“Are you going to give her time?” Holt asked, and I knew he was meaning Tessa.
“I have to,” I said. “She is too raw to hear anything that sounds like sense. Every word out of my mouth sounds like a threat right now.”
“You also can’t let the bank call the note in,” Holt reminded me. “And those notices are not going to stop.”
“I know,” I said. “One problem at a time.”
He gave a small nod, as if that was all there was to say. When the lane to my house came into view, I turned my head and watched it approach. The house stood tall on the rise, lights now glowing in two front windows, the porch a long dark line against the sky.
Holt drove up to the gravel square and parked in front of the steps. He killed the engine and rested his hands on the wheel for a second.
“You want company?”
“No, I’m not really in the mood for it tonight. Go home.”
“Call if you need something, Wyatt.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded once, then opened his door and climbed out. I did the same. The air felt cooler here, a faint breeze tugging at the front of my shirt.
When he disappeared past the tree line, the silence wrapped in.
The house loomed in front of me, dark wood and stone and glass. It had been my father’s pride. Big porches, tallwindows, heavy doors, rooms meant to fill with family and noise. I added new wings over the years, expanded the kitchen, redone the great room, and made sure the old beams stayed where they were, but reinforced where needed.
You could fit three of Ray Callahan’s house inside mine and still have room for a barn.
From the outside, it looked like success. The kind people in town nodded at, the kind that made their voices shift when they said my name. Wyatt Hargrove, big operation, lots of land, successful brewery, and never stops to enjoy any of it.
I climbed the steps, opened the front door, and tossed my hat on the bench by the door, rubbing a hand over my face.
The great room stretched long and wide, anchored by the massive stone fireplace against the far wall. Above it hung a painting my mother had chosen, all sky and mountains and running horses. Leather couches framed a low table, a thick rug sprawled across the floor. One of the housekeepers arranged art books in a neat stack that had never once been opened. The place looked like a magazine spread. And I walked through it like a visitor.
The kitchen sat just beyond, separated by a long island with barstools. Six, to be exact. It was the kind of place meant for breakfasts with kids fighting over cereal and teenagers raiding the fridge late at night.
Only one mug sat in the drying rack. Mine from this morning. On the fridge, held in place by a magnet shaped like a boot, was a drawing my daughter made four summers ago. Bright crayons, a horse with legs too long, a sun that smiled in the corner, a stick figure man beside a shorter stick girl. She had written Dad in big letters.
My chest squeezed. I touched the corner of the paper with my fingertips, then dropped my hand.
Maddy lived in Calgary with her mother. They’d moved there after the divorce. It made sense for them. Rena’s workwas there, better schools, more friends, and better opportunities for Maddy to grow.
My life didn’t allow me to drop it and follow her; what it gave me was weekend visits and phone calls. Almost every weekend, I’d meet Rena halfway and pick my daughter up, and life would be perfect for almost seventy-two hours.
She loved the ranch in the way children loved wild places; they didn’t have to worry about anything but being free. The horses, the dogs, the big machines. Then she went back to the city where she had friends, show jumping practice, and a bedroom that didn’t smell like leather and dust.
Standing at the counter, I could see the long line of buildings that made up the working part of the ranch. The calving barns, the machine shed, and the long structure that held the squeeze chutes and pens. Beyond them, the fields stretched, lit by the last light clinging to the sky. Somewhere out there, my men were finishing evening checks, setting things up for the night. Work didn’t stop because a man got buried.
It hadn’t stopped when my father died either. I’d been younger then, less worn in. I remembered standing at his grave with my hat in my hand and the blunt understanding that the cattle didn’t care that I lost my father. They only cared whether the feed was ready for them and the water ran.
Ray had been the same kind of man. He worked until his body shut down. People like us didn’t know how to stop. Only how to pause and then start again with more weight on our backs.
Now Tessa was in his home, dealing with his unpaid bills and his half-finished projects. I’d seen the strain in her face when I told her about the loan. The anger when I admitted I tried to buy the place. The way her hands shook when she told me to leave.
It was easier to be angry instead of admitting you were scared.
The phone in my pocket buzzed. I pulled it out and felt something in my chest loosen a fraction.
I answered on the next ring. “Hey, bug.”
