“And I’m not going,” he adds firmly. “I stay here. With the kids. And I’ll go through these notes again and again.”
I stand, grab my jacket. “Then it’s settled.”
Marshall pushes to his feet beside me. “If Carl’s talking, it’ll be there. And it’ll be because he’s had one too many.”
Wyatt’s gaze sharpens. “Be careful.”
I meet his eyes. “Always.”
As we head for the door, it all settles heavy in my chest. Land, fire, silence, and the woman standing unknowingly at the center of it.
Whatever happened back then didn’t stay buried.
It just waited.
And now it’s starting to breathe again.
We don’t have to look for Carl.
He spots Marshall the second we walk in.
Carl’s still at the far end of the bar, same stool, same usual whiskey, but his posture changes the moment Marshall comes into view. He straightens a little, squints, then lets out a low, surprised laugh.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “If it isn’t Tom’s boy.”
Marshall slows, a careful look settling into his expression. “Carl.”
Carl shakes his head, studying him, lining past and present up side by side. “You got his shoulders. And that look. Like you’re always waiting for something to go sideways.”
Marshall’s mouth twitches. “Guess some things stick.”
Carl lifts his glass in a small salute. “Your old man was my best friend.”
I slide onto the stool beside Carl without ceremony. “Jesse.”
He glances at me, then nods. “You’re the carpenter.”
“Guilty.”
“Tom talked about you,” Carl says. “Said you were good people. He was usually right.”
Marshall orders drinks without asking. Carl doesn’t protest.
We don’t start with questions. We start with memories.
Tom yelling at a busted fence, Tom refusing to sell land on principle, Tom showing up with a six-pack and no plan exceptwe’ll figure it out.
Carl’s voice roughens around the edges when he talks about him.
He rolls his glass between his palms, eyes going distant. “Your dad used to say this place was where stories came to die. Folks came in loud and left quieter.”
Marshall lets out a short breath. “Sounds like him.”
“Yeah.” Carl’s mouth twitches. “He had opinions.”
The bar noise swells and recedes around us. Laughter, a chair scraping, Riley calling an order. Carl watches the surface of his drink as if it might rearrange itself into something useful.
“He always said people remembered the wrong things,” Carl continues. “Fights instead of reasons. Endings instead of what came before.”
