Chapter 16
Sixteen
Wyatt
The sun was barely up when my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. I glanced at the screen, expecting a ranch alert or one of the crew asking about feed deliveries.
It was Maddy.
Something in my chest loosened.
I picked it up and leaned my hip against the counter. “Morning, sweetheart.”
Her voice came through bright and still sleepy, full of a kind of energy I hadn’t felt in days. “Dad. Guess what.”
I smiled, slow and tired but real. “What’s that?”
“I nailed my tryout,” she said, pride ringing clear. “Coach says I’m basically a lock.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. You’ve been putting in the work.”
She laughed. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
I poured myself coffee while she talked, listening to the rustle of sheets on the other end of the line. Summer break meant she slept crooked and late unless someone forced her upright, and I pictured her sprawled across her bed in Calgary, hair probably sticking out in three directions.
“How’s the rest of your day looking?”
“Mom’s taking me shopping. Apparently, I’ve outgrown everything, like a beanpole.’ Her words.”
“You did grow. Last time I saw you, you were taller than Angie.”
“I’ve been taller than Angie since grade four.”
“Still counts.”
She giggled, and the sound settled somewhere warm in my chest. Too warm. Too easy. Too far from the weight that’d been sitting there since Ray died.
“Hey,” she said, quieter now. “You okay?”
I hesitated, just long enough for her to catch it.
“Yeah, just busy.”
“Busy like ranch-and-brewery busy,” she asked, “or busy like ‘Dad’s thinking too hard again’ busy.”
Kids noticed everything.
“Both,” I admitted.
She hummed. “You’re doing the thing where you pretend everything’s fine, but your eyebrows look stressed.”
“I don’t have stressed eyebrows.”
“You totally do.”
I rubbed my face. “I’m alright. Just working through some stuff with a neighbor.”
“A neighbor,” she repeated. “Like land stuff or people stuff.”
“Both.”
There was a pause. “Is it bad?”
I thought of Tessa in the barn the night before, folded in on herself, fighting to breathe through grief she didn’t know how to carry.
“It’s complicated.”
“Are you fighting with them?”
“Something like that.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, you’re stubborn and you always think you can fix everything alone. Maybe stop doing that.”
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. “Who taught you to talk like that?”
“You did.”
Fair enough.
“I’ll be out before school starts. I wanna see the horses. And help with the calves if you’ve still got any left.”
“I’ll make sure your mare’s ready.”
“You always do.”
My chest tightened. “I’ll see you soon, kiddo.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you.”
When the call ended, the kitchen went quiet again, the kind of quiet that pressed in instead of settling.
I finished my coffee, grabbed my keys, and headed out. Standing still wasn’t doing me any favors, and I needed to put my hands on something solid before my head started spinning again.
The drive into town was short and familiar.
Fields rolled past in long green and gold stretches, the early light softening everything it touched.
By the time I pulled into the gravel lot north of town, the brewery was already awake.
A delivery truck idled near the loading door, steam drifting from its exhaust, and the big glass windows reflected the pale sky like the place was breathing in daylight.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of grain and wood smoke. The kitchen crew was already moving, trays lined up along the prep tables, low voices cutting through the hum of refrigeration. Someone laughed near the back, the sound easy and familiar.
I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
Mark was behind the bar checking inventory sheets, his pen tapping lightly against the clipboard.
He looked up when he saw me, nodded once, and slid the papers across so I could scan them.
I pointed out a miscount on one of the kegs, and he made a note without argument before heading toward the cold room to double-check.
I moved through the space after that, checking taps, fixing a handle that’d been sticking, adjusting a dimmer near the stone fireplace so the light wouldn’t be too harsh once the lunch crowd rolled in.
I stopped to talk with the head cook about the menu and the supplier delivery, making sure everything lined up with what we promised.
Locally raised beef, roasted chicken, and fresh seafood that came in early that morning.
It mattered to me that the place stayed honest, that it felt rooted in the land.
By midmorning, the doors opened, and people drifted in the way they always did.
Ranchers grabbing coffee before heading back out.
A couple of older locals settled into the chairs near the fireplace, talking low and slow like they had nowhere else they needed to be.
The brewery wasn’t just a business. It was an anchor.
A place people came when they needed solid ground under their feet.
I stayed behind the bar longer than usual, pouring coffee, answering questions, lending a hand when needed. The rhythm steadied me. The work gave my hands something to do while my mind stayed half a step removed from everything.
Still, every so often, my thoughts drifted.
Not to the road. Not to the door.
To the knowledge that Tessa was out there, trying to hold together a ranch that was barely standing, carrying weight she hadn’t asked for, and anger she didn’t know where to put.
I figured she’d avoid town for a while. But the town would pull her in eventually. It always did. And when it happened, I wanted the Brewery to feel like solid ground, not another ambush.