Chapter 7
The desert lay pale and harsh beneath a mid-morning sun. Blaze moved with his hands jammed deep in his pockets. The Colt at his hip was a cold weight he had not meant to carry so soon. The gun had felt like an heirloom before; now it sat on his hip like a promise he hadn’t wanted to make.
Every mile between Kane’s place and the ranch burned into him.
His boots scuffed over hardpan, slipped down dry gullies, and crunched across the crust of frozen soil. He wrapped his arms around himself, and his breath clouded in the cold, but his mind burned too hot to feel it.
Images of Rachel clung to him: her wide eyes, her trembling voice, the way she’d begged him not to go. He saw Kane’s look again, sharp as a blade, and wondered if he’d done right by leaving her there.
“You’ll be safer,” Blaze muttered to himself, jaw tight. “Better there than out here.”
But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure he believed it.
Hours dragged. His legs ached, and his shoulders sagged, but the black shape of the cottonwoods finally rose against the horizon. Smoke still lingered in the air, carried on the morning wind. His chest tightened.
He crested the last ridge and looked down into the hollow where the ranch had stood. His breath caught.
The house was a ruin. The roof had caved, and the walls were charred black. The barn was gone, only ash and broken beams scattered where it had been. The corral fence lay half-burned, collapsed like bones around a grave.
The whole place was silent except for the groan of timbers shifting under their own weight.
Blaze stopped on the ridge, the cold wind stinging his eyes.
“This was home,” he whispered. “Ain’t nothin’ left.”
His boots carried him down slowly, every step heavy. The air thickened with the stench of smoke, ash, and blood. He passed the broken corral, the scorched remains of a wagon wheel, and the black skeleton of the porch.
And then he saw her.
His mother lay in the ruins of the house, where Wilder had cut her down. Still wrapped in silence, still waiting for him.
Blaze froze. His throat closed; his chest buckled.
“Ma . . .” Blaze whispered. “I’m back.”
The words felt hollow on his tongue, carried by the pale dawn wind. He stood at the edge of the blackened yard, smoke still curling from the ruins.
Where skin showed at the collar and face, it was seared and blackened, features blurred by the fire’s work.
The sight hit him harder than any shot.
Blaze’s knees nearly buckled. “Ma,” he whispered. The word came out small against the vast, bright sky.
He walked toward her, each step careful as though the scorched earth itself might open beneath him. Her hair clung in brittle, darkened strips. Her hands were curled as if holding on, fingers blackened and stiff.
He dropped to his knees beside her and put his forehead against the side of her hand, the heat of the morning sun washing over them both.
“I’m here now,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Ma.” The apology had nowhere to land. He felt empty, small.
The sun broke low on the horizon, spilling red light across the land. Blaze wiped his eyes and pushed himself to his feet.
“I’ll get you buried,” he said. “Proper, best I can do.”
***
He glanced at the barn ruins and spotted the half-burned shovel leaning against a fallen beam. He walked over, picked it up, and drove it into the earth near the cottonwoods.
The soil was dry and hard-packed. Each thrust of the shovel rattled his arms. Sweat stung his eyes, but he kept digging.
“This ain’t right,” he muttered. “You deserved better than a hole in the ground by yourself. Pa should’ve been here. Rachel should’ve been here. You should’ve had a marker, a preacher, somethin’ decent.”
His breath came hard. He leaned on the shovel.
“But it’s just me.”
He looked at her still form again, wrapped in the blanket he’d pulled from the rubble.
“I’ll make it right, Ma,” Blaze said. “I’ll give you peace. And then . . .” His voice hardened. “Then I’ll find him.”
The grave took shape slowly. It was a shallow trench carved into the stubborn earth.
Blaze’s hands blistered; his shoulders burned, but he didn’t stop.
“Not stoppin’ now,” he muttered, driving the shovel down again. “Not leavin’ you half-done.”
The trench deepened inch by inch, the cruel earth resisting him every step. Each time the blade struck rock, Blaze pried it free and tossed the stones aside. His palms split open, raw against the wood, but the sting only drove him harder.
“You’d tell me to pace myself,” Blaze said, his breath coming ragged, sweat streaking through the soot on his face. “Say a man’s no use if he breaks himself on the first job.”
He stabbed the shovel down one last time, then leaned on it, chest heaving.
“That’s deep enough,” he said, his voice cracking. “Ain’t much, but it’ll have to do.”
He laid the shovel aside and walked back to her body. The blanket clung heavy with smoke, edges singed black, but it was all he had to wrap her in. He crouched, slid his arms under her, and lifted her gently against his chest. His knees trembled.
“You always smelled of soap and bread,” Blaze whispered, pressing his cheek to her hair. “Now it’s just ash.”
He carried her slowly to the grave. Each step felt like it might break him in two. When he knelt and lowered her into the earth, he lingered, hands clutching the blanket.
“I should say somethin’,” Blaze said, closing his eyes. “Lord, I don’t know the words. She was good. She was strong. She deserved better than this world gave her. If you’re listening . . . if you ever cared . . . take her home.”
The silence pressed in, heavy as stone. Only the whisper of the wind through the cottonwoods responded.
Blaze picked up the shovel.
“I’ll finish it, Ma,” he said. “I’ll finish it right.”
He scooped dirt and dropped it gently over her. The soil hit with soft thuds, covering the blanket inch by inch. His arms shook, but he didn’t falter. He filled the grave, packed the earth firm, and smoothed it flat with the back of the blade.
When it was done, he sank to his knees at the mound, his chest hitching. He let the silence linger for a long while, broken only by the rustle of scorched timbers behind him.
“You told me once a boy becomes a man when he takes on somethin’ bigger than himself,” Blaze whispered. “Well, I reckon that time’s here.”
He reached for his belt and drew the Colt. The sunlight glinted along the worn steel. Blaze set it on the mound, his hand resting on the barrel.
“This was Pa’s,” Blaze said. “Now it’s mine. I swear on it. I’ll hunt Wilder down. I’ll tear his Riders apart, one by one, until it’s just him. And then I’ll put him in the ground. That’s my word.”
The vow hung in the morning air, sharper than any prayer.
Blaze stood slowly, holstered the Colt, and set the shovel upright in the earth beside the grave.
“That’s the last of the boy in me,” he said softly. “Ain’t nothin’ left but the man you raised.”