Chapter 7
Boone
Blue dances around my feet, his tail a blur of motion, his whines a high-pitched symphony of impatience. I set his blue feeding bowl down and he dives in, his lapping the only noise for a moment.
This is my ritual. The simple, uncomplicated act of caring for something that depends on me.
I grab my mug and walk over to the fire pit where Knox and Rhett are already set up. The smell of coffee and frying sausage hangs in the cool air, a promise of warmth and protein.
“Morning,” Rhett grunts, not looking up from the cast-iron skillet where sausages are sizzling, their casings popping and browning.
Knox just nods, his attention on the main house. A rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack echoes across the yard. “What the hell is she building in there?” he asks, taking a swig of his coffee. “It sounds like she’s trying to single-handedly rebuild the whole damn place.”
“Probably coffins,” Rhett says, flipping a sausage with a fork. “One for each of us. She seems like the type.”
Knox lets out a short laugh. I don’t. I just stare at the house, at the window where I can see a shadow moving. The thought isn’t entirely unfathomable.
“Speaking of things that appeared out of nowhere,” Knox continues, gesturing with his mug toward the front porch where the golden retriever is now chasing its own tail. “Where the fuck did that dog come from?”
“Heard Mabel at the feed store talking about it,” I say, my voice low. “Said Willa and Saramaria pulled it out of a well. They’re keeping it together, for now. Joint custody.”
“Joint custody,” Knox repeats, a smirk playing on his lips. “Of course she is. Does any of you find it weird how at home she’s gotten so fast? The house, the dog, the... construction project. She’s only been back a week.”
Rhett turns off the gas on the camp stove, scooping the sausages onto a plate. He’s quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I’m going to give her the papers,” he says, the words landing with unexpected weight.
Knox and I both look at him. “What?” Knox asks, his smirk gone. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“Because I can’t let her have a whole case on us,” Rhett says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He looks directly at Knox. “I pulled the records. The tenancy laws in this state are a mess. She could drag this out for months, even years. A lawsuit, a public dispute... who even knows how that affects the ranch and especially you, Knox. You can’t have a scandal brewing when you’re getting ready for the circuit. Gary would have a fit.”
Knox scowls, but he doesn’t argue. We all know Rhett is right. The last thing any of us need is legal trouble, especially with the APbrA already so unstable.
“Fine,” Knox says, stabbing a sausage with his fork. “But make copies first. All of them.”
“Already planned on it,” Rhett says. “I’m heading to the vet to check on one of the broodmares, then I’ll swing by the house and give her the originals. Get it over with.”
“I’ve got that meeting with Gary this afternoon,” Knox says, changing the subject. “Want to see if he’s heard anything more about Dalton.”
“I’m waiting for Jasper to come by,” I add. “Happy Feet. Need him to check all the horses’ feet before we start any serious training.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clinking of our forks against plates and the distant, persistent hammering. It’s a strange, uneasy truce we’ve reached. A temporary ceasefire in a war we didn’t know was coming.
They finish up and leave, their trucks kicking up dust as they head down the driveway.
I’m alone again. I clean up our breakfast, wiping down the table and rinsing the plates, my movements automatic.
Then I pull a cigarette from my pocket, the crinkle of the cellophane loud in the sudden quiet.
I light it and take a long drag, the smoke filling my lungs a familiar, bitter comfort.
I lean against the post of my cabin, watching the house.
The hammering has stopped. A few minutes later, the front door opens and Saramaria emerges, struggling with a large black trash bag.
It’s clearly heavy, and she’s having trouble getting it down the porch steps without it tearing.
She’s wearing those ridiculous boots again, paired with jeans and a T-shirt instead of her usual suit.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face.
We haven’t said a full sentence to each other since she got back. Not really. We’ve exchanged demands and accusations, but we haven’t talked. The girl I remember used to talk for hours, a constant stream of questions and stories and laughter. Even when I wished she would shut up, she never did.
This woman is a stranger, her silence as heavy and imposing as the mountains.
I watch as she finally gets the bag to the bottom of the steps, dropping it with a grunt.
She wipes a hand across her forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt.
She’s cleaning out the main bedroom. I know it.
She’s getting ready to move in, to officially claim the space as her own.
It makes no sense. Why would she do all that, buy a bed, clean the room, if she’s just planning to sell it all?
The contradiction is a knot in my gut. She’s a puzzle I can’t solve, a problem I can’t get a handle on.
She bends to pick up the bag again, grunting with the effort. I push off the post, my cigarette dangling from my lips.
“Need a hand?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
She straightens up, turning to face me. Her eyes, the same vibrant green as her father’s, flash with a mixture of surprise and defiance. “I’ve got it,” she says.
I just shrug, taking another drag from my cigarette. “Suit yourself.”
I turn and walk away, heading toward the barn.
I can feel her eyes on my back, but I don’t look back.
I can water the horses and check the cattle.
I can do my work. I can focus on the things I can control.
The land, the animals. The simple, tangible things that have always been my anchor in a world that’s never made much sense.