Worse.
Quiet.
Like part of him had checked out of the world a long time ago.
Grant remembered asking Burton about it once after Sam left the farm.
They’d been standing in the barn aisle watching dust drift gold through the evening light while Sam’s truck disappeared down the drive.
“What’s his deal?” Grant had asked.
Burton stayed quiet a second before answering.
“Girl he loved left him years ago.”
That surprised Grant.
“Just left?”
Burton shrugged.
“That’s the story.”
But even then, something about it hadn’t sat right with him.
Maybe because nobody ever said Clara Vale’s name casually around town.
Maybe because Sam still looked toward the ridge sometimes, like he expected somebody to come walking back out of it.
Or maybe because Grant had grown up watching what waiting did to a man.
By the time Grant was twenty-two, his breeding operation had finally started making real money. Enough that he wanted more pasture land adjoining the Scott property.
Sam owned the parcel beside it.
Grant asked about it more than once over the years.
Sam always refused.
Until one cold October afternoon, when he didn’t.
“You still interested in that lower acreage?” Sam asked while the two of them stood beside the paddock after finishing up with a young bay colt.
Grant looked over at him carefully.
“You sellin’?”
Sam shrugged once.
“Maybe.”
That alone felt strange.
The mountains were turning then.
Cold blue shadows settled over the ridge while the wind moved through the pasture grass.
Grant leaned against the fence beside him.
