8. Saturday
Saturday
Helena
Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.
The days at the ranch blur together with a steady rhythm of work and quiet.
Time slips through my fingers like grains of sand, and before I know it, a month has passed.
The routines settle into me. Cooking meals, guiding Kiran through his lessons, sharing the table with men who barely notice I’m there.
Silas, however, remains elusive—a presence that lingers at the edges.
His muddy boots by the door, the scent of leather and earth in the hall are reminders he’s here, but he keeps his distance.
Some days, I only catch glimpses of him riding out before dawn or returning long after the sun has dipped below the horizon.
He’s a figure carved from the land itself, stoic, slipping into the shadows as easily as the wind through the trees.
As Eli predicted, the men treat me like part of the furniture. They come and go, their conversations skipping over me like stones on water. I don’t mind. There’s a kind of peace in anonymity, a serene corner of this world carved out just for me.
This morning, though, something shifted.
I wake before the sun, the room still cloaked in predawn gray.
Winter’s bite has softened; a gentle warmth now creeps through the cracks.
Spring is coming. I sense it in the gentle rustle of the curtains when I open the window, the subtle stretch of daylight.
Today, I decided, is mine.
The house is still as I dress. I pull on my snug, comfortable jeans and a thick sweater to guard against the lingering chill of the morning. My dress boots, polished but practical, slide on easily. I twist my hair into a braid over one shoulder and secure it with a simple tie.
Purse in hand, Bible tucked under my arm, I quietly leave my bedroom, gently closing the door behind me. The lock clicks softly, a small assurance of the space I’ve claimed for myself here.
The ranch is still half-asleep, the pale glow of the horizon just beginning to stretch its fingers across the land. Today, I’ll leave the property, step beyond the fences that have kept me penned in for weeks.
Descending the groaning wooden stairs, I make my way to the kitchen. I set my things on the island and move with purpose, reaching for the coffee pot. Scoop the grounds, fill the water, press the button—the familiar routine providing a small comfort.
The sound of a key turning in the back door lock breaks the silence.
My hand stills. The faint gurgle of the coffee maker is the only noise in the space as I glance over my shoulder.
Silas steps inside, his presence filling the room before the door even clicks shut.
He lingers with his hand on the knob, his head bowed slightly as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders.
When he finally looks up, his eyes meet mine.
They’re darker than their usual blue, a deep, stormy color, rimmed in red.
“Good morning, Mr. Hayes.” I try to sound cheerful, but the words come out thin, brittle. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him in days.
“Helena.” His voice is so low it’s almost a growl.
Pulling off his hat and coat, he hangs them on the peg, then moves toward the sink without sparing me another glance.
As he passes, the sharp, coppery scent of blood follows him, clinging to the air.
My stomach tightens. I glance down, and sure enough, his boots and the cuffs of his jeans are splattered in dark red.
“You have blood there,” I say quietly, unable to tear my eyes away.
He doesn’t react right away, shutting off the water with a calm precision before grabbing a towel.
Each motion is almost mechanical, like washing his hands is just another routine to get through.
“Had to deal with a wolf out on the north side,” he says at last, his tone flat, stripped of any hint of emotion.
The smell clings to him, thick and suffocating. Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. “You smell like death.”
Silas turns, stepping closer, closing the space between us.
Being near him is overpowering, his closeness as oppressive as the stench.
“Death happens, Helena,” he says, his voice a quiet, dangerous thing.
“Out there, it’s a part of life. If you’re here long enough, you’ll need to grow a thicker skin. ”
I can’t move…can’t breathe. His words settle over me like a cloak, the unspoken warning clear.
He tosses the towel onto the counter, his eyes flicking to my Bible on the island.
His lips curl into something that might’ve been a smirk, but it’s too bitter, too tired.
“There’s plenty of death in your precious book there, Ms. Toth. ”
I swallow hard, the strength of his gaze pressing against my chest. “But in there, life is given through death, Mr. Hayes,” I tell him, my voice trembling.
He shakes his head. “I don’t put faith in stories or old words. I trust what I can see, what I can hold in my hands.”
The admission cut deeper than I expected. “You don’t believe in God?” I ask, my heart aching at the thought.
“I did once,” he says. “But then He took my wife.”
The room grows cold. His exhaustion is written in every line of his face, his shoulders sagging under the invisible weight. I gather my courage, yet my voice is barely audible. “You don’t think you’ll see her again? In heaven?”
