Wildfire.
It’s what our mother called me.
I was born on April 1. She went into labor four weeks early, making me an Aries, which is a fire sign, and she said I came into the world in a blaze of glory.
My sisters came home from school to find Grandma waiting for them. When she told them that Mom and Daddy were at the hospital because their baby sister was coming, they all thought it was an April Fools’ prank. They refused to believe it until she took them to meet me the next afternoon.
I stand and watch until their truck disappears down the drive before heading inside.
After an awkward first day at the Belicourt, I can’t wait for Grandma’s fried chicken and a long, hot bath.
My headlights slice through the Wyoming night as I wind my way out of town. The road from the Belicourt curves along the base of the Tetons, and the starry sky lights the way.
It’s late. Later than I planned.
But that seems to be the story of my life lately. Always in a hurry to get somewhere. The next workday. The next meeting. The next event.
The dashboard clock reads nine o’clock as I head toward Moose. The drive is only about thirty-five minutes if the roads are clear, and tonight, they are. No tourists slowing things down, no Elk Crossing signs flashing warnings, just the hum of the engine and the endless stretch of asphalt beneath my tires.
Normally, I’d go straight home.
Instead, I take the turnoff leading toward the outskirts, where Wildhaven borders Moose.
Toward the Silver Spur Ranch.
Toward my grandfather.
The gravel driveway crunches under my tires as I pull in, the familiar sound echoing in the quiet night. The place looks exactly the same as it always does—and somehow, it’s worse every time I see it.
The ranch used to feel alive. Now it feels like a shell.
The main house sits in the center of the property. It’s a two-story farmhouse, painted a barn red, the color softened by time and sun. The wood siding is showing its age. The weathered look giving it an authentic ranch character. A steep gabled roof crowns the center portion of the house, with the adjoining sections topped with a rusted silvery metal roof reflecting the moonlight.
Stretching across the front is a deep wraparound porch, supported by sturdy wooden lodgepole pine posts. The porch is my favorite part of the house. It’s the place where our family used to gather after a long day. Memories of sitting with Grandma snapping green beans in the rocking chair, quiet conversations over morning coffee, and piles of muddy boots kicked off by the door flood me.
Warm golden light glows from the windows and porch lamps, spilling out into the front and giving the illusion of a joy-filled, inviting home—and once upon a time, it was, with the front yard trimmed neat and flower beds blooming under my grandmother’s careful watch.
Now the grass grows wild.
The barns lean a little more each year, and the bunkhouses sit dark and empty, windows staring out like hollow eyes.
The cattle are gone. I had them sold off years ago. The pastures that once held hundreds of head are nothing but overgrown fields of sage and tall grass.
All that remains now is this house.
And the man inside it.
I grab the paper bag from the passenger seat, the smell of gravy and country-fried steak filling the cab of my Escalade. My grandfather’s favorite meal from the hotel kitchen.
It’s still lukewarm.
I climb out and head toward the porch, the wooden boards creaking under my feet the same way they did when I was a kid, running up these steps two at a time.
Funny how some sounds never change.
I push open the front door without knocking.
“Granddad?” I call.
