Chapter 2
Chapter two
Hazel
Iwake before dawn.
The room is still dark, the house quiet around me. Too quiet. Five years of city noise trained me to sleep through sirens and traffic, but this silence—this deep, heavy silence—won't let me rest.
I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to go back to sleep.
It doesn't work.
Finally, I give up and get dressed. Jeans. Boots. One of my old flannels pulled from the back of the closet, smelling faintly of dust and cedar.
I slip out before Mae wakes.
The sky is starting to lighten at the edges, pale gray bleeding into the dark. Stars still visible overhead, fading. The air smells like dew and grass and earth turned over by recent rain.
My feet carry me without deciding. Past the barn. Past the equipment shed. Out toward the fence line where the land rises slightly, cresting a low hill.
The family cemetery.
Generations of Clarks are buried here, tucked under the cottonwoods on the north edge of the property. My great-great-grandfather chose this spot—high enough to see the whole ranch spread out below, sheltered enough that the wind doesn't cut too hard in winter.
I haven't been here in five years.
Not since the funeral. Not since I stood in a black dress I bought the day before, numb and hollow, while the whole town gathered on this hill and watched me cry.
The wrought-iron gate creaks when I push it open.
I move slowly, weaving between headstones I've known my whole life. Names I learned before I could read. My great-grandparents. My grandparents.
I find his grave near the back, under the big cottonwood.
The headstone is simple. Gray granite. His name. The dates.
John Michael Clark
Beloved Brother, Father, Friend
No flowers. The grass is trimmed neat—Mae's doing, probably—but there's nothing decorative. Nothing soft.
That feels right somehow. He wouldn't have wanted fuss.
I stop a few feet away, hands shoved deep in my pockets.
My throat is already tight.
"Hey, Daddy," I say quietly.
The words feel strange in my mouth. Too small. Too normal for how long it's been.
The cottonwood shifts overhead, leaves rustling in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, cattle low. The sun creeps higher, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.
I take a step closer.
"I'm sorry," I say, and my voice cracks. "I'm sorry I stayed away so long."
The apology sits there between us—me and a piece of stone—but I can't take it back now.
I sink down onto the grass, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them.
"I couldn't—" I stop. Start again. "I couldn't be here without you."
The words come easier now, tumbling out before I can stop them.
"Mae hurt her leg. She needs my help, even if she won't admit it."
I swallow hard.
"I should have come back sooner. I know that. But I kept telling myself she was fine. That the ranch was fine. That I could stay away a little longer."
My throat tightens.
"I was scared. Scared it wouldn't be the same. Scared it would be exactly the same and I still wouldn't be able to handle it."
"I didn't know what else to do," I whisper. "You were gone and I just—I couldn't breathe here anymore."
My vision blurs.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, but the tears come anyway.
"I thought if I left, it would hurt less. That I could start over somewhere new and just... forget how much it hurt to lose you."
I laugh, bitter and wet.
"Didn't work."
The sun breaks fully over the horizon now, spilling gold across the hillside. Light catches on the dew, turning everything bright and sharp.
I drop my hands and look at the headstone.
"I'm here now," I say. "I don't know for how long. I keep telling everyone it's temporary and maybe it is."
I pause.
"But I'm here."
The breeze picks up, cooler now, carrying the smell of the ranch—hay and horses and dust. I close my eyes and let it wash over me.
I'm twelve, maybe thirteen. Sitting on the top rail of the round pen, boots hooked on the middle rung. Dad's in the center with a young mare—skittish, green, fresh off the trailer from some ranch in Wyoming.
"Watch her ears," he says without looking at me. "She'll tell you everything you need to know before she does it."
I watch. The mare's ears flick back. Forward. Back again.
"She's deciding," I say.
"That's right." He shifts his weight slightly, angling away, giving her space. "Let her make the choice. She'll come around."
And she does. Takes three steps toward him. Stops. Another two steps. Finally close enough to blow air at his outstretched hand.
He doesn't move. Just waits.
When she finally nuzzles his palm, he smiles.
"See? Patience, Hazelnut. That's all it takes."
I open my eyes.
"I don't have your patience," I tell the headstone. "I never did."
The wind rustles through the cottonwood, and for just a second, I swear I can hear his voice.
