I stop a few feet away, hands shoved deep in my pockets.
My throat is already tight.
"Hey, Daddy," I say quietly.
The words feel strange in my mouth. Too small. Too normal for how long it's been.
The cottonwood shifts overhead, leaves rustling in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, cattle low. The sun creeps higher, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.
I take a step closer.
"I'm sorry," I say, and my voice cracks. "I'm sorry I stayed away so long."
The apology sits there between us—me and a piece of stone—but I can't take it back now.
I sink down onto the grass, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them.
"I couldn't—" I stop. Start again. "I couldn't be here without you."
The words come easier now, tumbling out before I can stop them.
"Mae hurt her leg. She needs my help, even if she won't admit it."
I swallow hard.
"I should have come back sooner. I know that. But I kept telling myself she was fine. That the ranch was fine. That I could stay away a little longer."
My throat tightens.
"I was scared. Scared it wouldn't be the same. Scared it would be exactly the same and I still wouldn't be able to handle it."
"I didn't know what else to do," I whisper. "You were gone and I just—I couldn't breathe here anymore."
My vision blurs.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, but the tears come anyway.
"I thought if I left, it would hurt less. That I could start over somewhere new and just... forget how much it hurt to lose you."
I laugh, bitter and wet.
"Didn't work."
The sun breaks fully over the horizon now, spilling gold across the hillside. Light catches on the dew, turning everything bright and sharp.
I drop my hands and look at the headstone.
"I'm here now," I say. "I don't know for how long. I keep telling everyone it's temporary and maybe it is."
I pause.
"But I'm here."
The breeze picks up, cooler now, carrying the smell of the ranch—hay and horses and dust. I close my eyes and let it wash over me.
I'm twelve, maybe thirteen. Sitting on the top rail of the round pen, boots hooked on the middle rung. Dad's in the center with a young mare—skittish, green, fresh off the trailer from some ranch in Wyoming.
"Watch her ears," he says without looking at me. "She'll tell you everything you need to know before she does it."
