Whether he likes it or not.
I push off the porch rail and step down into the yard, boots hitting the dirt with purpose. My heart beats faster, but my resolve holds.
I'm walking toward the silence that's gone on long enough. Toward the person who's known me best for most of my life.
The barn looms ahead, warm light spilling through the open door. I don't slow as I cross the yard.
I square my shoulders and keep moving.
This time, I'm not turning back.
Chapter ten
Eli
The cattle will need moving at first light, before the heat creeps in. I work through the preparations without rushing, stacking what I'll need, checking straps and gates, laying everything out so the morning moves clean.
I like things ready before they have to be.
The barn settles around me as the light outside thins. Wood shifting. A horse blowing softly. The low hum of insects from the fields.
This is the part of the day that makes sense. My hands know the work. I focus on tomorrow — moving the cattle to fresh pasture. Which section to start with. Where the ground dips near the lower fence line. The rotation we're behind on because there's never enough time, never enough hands.
The colt shifts in his stall, settling for the night. He's coming along—slower than I'd like, but steady. Three months in and he's finally starting to listen. Another project on a long list I never have enough time for.
I stack another coil of rope, jaw tightening as my thoughts drift despite my efforts.
Hazel came into the barn earlier today.
I hadn't expected that to unsettle me. Not like it did.
She paused just inside the doorway, like she was testing whether the space still recognized her. Like she wasn't sure she had the right to step fully inside. I didn't watch her outright. I learned a long time ago how to keep my attention casual.
But I felt it anyway.
The shift in the air. The way my focus fractured the moment she walked in. The way my body went alert without my permission.
She looked steadier than when she arrived. Not fixed. Just present. Like the land had started working its way back into her, piece by piece.
That shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
I tighten another strap harder than necessary and move on. Distance has rules. Silence has structure. I can live inside both if I'm careful.
But memory doesn't work that way.
I think about how she used to ride when she needed space. How she'd disappear for hours and come back looser, quieter,like she'd left something heavy out in the fields and didn't need to carry it home. I'd wait, pretending I hadn't noticed how long she'd been gone.
At her father's funeral, I stood exactly where I was needed. Not in front. Not behind. Just there. Close enough that she could lean if she had to. I didn't speak then either. I didn't need to. Hazel never required words in moments like that.
Presence had been enough.
That had been easier.
This feels different. Sharper. Like something unfinished pressing against the edges of my control.
I wipe my hands on a rag and lean back against the stall rail, eyes tracking the darkening sky through the open barn door. The last light clings low on the horizon, the fields beyond already settling into shadow.