You've got more than you think, Hazelnut. You just gotta give yourself room to use it.
I push to my feet, brushing grass and dew from my jeans.
For a long moment, I just stand there, looking down at his name carved into stone.
Then I look past it, down the hill toward the ranch.
The barn sits dark in the early light. The house with its porch light still burning. The pastures stretching out beyond, cattle already moving toward the feed. The whole place spread out like he would have seen it every morning when he came up here.
It's still standing.
It's still his.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do here," I say quietly. "But I'll figure it out."
The sun climbs higher, warming my face.
I reach out and rest my hand on top of the headstone. The granite is cold and smooth beneath my palm.
"I miss you," I whisper.
Then I turn and walk back down the hill.
By the time I reach the house, Mae's already up. I can see her silhouette moving past the kitchen window.
I take a breath, wipe my face one more time, and head inside.
She looks up when I come through the door, coffee mug halfway to her mouth.
"You're up early," she says.
"Couldn't sleep."
Her eyes track over my face—the red rims, the wet streaks I probably didn't get all the way. She doesn't comment. Just nods and turns back to the counter.
"Coffee's fresh," she says.
I pour myself a cup and wrap my hands around it, letting the heat seep into my palms.
We stand there in the quiet kitchen, both of us pretending this is normal.
And maybe, for now, that's enough.
I spend the rest of the morning working the ranch—checking fence lines, hauling feed, cleaning the tack room.
My body remembers the rhythm before my mind catches up, even if the place itself feels different.
Quieter. Growing up, this place hummed with activity—a full crew living in the bunkhouse, cowboys rotating through shifts, voices carrying across the yard at dawn.
Now the bunkhouse windows sit dark and the yard is still except for the cattle and me.
I don't see anyone else all morning. No ranch hands, no trucks on the drive. Whoever I saw at the barn last night is nowhere to be found today.
By afternoon, my muscles ache in ways I'd forgotten, and sweat has soaked through my shirt.
It feels good. Grounding.
Then my phone buzzes.
Shae: Bar tonight. Six o'clock. Don’t forget.
Dread blooms low and steady.
Me: I don't know—
Shae: Too late. Everyone knows you're back.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary.
Shae Barker and I became inseparable junior year—two girls testing every limit this town had to offer.
She's the only one who drove hours to see me in the city, who never made me explain why I couldn't come back, who kept showing up even when I didn't deserve it.
Which is exactly why I can't say no now.
I set the phone down and head for the shower.
The hot water helps. I take my time, let the steam ease the tension, then dry off and face the mirror.
My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders, blonde and still damp at the ends. I let it air-dry, the natural wave taking over. Dark jeans that fit the way expensive jeans should. A soft blouse that brings out the green in my eyes.
Heels instead of boots.
I catch my reflection. Polished. Put-together. The version of myself I built in Denver.
My gaze flicks to the cowboy boots shoved to the back of the closet. Worn leather, scuffed from years of work and arena dirt. Next to them, barely visible in the shadows, are my old riding gloves and a coil of lead rope I haven't touched in five years.
The whole town used to show up on Friday nights to watch me run barrels. Now they'll show up to see if I'll talk about why I stopped. I close the closet door.
Not tonight.
Outside, the sky leans toward evening. I grab my keys and pause at the door, hand resting on the knob longer than necessary.
This is just a bar. Just people I grew up with. Just one night.
I square my shoulders and step out.
***
The bar is louder than I remember.
Sound hits me the moment I walk in—country music pushed too loud through tired speakers, boots scuffing across the floor, chairs scraping back. Conversations overlap and collide and laugh right over one another.
In the city, bars are designed to feel temporary—neutral lighting, seasonal menus, music meant to blend. Here, nothing has been updated on purpose. The same men sit on the same stools they claimed years ago. Names don't need repeating.
The air smells like beer soaked into wood, fried food clinging to the walls, old cigarette smoke no coat of paint ever managed to hide.
I step inside and let the door swing shut behind me.
For a moment, no one notices. I'm just another body in the dim light. I could turn around. Leave. Pretend I tried.
Then someone at the bar glances over.
Their gaze catches. Holds.
I watch recognition flicker across their face before they lean toward the person beside them, mouth moving. That person looks up. Then another.
The awareness spreads like a ripple.