“Nope, Lady knows how to get home.” Before I could decide whether I was about to thank him again or yell at him, he turned away. The soft thud of his footsteps as he walked back to his horse. The leather of his saddle groaned as he sat in the seat. He didn’t look back when he trotted away.
The tan hide of the horse was visible for a few moments in the waning light, but soon I was alone again. The repaired fence gleamed in the beam, the fresh metal of the staples catching what little light remained. Ray’s notebook sat where I’d left it, cover flapping slightly in the breeze, pages ruffling like it wanted to saysomething else.
I picked it up with both hands and held it against my chest.
I hated Wyatt for being here and for seeing me like this. To make it easier, I’d decided the hard way was what I deserved.
I also needed what he’d just given me.
The help. The steady silence. The way he stepped into the dark without demanding a thank you for anything.
I turned back toward the house, the night sounding louder than before. The coyotes had gone quiet for now, but I knew they were still out there, waiting at the edges, watching.
The notebook felt heavy under my arm.
When I reached the porch, I stepped inside, turned the deadbolt, and listened to the lock slide into place. The least I could do was listen to him about this.
Thirteen
Tessa
After the funeral, I pretended all weekend the world was paused, as if government offices were closed, then the problems were too. Ray’s debts didn’t matter, and the loneliness that seeped into my bones every time the house shifted was nothing.
I’d patched a fence. Cleaned the stalls in the barn. Swept the kitchen twice a day. Reorganized Ray’s pantry. Counted the envelopes on his desk, but didn’t open a single one.
But Monday didn’t care that I wasn't ready.
By the time I pulled into the gravel lot of the local Credit Union, sweat slicked the back of my neck. My fingers left damp prints on the steering wheel.
I sat there for a long moment, forehead against the wheel, breathing like I was training for a panic attack marathon.
“You can do this,” I whispered. “You survived worse.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but I walked in anyway.
The cool air inside the bank hit like a slap. A clerk behind the counter lifted her head and smiled politely. “Morning. What can I help youwith?”
My throat felt tight. “I need to speak with whoever handles agricultural loans.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
She hesitated for a moment but nodded. “Let me check.”
She disappeared through a side door. I clasped my hands together so she wouldn’t see them shake. My palms were cold even though my skin felt too hot. My chest buzzed like bees lived under my ribs.
After a minute, she returned. “Mrs. Carson can see you.”
I followed her into a small office with framed photos of barley fields and a giant poster about smart retirement planning. A woman in her fifties stood behind the desk and shook my hand.
“You must be Ray’s niece. I’ve been expecting you,” she confirmed. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The words hit like someone pressed on a bruise. “Thank you,” I managed.
“Have a seat. So,” she said gently, “what can I help you with?”
It took everything to force the words out. “I need to know what’s owed on my uncle’s accounts.”
“Your uncle was behind on both property tax and operating credit,” she said. “The arrears are not small.” She didn’t even have to look at her computer. That wasn’t a good sign at all.
