We walk in silence for a few minutes. Somewhere above us, a bird calls.
“She and I used to fight about it,” Mara says finally. “About him. About staying.” She shakes her head, a rueful smile tugging at her mouth. “She thought I was jealous.”
“Were you?” I ask.
Mara snorts. “Of being tied to a ranch and a man who barely looked at her unless she was serving a purpose?” She glances sideways at me. “No.”
That sits heavy between us, uncomfortable and unresolved.
I let it rest, then shift the question before it can turn sharper. “What about Grandma?” I ask. “What was she like… before everything?”
Mara’s expression softens immediately, the defensive edge falling away. “Mom was a force,” she says. “Sharp. Practical. She didn’t suffer fools, but she adored Bonnie.” A faint smile touches her mouth. “She said Bonnie had a way of making people feel seen without asking anything in return.”
That makes my throat ache.
“She taught her the bees,” Mara continues. “Not because she thought Bonnie would stick with it, she didn’t, but because she believed everyone should know how to tend something living. Said it kept you honest.”
That sounds exactly like my grandmother.
“She didn’t approve of your father,” Mara adds, quieter now. “Not at first. Not ever, really.” She hesitates. “But she loved Bonnie enough to stop arguing about it. Mom believed in choosing your battles.”
I think of my grandmother’s hands, guiding mine over a hive frame. Of all the things she never said out loud.
“And after?” I ask.
Mara’s smile fades just a fraction. “After, she held the family together the only way she knew how.”
By not talking about what cracked it in the first place.
We keep walking, the trail curling ahead of us, and I can’t shake the feeling that every answer I get opens two more questions.
And that Mara knows exactly where the edges are, and how not to cross them.
“What about the rivalry?”
Mara’s steps falter, just barely. If I weren’t watching her, if I didn’t know how to read pauses the way I read weather and bees and people who don’t want to be stung, I might’ve missed it.
“What rivalry?” she asks.
The words are smooth. Too smooth.
“The letters,” I say, evenly. “They mention tension. What was it about? Land? Money?”
“Oh,” she says lightly, like I’ve reminded her of a feud between neighbors or a fence line argument. “That old nonsense.”
I wait.
The trail slopes gently downward, pine needles crunching underfoot, and she keeps walking as if she hasn’t just tossed out a word meant to close the subject.
She doesn’t elaborate.
“Mara,” I say, careful but firm, “what nonsense?”
She flicks a hand, dismissive. “Small-town drama. People reading too much into nothing. Your grandmother had land. So did half the valley. That doesn’t make it a conspiracy.”
I swallow. “Did Grandma have money?” I ask. “More than people knew about?”
This time, she stops walking on purpose.
