Walter eyed us, measuring, then jerked his head toward the east. “You wanna see the best part of the property?”
I glanced at Macon, who shrugged, then nodded. “Lead the way,” I said.
Walter set off at a pace only slightly slower than a full march. He moved with the kind of efficiency that only comes from living in your body for a very long time. The trail narrowed, and the grass gave way to low brush and wildflowers—prairie coneflower, fleabane, purple clusters I couldn’t name.
After a few hundred yards, we hit the edge of a small copse: cottonwoods and willows, the kind of sudden, improbable green that looks photoshopped against the pale June sky.
Walter stopped at the threshold and pointed. “Spring’s in there. Been running since the Black Butte was first settled. Even in drought, it never dries up.”
He led us into the shade, the temperature dropping ten degrees in an instant. The air smelled of river mud and wet stone, and I could hear the burble before I saw it.
The spring bubbled up from a fracture in the limestone, water so clear it looked invisible until it pooled in a hollow at the base of a fallen log. Moss grew thick on the rocks, and tiny white flowers crowded the banks. Dragonflies zipped in and out of the shafts of sunlight that speared through the leaves.
I knelt—slowly, one hand bracing my weight, the other cradling my belly—and trailed my fingers through the water. It was shockingly cold, even in the heat.
Macon knelt beside me, his knee brushing mine, and watched the surface ripple.
Walter stood back, arms crossed, watching us watch the water.
“Back in the old days,” he said, “they’d haul buckets from here all the way up to the house. There’s still an old cistern under the ridge. Victor tried to drill a well, but he gave up after the third dry hole.”
I let the water run through my fingers, transfixed. “Can we build here?”
Walter grinned, showing a flash of yellowed teeth. “This land’s yours now. You can build wherever you damn well please.”
Macon stood, dusted off his hands, and offered me an arm. I took it, and he pulled me up slow, like I might break if he rushed.
I looked around, really looked, at the dappled light and the sudden hush that made the spring feel like the last quiet place on earth. The Hargrove mansion was visible from here if you squinted, but it seemed small and far away, a failed idea outshone by the possibility of this place.
Walter watched us, the lines around his eyes softening. “You know, most people don’t even find this spot. They get distracted by the view or the river or the house. Takes a certain kind of person to look for what’s hidden.”
Macon looked at me, pride unspooling slow and warm behind his eyes. “He’s always been stubborn,” he said.
I ignored him, letting myself fall in love with the land a little more with every breath.
Walter lingered a minute longer, then tipped his hat. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. I live up in the caretaker’s cabin near the west boundary. Holler if you want a hand with the fencing or the animals.”
I nodded, heart full. “Thank you.”
He left, disappearing down the trail as quietly as he’d come.
We stood together for a while, Macon’s arm around my waist, my head tucked against his shoulder. The only sounds were the spring and the wind and the distant clatter of a woodpecker somewhere in the trees.
“This is the spot,” I said, certain. “I want the house to face the water.”
Macon nodded. “We’ll make it happen.”
We walked back slow, hand in hand, sunlight filtering through the leaves and painting our skin in patches of gold.
For the first time, I saw the future not as something to endure, but as something we could shape with our own hands.
As we reached the edge of the pasture, I glanced back, already picturing a porch, a yard full of goats and dogs and maybe kids, all of it anchored by the spring.
I squeezed Macon’s hand, and he squeezed back.
It wasn’t the mansion, or the ranch, or even the Hargrove name.
It was ours.
