24. Elias
ELIAS
The morning chores drag like they never have before.
I move through the barns checking tack and feed schedules, but every corner feels hollow without her voice carrying from the next row or her camera clicking at some play of light I never noticed until she pointed it out.
The hands go about their work, but the rhythm of the place sits off-kilter, like a wheel missing a spoke.
I bark orders shorter than usual, then catch myself and try to smooth it over, but the emptiness follows me from stall to stall.
I ride out to the north pastures later, the same trails that used to clear my head.
Now the open ground just brings back the way Lila would lean forward in the saddle, eyes bright as she framed shots of the herd moving against the hills.
Her laugh when my horse spooked at a rabbit echoes in my ears, uninvited and sharp.
I grip the reins tighter and push on, but the comfort I once found in this land has twisted into something that aches with what’s missing.
By midday the crew senses it. Denny lingers after we finish repairing a section of fence, wiping sweat from his brow while shooting me sideways glances. “Boss, you’ve been riding solo more than usual. Everything holding steady?”
I shrug and toss my tools into the truck bed with more force than needed. “Ranch doesn’t stop just because one person clears out. We keep moving.”
Chuck grunts from nearby, coiling rope with deliberate slowness. “She left a stack of prints in the bunkhouse. Been good for morale having them up. Place feels different without her chasing the light everywhere.”
I don’t answer, just climb into the truck and head back toward the main buildings. Their concern hangs in the air behind me, but I can’t bring myself to lean into it. Isolation wraps tighter these days, easier than explaining the hole she left when she drove off with her bags packed.
Later that afternoon I find myself at the cottage again.
The door creaks as I let myself in, the space still carrying faint traces of her—coffee grounds in the trash, a forgotten lens cloth on the counter.
I stand in the middle of the room where we argued, the scattered papers long since cleared away, and the silence presses down.
I’ve come here three times this week, telling myself it’s to check on things, but really it’s to stand in the echo of her.
I pick up a stray print she left behind, one of the keeper’s structure at golden hour, and my thumb traces the edge.
She saw beauty here where I only saw pain.
I set it down before the urge to call her phone gets too strong, then lock up and walk away again, boots heavy on the porch steps.
Evening finds me in the office, the desk lamp casting long shadows over stacks of paperwork.
I pull out the folder of her photographs that Wyatt must have left for me—images from across the ranch, each one layered with her eye for the stories in the details.
The old windmill against storm clouds. Cattle trails worn deep by generations.
South Gate itself, framed not as a curse but as a stubborn survivor holding onto light.
I flip through them slowly, the paper cool under my fingers, and something shifts in my chest.
She changed how I look at all of it. Where I saw liability and ghosts, she captured resilience and roots worth tending.
The ranch feels fuller in these prints, alive in ways I stopped noticing years ago.
I lean back in the chair, rubbing my eyes against the burn untied to dust. Her absence isn’t just quiet mornings or empty evenings.
It’s the way the whole place lost its color when she left.
Wyatt finds me there an hour later, knocking once before stepping inside with two mugs of coffee. He sets one down in front of me and drops into the chair across the desk, his face lined with the kind of patience that comes from knowing me too long.
“You look like hell,” he says bluntly, sipping from his own mug. “Crew’s whispering about it. You barely eat with us anymore, and those rides out alone are getting longer. This about Lila?”
I stare into the dark liquid, the steam rising lazy. The words have been building for days, pressing against the walls I keep throwing up. “Yeah. It’s about her. I’ve been going through her photos tonight. She saw this ranch clearer than I have in years. Made me see it too, for a bit.”
He nods, waiting like he always does when I’m circling something hard.
I set the mug down and meet his eyes. “I’m in love with her, Wyatt.
Didn’t plan on it, didn’t want it complicating things.
But she got under my skin with her stubborn questions and that way she has of looking straight at the hard parts without flinching.
And I drove her off by holding back the one thing that mattered. ”
The admission comes out rough, but it settles something deep. Wyatt leans forward, elbows on his knees. “About time you said it out loud. She brought something good here. Lightened you up in spots I thought were set in stone. You gonna sit on that forever?”
I push the folder of prints across the desk toward him.
“Losing her hurts worse than anything tied to South Gate. I thought selling that piece would cut the grief loose, let me breathe. But this emptiness? It’s sharper.
Deeper. Noah’s gone, and nothing changes that.
But Lila... she was here, real and choosing this place—choosing me—until I shut her out. ”
The realization hits full force as I say it, loosening the knot I’ve carried since she left.
The memories of my brother still sit heavy, but they don’t cut like the thought of never hearing her laugh in the kitchen again or feeling her hand slip into mine on the porch at dusk.
I’ve been clinging to old pain while pushing away the one person who made the future feel worth stepping into.
Wyatt watches me, expression softening just a fraction. “Then maybe stop haunting that empty cottage and do something about it. Ranch needs you whole. And from what I saw, she needs you too, even if she’s pouring everything into that exhibit downtown.”
I nod, but the words don’t come easy. The fear still lingers—that reaching out might crack me open wider than I can handle.
Yet sitting here with her photographs spread out and the truth finally spoken, the scale tips.
Losing Lila carves deeper than any patch of ground ever could.
The ranch keeps turning, but without her in it, the days stretch gray and endless.
I need to find a way to bridge the distance I created, before the space between us hardens into something permanent.