Maybe the ranch wouldn’t have fallen on my shoulders alone.
Maybe I wouldn’t still be waking up this way twelve years later.
But “maybe” doesn’t change things. “Maybe” doesn’t bring him back.
Responsibility is the only change I can rely on now. That and work.
Keeping this ranch alive is the only shot I have.
Because if I fail at this, at the one thing Luke loved as much as breathing, then I lose him all over again.
I suck in one more breath. Then I get up.
Grief might own my nights, but the land owns my days.
The ranch needs me. The horses don’t wait.
And I’ll be damned if I lose anything else I love.
“Come on,” I mutter to myself, rough as gravel. “Ain’t fixin’ a thing sittin’ here.”
The room is dark except for the thin line of dawn pushing in around the curtains. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feetbrushing the floorboards I still need to sand down one of these days.
There’s a draft coming under the door. House always settles in the cold.
Or maybe I do.
The kitchen is quiet enough to hear thetickof the old wall clock. I pour black coffee into a chipped mug, the one with Luke’s initials carved into the handle.
Kid thought he was funny, “claiming” things that already belonged to both of us.
The coffee tastes burnt, just the way I want it. Makes it easier to wake up.
Outside, the air is bone dry, the kind that crawls up your throat and settles there. Been weeks without real rain.
The grass crunches under my boots as I cross the yard to the stables, and every step reminds me how thirsty the land is. Thirsty land makes nervous horses, and nervous horses make long days.
I don’t mind long days. Long days mean less time for thinking.
Inside the barn, the horses shift when they hear me. Familiar weight settles in my chest.
Animals don’t lie. They don’t expect much. Just patience. Steady hands. And someone who won’t give up on ’em.
“Easy now,” I murmur, running a hand over Midnight’s flank as he leans into me, eyes half closed. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to you today.”
He huffs because he doesn’t believe me. Can’t blame him.
I hum an old country tune without realizing it, something my dad used to sing under his breath when the mornings were cold enough to bite your nose. Sound fills the quiet barn.
Horses love it. Makes them think everything’s fine.
I wish my own mind worked the same way.
Footsteps crunch outside before Wyatt appears in the doorway, hair damp. Looks like he just rolled outta bed and dunked his head in water out of spite.
The man looks too calm for someone who’s probably been up half the night reading medical journals.
“Mornin’,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
