Not for us. For herself.
Marshall stands several feet back, arms crossed, weight shifted onto his heels, holding position rather than resting.
It’s the same stance he takes when he’s watching a storm roll in or a horse he doesn’t quite trust. Protective, but not intrusive.
He’s good at that. Giving space without leaving.
I hover closer.
Because that’s what I do.
After a long moment, Abilene exhales and reaches for the small kit she stored with the hives. Gloves, smoker, and a folded cloth.
Her movements are careful but sure, the way someone moves when their hands know what to do, even if their heart is still shaking.
She checks the hive entrances first, crouching low again, peering closely. Her fingers trace the edges, brushing away damp debris, clearing mud and ash, tidying up after an unwanted guest.
“Okay,” she murmurs softly. “You’re all flying. That’s good.”
I crouch a little closer, keeping my distance but watching intently. I’ve treated livestock my entire adult life, stitched wounds, delivered calves, calmed animals thrashing in fear.
But there’s something different about the way she handles the bees.
She lights the smoker, coaxing a thin ribbon of smoke, and gives each hive a careful puff. Not too much. Just enough to settle them, reassure them that nothing bad is happening right now.
“You don’t rush them,” I say without thinking.
She glances at me, surprised. “No. They don’t respond well to panic. Or impatience.”
I nod slowly. “Makes sense.”
She smiles faintly and returns her attention to the hives, lifting one lid just enough to peer inside. Her face softens instantly, the tension in her shoulders easing as she watches the movement within.
“They’re clustering well,” she says. “Queen’s probably fine. If she weren’t, they’d be… louder. Disorganized.”
I hum quietly. “Same, honestly.”
That earns me a small huff of laughter.
She replaces the lid gently, tucking them back in, then moves to the next hive, repeating the process. Checking airflow. Clearing damp leaves. Adjusting a stand that’s sunk slightly into the softened earth.
She hums as she works.
It’s a soft, absent-minded tune that blends into the sound of rain and wings and distant birds testing the sky again. The sight of it does something strange to my chest.
She’s been through hell in the last few days. Fear, loss, displacement. And still, the moment she’s able, she’s here. Hands in the dirt, tending to creatures smaller than her thumbnail, making sure they feel safe.
I don’t think she even realizes how remarkable that is.
“You’re… really good at this,” I say finally.
She shrugs, still focused on adjusting a hive strap. “I had good teachers.”
Her fingers brush the bee pendant at her throat.
I watch her straighten a hive that’s tilted, bracing it with a rock, testing it twice to make sure it won’t shift again.
Marshall clears his throat gently from behind us, a subtle reminder of time and responsibility.
