Didn’t he tell you?”
Of course, he didn’t. Why would he tell me anything he decided about my life?
Brooke mistook the shock tightening my throat for gratitude and patted my hand. “It was really generous of him. He told Natalie to cancel the lunch service, send the barflies home, and make Ray’s family comfortable.”
Family. The word scraped across something raw.
I followed the stream of mourners to the northern edge of town, where the brewery rose from the prairie like it had been built from the land itself. Timber beams, stone walls, wide windows catching every bit of late afternoon light. It was warm and alive and far larger than I remembered from childhood glimpses.
Inside, the shift in atmosphere hit immediately. Woodsmoke from the massive stone fireplace at the far end curled through the air. Glasses clinked. Voices murmured gently. Warm lighting spilled across comfortable chairs grouped around the fire, the way other restaurants used tables. People settled into them like they belonged there, like the space was designed to be a community hub.
My breath caught because it didn’t look like a bar or a business. It looked like a haven.
And then I saw him.
Wyatt stood behind the long wooden bar, the black jacket gone, sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms leading to it, tight over his shoulders. He was talking to a woman while pointing toward trays of food being laid out: beef sliders, roasted chicken, platters of vegetables, and dainties. As I watched him, he lifted a half keg and slid it into place while someone else steadied the tap line. His posture never faltered. His expression never wavered.
Commanding without raising his voice, calm without ever seeming soft, grounded in a way that made something in my stomach twist.
He glanced up.
