No call from the office.
No horses waiting on him.
No expectation he’d be at Sunday dinner sitting three chairs down from a man who could talk about the weather and a shipment in the same breath.
Izzy almost died because of you.
His own words from the barn came back sharp.
He didn’t regret saying them.
He regretted how late they’d come.
Cal stopped at the bend in the drive where the trees opened enough to see the whole spread.
White fences.
Stone house.
Barn roofs catching the weak sun.
And the gates?—
Open, with federal vehicles parked inside like teeth.
It didn’t look like his anymore.
Maybe it never had.
He stood there a long moment, hands empty at his sides.
Then he turned away from Hollis Ridge and started down toward town.
Whatever came next wouldn’t be built on his father’s land.
Or his father’s lies.
55
Bridlepath Farm — Saturday Afternoon
Rain drifted softly across the mountains, turning the pastures silver beyond the porch rails.
The chaos of the last few days had finally settled enough for silence to return.
Grant stood near the grill on the back porch while Burke leaned against the railing beside him, nursing a beer neither man had touched much.
Inside, Caitlin and Izzy sat at the kitchen table, flipping through one of Clara Vale’s sketchbooks again, quieter now than they had been earlier in the week.
The crunch of front tires in the driveway pulled everybody’s attention toward the window.
Burton Scott climbed slowly out of his truck.
Grant straightened immediately.
Burke frowned.
“That can’t be good.”