Silas lifts his eyes to mine, and the look he gives me sends an icy shiver through my core. “Even if heaven’s real, Helena,” he says, his voice flat, resigned, “I won’t be welcome there.”
Without another word, he turns and heads for the stairs. I stand frozen, listening to each heavy step, each creak, until I hear his door shut. Only then do I release the breath I’ve been holding, my chest aching with the effort.
The silence returns, but it feels different this time.
Staring at the Bible on the island, its pages promising hope and redemption, I feel an ache settle deep in my chest. Silas has exiled himself to a godless existence, and the thought of him wandering this world alone, carrying his grief and his burdens without a shred of hope, twists like a knife in my heart.
Sunlight streams through the windshield as I drive slowly down Main Street.
The town is waking up; the streets dotted with early risers drawn out by the promise of warmer weather.
Shopkeepers prop open their doors, and clusters of people linger on the sidewalks, their chatter blending with the sounds of cars and the occasional bark of a dog.
I spot an empty parking space and guide my truck in. With the engine off, I gather my purse and stash my Bible under the seat—my usual routine before exiting the truck. The creak of the door accompanies me as I lock up; the keys cool in my hand.
The air smells fresh, a mix of warming earth and blooming flowers carried on a light breeze.
I pause for a moment, scanning the row of storefronts around me.
Painted signs and wooden trim give each shop its own personality, an eclectic mix of new and old, practical and whimsical.
My list is short but purposeful: needles and thread, glue, felt.
Yet, I know something unexpected will catch my eye before I’m done.
The distant sound of music playing outside a coffee shop drifts through the air as I look both ways before crossing over to the craft store.
I take in the simple charm of its window display.
Carefully arranged fabric swatches, jars of buttons, and a hand-painted sign that reads “Stitch the tension easing from my shoulders. “It’s nice to be out in the world,” I say, offering a small smile. “How have you been?”
“Busy as ever,” Ruth replies, adjusting the hem of her apron as if she’s just stepped off her shift.
Her face is flushed, and her hair’s pulled back in a loose twist, a few strands escaping.
“Sorry I haven’t made it out to see you and Kiran.
Now that you’re there, I’ve finally had time to catch up on things. ”
“There’s no need to apologize,” I say quickly. “Eli’s been incredibly kind and helpful.”
Ruth gives me a knowing look, one corner of her mouth pulling up in a sly smile. “My brother’s always been a sucker for a pretty face.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I glance away, busying myself with the felt in my hands. “He’s just friendly,” I mumble .
Ruth chuckles softly but doesn’t press further. Her eyes, bright with genuine care, settle on me again. “So, everything’s going well?”
I nod, grateful for the shift in conversation. “Kiran is doing great with his lessons. It was easy to pick up where you two left off.”
“And Silas?” she asks gently, her brows drawing together. Her concern feels like a protective shield, one I hadn’t realized I needed.
I look around, ensuring no one is within earshot. “He’s...fine. Honestly, he barely acknowledges me most days.”
Ruth’s expression softens, and she reaches out, her hand warm as it rests on my arm. “That’s to be expected. He’s been a recluse for so long.” She pauses, her voice dropping. “It’s probably an adjustment for him, having a woman in the house again.”
I lower my eyes, the words striking a chord. “Sometimes it feels like I’m walking on eggshells around him,” I admit.
Ruth gives me a reassuring smile. “You’re doing good work, Helena. Just keep taking care of Kiran and stay patient. Silas is like a skittish colt. He needs time to trust again.” Her smile brightens. “Don’t give up on him yet.”
I look up at her, finding solace in her steady gaze. “I don’t give up easily, Ruth. I have a job to do, and I plan to see it through. One way or another, I’ll wear him down.”
“That’s my girl,” she says, her voice filled with pride. Her eyes soften, a touch of maternal comfort in their depths. “Don’t let him scare you off.”
I nod, bolstered by her encouragement. “I won’t.”
Ruth glances at the clock on the wall, her expression shifting. “Well, I’d better get moving. I have a couple more stops before I have to go back to the diner.”
“It was really nice to see you,” I say, meaning it.
“You too, sweetheart. Come by for breakfast one day this week, alright?”
“I’ll do that,” I promise.
With a final nod, Ruth turns and walks toward another aisle, her presence leaving a lingering warmth. I turn back to the spools of thread, more determined than before to be sure I finish what I came to this town to do.