He leaves, Molly walking quietly beside him, and I sit there for another minute, staring at my coffee.
A dog. A Monday morning booth. A grounding technique that works.
Small things. But maybe that's how you rebuild.
I drain the last of my coffee and head out. By the time I get back to the ranch, Frank is already announcing my return from his fence post before I've even cut the engine. Dispatch doesn't look up from the hay bale. I can hear Falonbefore I see her, humming something off-key, the clatter of grain buckets, the low murmur of her voice talking to one of the horses.
I pause in the doorway.
She's in jeans and a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled back in a ponytail that's already half-undone. There's a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and she's scratching the nose of the bay mare.
Old feelings resurface, and my heart skips a few beats. I'd been here before. Watching her in the barn after I'd enlisted, wanting to tell her but knowing I couldn't.
She glances up, catches me watching.
"You're back," she says.
"Yeah."
"How was town?"
I think about the truck door. The bench. Sam's steady voice. The booth at Ethel's.
"Good," I say. "It was good."
She studies me for a second, like she's trying to read between the lines.
Then she nods. "Hungry? I was going to make lunch."
"Yeah," I say. "I could eat."
She smiles, and it's small, but it's real.
I follow her out of the barn, back toward the house, and somewhere in the quiet space between us, I think about what Sam said.
You stop carrying it alone.
Maybe that's what this is. Maybe that's what I've been looking for all along.
Not a place. Not a plan.
Just someone who makes the weight a little lighter.
And maybe, just maybe, that someone has been here the whole time.
Chapter 8
Into the Smoke
Falon
When I woke on my own to a quiet morning, and not to Frank, I smiled into my covers. Easy mornings were my favorite. It was still early, before sunrise, and long before most of the world caught up. Ranch life generally started before sun-up most days, including holidays. Cattle, horses, and ranches in general, did not stop to celebrate holidays or sleep-in days.
An hour later, Frank had finally caught up and tried to make up for his tardiness in volume, much to Muddy’s dismay, who brayed in return. Frank had moved from the fence to somewhere near the coop, which made his crowing seem louder and seemed to come from my actual kitchen. I’d been up since before him, which said something about the state of my sleep and nothing good.
By six, I was ready fed and ready to conquer the day. The truck was loaded, and I was in the east field, driving slowly along the fence line while Oliver and Cooper worked the cattle. Atlas was still in training and prone to big ideas, so he rode in the back and supervised from a safedistance. I’d drive a little, stop, push some flakes off, then drive some more and repeat the process. The hay came off the bed in wide, loose flakes, lying across the frost-stiff grass in a trail the cattle followed. This was the part of ranching nobody photographed. The cold-fingered, pre-coffee, just-get-it-done part. I loved it anyway. I loved the scent of the mornings, the hard work I did before sunup, and the accomplishment I felt. It was more satisfying than anything I’ve seen on my phone or TV. It was the pride in what I did and the sense of fulfillment that gave me purpose.
The Jenkins place ran along my east fence line. I could see their barn and west pasture, but their house was blocked by the barn. I smiled to myself when I heard John calling out to his cattle. He always said “good morning” to the ranch and sometimes to the animals as he went about his daily chores. It was his way of thanking God for his ranch and his life. I loved that about him. I had started to do the same, but not as loudly. It was more of a whispered prayer than an announcement. For me, it was more of a conversation between me and the ranch and me and God, than John’s, but to each his own, right? John had already greeted the world and was now in his far pasture doing the same thing I was doing. He’d waved, and I waved back. Beatrice, his wife, was probably getting ready for her weekly Tuesday morning town trip. You could set your watch by half the women in this town.
