I should tell her the truth. I should burn the rest of it and be done.
But I have nothing else to give her except this roof and these bees, and I don’t know which truth is worse—that her mother died looking for a fantasy, or that I’m about to bury it alive.
My vision blurs.
I blink hard, tears hot and unexpected.
What did you do, Mabel?
What didn’t you do?
My fingers tighten around the edges of the journal.
I skim forward, but the entries after that day are… quieter. She writes about practical things and avoids mentioning the fire outright. Grief is there in the silence between her words, in the way she notes the weather but not the anniversaries.
There’s no mention of “jewels” again.
It feels like a lock.
And someone, somewhere, just slid a key under my door.
CHAPTER TEN
Wyatt
Monday
The sky looks wrong.
It’s orange. Bruised citrus pressed behind a curtain of smoke.
And the smell… Not just wood. Dry grass. Sap. Heat. A wildfire smell.
It’s worse than this morning. I knew it would be, but knowing and seeing are two very different things.
I’m standing out by the fence line, hand braced on the top rail, squinting out toward the distant ridge. Heat ripples rise from the earth around the ranch, but that far-off glow is hotter.
Angry. Hungry.
Marshall comes up beside me, all quiet intensity and calming presence, which is his default but even heavier tonight.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.
His eyes narrow. “It’s spreading.”
I let out a breath I’ve been holding since lunchtime. “Yeah.”
“You talk to the fire chief?”
“Twice.” I run my hand through my hair, which is pointless because it just makes it stand up more. “They’ve got crews working both sides, but the wind’s not cooperating. And theground… well.” I gesture vaguely at the dry, cracked earth beneath our boots. “It’s all tinder.”
Marshall’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t like things he can’t control. Before I can say anything else, the screen door slams behind us.
“Hey!” Jesse calls, jogging down the steps with that easy stride of his, sunlight and charm, even with ash drifting. “Kids are asking if they can roast marshmallows tonight. Which feels like a real bad joke all things considered.”
He’s smiling, but his eyes are tight.
He sees the smoke. He’s not immune to fear. He’s just good at hiding it behind a joke.
