There’s damage. Burned fencing. Blackened ground where green used to be. My heart stutters.
Then I see movement.
Horses grazing. Donkeys braying. Longhorns clustered together as they always are, unimpressed by disaster.
Alive.
“They’re okay,” Wyatt says, relief threading his voice.
I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Marshall pulls to a stop, and I’m out of the truck before anyone can tell me to wait, boots sinking into wet earth as I scan the pasture.
And then…
My hives.
Standing. Intact. Bees already moving despite the weather, stubborn and alive and humming softly.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I whisper.
I crouch near them, listening, checking entrances, watching the purposeful movement that feels like the heartbeat of my entire life.
They’re okay.
I laugh, a broken sound that turns into tears before I can stop it. I scrub at my cheeks, embarrassed but unable to care.
Wyatt crouches nearby, giving me space. Marshall hangs back, watchful.
“They’re good,” I say hoarsely, looking up at them. “They’re really good.”
Wyatt smiles. “Tough little creatures.”
“Like their keeper,” Marshall says.
The words land deeper than he probably intends.
I stand slowly, taking in the ranch, the damage, the survival of it all. The fire tried to take this place.
It didn’t win.
The fire didn’t destroy me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wyatt
Thursday
Abilene stays crouched by the hives longer than she needs to.
I know this because the bees have settled. Their hum has smoothed out into that purposeful rhythm I associate witheverything is fine, please stop hovering.
They’re coming and going in lazy arcs now, little bodies dusted with pollen, entirely unconcerned with wildfires or evacuation orders or how close everything came to burning down.
She presses her palm flat against the weathered wood, eyes closed, breathing slowly, syncing herself to them.
“They’re okay,” she whispers again.
