“Exactly.”
She giggled. That sound filled more of the room than all the furniture.
“I miss you,” she said abruptly.
I closed my eyes for a moment. “I miss you too, bug.”
“When can I come out again? Mom said we have to see what your schedule is and the cows’ schedule and the weather and the moon and the economy.”
“Really soon. I’ll call your mom when the dust settles around here, but it should be better come Monday.” I hated that she was missing this weekend, but there were things she didn’t have control over with her show riding schedule.
“I have to go. We are having pasta. Dad, I love you.”
“I love you, bug.” The line clicked off. I lowered the phone slowly and stood there for a moment, letting the silence fold back in around me. It did not feel as heavy now. There was still weight in it, but there was also the echo of her voice.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and walked to the large window that overlooked the yard. The last of the light was fading. The security lights near the barns flicked on, casting pale circles onto the packed dirt. A few of the men crossed between buildings, their shadows long and stretched.
From here, it was easy to imagine a different life. One where Rena stayed, where Maddy was in her bedroom, with her music too loud, or friends giggling with her about people they liked. One where the kitchen would be full instead of eerily quiet.
The house felt huge around me, all that wood and stone and space built for a family I didn’t have. For a legacy that was more weight than comfort. It wasn’t so different from Ray’s place in the end. His smaller, older, rougher, but the shape of loneliness was the same.
Twelve
Tessa
Iwasn’t looking for anything; I was just opening drawers, moving through the kitchen, because sitting still meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering the way dirt hit the top of Ray’s coffin.
The kitchen felt wrong without him. His mug sat upside down on the drying rack. His notebook sat on the end of the table where he always wrote feed numbers, weather conditions, and things he meant to fix. The light over the sink hummed faintly. Late evening slid through the window, soft and gold, touching every surface that still smelled like him.
I pulled open the junk drawer near the phone. The same one that had been a disaster since I was ten. Batteries that might be dead. Twist ties, old receipts, a tangled extension cord. Two faded takeout menus from places that probably didn’t even exist anymore. And tucked between them, like it had slid sideways and gotten buried, was a small spiral notebook.
I froze.
It was one of the cheap ones from the hardware store, with a bent cardboard cover and wire coils half crushed on one side.I pulled it free, scattering rubber bands and a dead pen across the floor. For a second, I almost put it back. Then I saw the handwriting on the front page.
Ray’s uneven scrawl looped across the paper, slanting downhill just a little, like it always had.
Ranch To Do List: Spring
I smoothed the page with my fingers, feeling every groove of pen pressure like it might be the last physical proof that he stood at this counter, in this house, making plans. I flipped to the next page.
Fix the south fence.
Patch the barn roof before storms.
Replace the tractor belt.
Call Tessa. Ask about her job. Tell her I’m proud of her.
The words blurred. I blinked hard, once, twice, but the sting behind my eyes only sharpened.
He had written it down like it was just another chore. Right there between fixing fences and changing belts, like it was something he could schedule for a rainy afternoon.
Call Tessa. Ask about her job. Tell her I’m proud.
He never had.
He never asked about my job. Not more than a short, gruff, are you eating and are you getting yourself killed with those city dogs. And he never said he was proud, never once utteredthe words I wanted you or I’m glad you’re mine or anything that even came close.
