Echoes of Marcel (The Devil’s Ridge #2)

Chapter 1 My Story

My Story

I’m a spirit. And I have been for decades.

I’d once sat at a school desk with ink-stained fingers, my eyes wandering the fragile pages of borrowed books.

But words and schooling didn’t fill an empty belly.

When I found myself orphaned, adrift in a world that no longer had a place for me, I needed more than learning.

I needed shelter. I needed purpose. I needed a home.

The Hayes family gave me all of that.

Ada, with her soft voice and boundless kindness, made sure no one in her care went without.

Frank was steady, fair, dependable, and the sort of man whose words felt as solid as the earth beneath your boots.

They expected hard work, but they gave back more in return—respect, dignity, and a place at their table.

They welcomed us into their church, treated us like family instead of hired hands.

Decades have passed since those days. The world has shifted and changed in ways I never could have imagined, but I remain here. Still riding pastures. Still mending fences. Still herding cattle. Even in death, it is the only life I’ve ever known.

I have watched generations move through this land, each one bringing something new: A new machine, a challenging idea, a different way of living. But through it all, one thing has never faded.

Love.

I saw it in Ada and Frank, in the quiet glances they shared across the supper table, the way their hands always seemed to find each other’s, even into their last days.

I watched their children grow, fall in love, and raise children of their own.

I saw love root itself deep into the bones of this land, winding through each generation like ivy on stone.

Now, their grandson, Silas Hayes, carries that same devotion in his heart.

I see it in the way he watches Caroline, in the softness of his voice when he speaks her name.

Their love is fierce and tender, a light that burns bright, even after that awful night took them and their son, Kiran, from this world.

Love bound them in life, and it will carry them home in death.

I haven’t been so lucky. Not in life, not in love.

I was twenty-six when I crossed over. It was a clear spring day, the kind where the sky feels too wide, too blue, like the whole world has just been born. Six of us were working cattle in the western pastures, the day just like any other, until a cowboy’s worst fear shone bright in a bull’s eyes.

An aggravated bull turned mean, furious from being pushed too far.

My horse reared, spooked by the beast’s frenzy, and I hit the ground hard.

Pain shot through me, my arm snapping beneath me.

I tried to scramble back, but the bull was faster.

A horn tore through my side, sharp and merciless, puncturing my lung.

I remember the moment my soul let go. It was like stepping from one dream into another. From above, I watched the chaos unfold; men shouting, scrambling, desperate to hold me to a life I was already leaving. I felt their fear, their sorrow, but no matter how loud I yelled, they couldn’t hear me.

Afterward, I was given a choice. I could leave, or I could stay. For me, there was no question.

Devil’s Ridge was my home. The land where I found meaning. The only place I ever belonged. So I stayed. I lingered in the shadows, tending the pastures, carrying on with the work I’d once done with calloused, bleeding hands.

I also stayed because of Clara.

She was a light I hadn’t known I needed, the woman I never got over. I’ve held onto the hope that one day, somehow, she might find her way back to me. That her heart, if not the memory of our summer, would guide her north. Back to me.

Until then, I will remain. Waiting. For the call to move on, or for one last glimpse of the woman I still hold onto all these years later.