We finish the rounds slower than necessary, double-checking, because neither of us is in a hurry to leave things uncertain today.
When we’re done, we stand near the fence, rain dripping off our jackets, watching the animals settle back into a life resembling normal.
“Let’s check the houses,” he says. “Make sure there’s no hidden surprises.”
“Because fires love surprises,” I agree.
We check Willow Ranch first.
It’s the practical choice, since we’re already here. The one that lets Marshall stay in motion instead of thinking too hard about what could have happened if the wind had shifted one more degree to the east.
The ranch smells of wet earth and singed grass, that sharp, bitter edge of smoke still clinging to everything as an accusation. But the structures are standing.
Fences are scorched but intact. The barns creak the same way they always have—old wood complaining, not failing.
Marshall moves through it all with methodical focus, testing beams, scanning sightlines, checking gates and latches as if muscle memory alone could keep disaster from circling back.
“Barn roof’s fine,” he calls. “Didn’t take any embers.”
I look up from where I’m checking a stall door that got jammed with debris. “Ventilation held. No heat damage.”
He nods once, relieved, mentally checking off boxes faster than his body can relax.
We move through the rest quickly. Everything we see tells the same story: Willow Ranch took a hit, but it didn’t break.
By the time we finish, the rain has eased to a mist.
Marshall exhales hard through his nose. “Alright.”
That’s all he says.
It’s enough.
Abilene has been hovering near the fence line while we work, eyes tracking every movement, every pause that lasts half a second too long. She looks up immediately when we head toward her.
“Everything okay?” she asks, already bracing herself.
“All good,” I tell her. “You’re not looking at any surprise emergencies here.”
Her shoulders drop. She’s been holding them up with sheer force of will. “Okay. Good.”
Marshall gestures toward the road. “Let’s check your place.”
Her breath catches.
Not fear, exactly. It’s more complicated. The kind that comes from knowing something important might be different now, even if it’s still standing.
The drive to her house is quiet.
When we arrive, the first thing I notice is the ground.
Debris flow.
Mud and ash carried downhill by the rain, settled thick around the foundation. It tried to claim the house and gave up halfway through.
The house itself is still standing. But not untouched.
Abilene is out of the truck before we’ve even fully stopped moving.
