Chapter Twenty-Five
The east pasture appraised for more than I had hoped and less than I feared. Nina slid the report across the table in her office.
“You can afford it,” she said.
“Technically.”
“Technically is how banks make money.”
I stared at the number. Thirty-eight acres. Creek access. Two usable outbuildings. A slope that would make beautiful turnout once we fixed the southern fence.
It would double Harlow Creek’s capacity over time. It would also consume most of the liquid portion of Granddad’s inheritance and require a loan for improvements.
“If I buy it and the therapy program doesn’t work, I could be overextended.”
“Yes.”
“If I don’t buy it, I may never get contiguous land again.”
“Also yes.”
I looked at her.
“You’re not very comforting.”
“I am your lawyer, not a weighted blanket.”
I laughed.
“What would you do?”
“Not my money.”
“Hypothetically.”
She considered.
“I’d ask whether you want the land because it serves the business or because buying back something your family lost feels like justice.”
That hurt because it was good. I looked at the appraisal again. Granddad had never owned the east pasture, but he had leased it for twenty-three years. Some of my earliest memories lived there. Teaching my first filly to lead.
Falling into the creek at eight. Granddad laughing so hard he had to sit down. Watching storms come over the ridge.
“Both,” I admitted.
“Then price the sentimental part separately in your head.”
“How?”
“Ask yourself what you’d pay for the acreage if it belonged to a stranger.”
I knew the answer.
“Almost exactly this.”
“Then the emotion isn’t making the decision. It’s making the decision feel louder.”
I sat back.
“I hate when you’re useful.”
“Billable hour.”
The bank approved me two days later. I signed the purchase agreement on Friday. Beckett’s signature was already there on behalf of Halvorsen Holdings. No note. No congratulations.
No flowers. That restraint had become its own tenderness. I stared at his name for a long time. Then I signed mine beneath it. Mara Ellison.
I had never changed my legal name after marriage, though socially everyone had called me Mrs. Halvorsen when it suited them. On paper, I had always remained Mara Ellison. I closed on the land the following Wednesday.
At noon, Tessa hung a crooked cardboard sign on the east fence. ELLISON EXPANSION EMPIRE I tore it down. She put it back. Luis brought a bottle of sparkling cider because nobody trusted me around champagne while operating equipment. June arrived with cupcakes shaped like horseshoes.
Evelyn sent nothing. I appreciated her more for it. Beckett did not come. At four, after everyone had gone back to work, I found an envelope tucked under the office door. Inside was the original 1998 lease map showing Granddad’s paddock lines in blue pencil.
No message. I knew who had left it. I sat on the office floor and traced the faded lines with one finger. That evening, I drove to Halvorsen Ranch without calling first. I told myself it was because I needed to drop off revised mare notes.
This was technically true. It was also cowardly. Beckett’s truck was outside the main house. I had not been inside since the night I left. The porch light was on.
I sat in my truck for six minutes. Then I got out. My key still fit. I didn’t use it. I knocked.
Beckett opened the door wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. No shoes. No phone. He looked stunned.
“Mara.”
“Hi.”
His eyes flicked toward my truck as if checking whether someone else had brought me.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“Poppy?”
“Fine.”
“The land?”
“Closed today.”
His face softened.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
We stood there. Eleven years of marriage and suddenly I did not know whether I was allowed to enter my own former home. Beckett noticed. He stepped back.
“Would you like to come in?”
I looked past him. Nothing had changed. The same runner. Same console table. Same bronze horse Granddad had hated.
Then I noticed what was missing. My framed wedding portrait from the entry table. My stomach dropped. Beckett followed my gaze.
“It’s upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because I realized leaving it there felt like pretending nothing had happened.”
I looked at him.
“You took down our wedding picture?”
“Not because I don’t want the marriage.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Because every time I walked past it, I used it as proof that I still had you. I don’t.”
The words landed quietly.
“Where upstairs?”
“My office.”
“Your office?”
“I look at it there and remember that being married isn’t the same as having a marriage.”
I should have been furious at the manipulation if it had felt manipulative. It didn’t. It felt private. Almost embarrassing.
“I brought this.”
I handed him the mare notes. He took them.
“Thank you.”
“And I wanted to ask about the map.”
“Did you get it?”
“Yes.”
“Dad had it in old property files.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“I didn’t. I found it last month when I was pulling the east-pasture records.”
“You remembered Granddad used blue pencil.”
“He hated black ink. Said it made fences look permanent.”
I smiled.
“He said ranchers who drew straight black lines had never met cattle.”
“He said that about accountants too.”
“And bankers.”
“And me.”
I laughed. Beckett’s smile disappeared into something softer.
“Do you want coffee?”
I almost said no. Then I said, “Tea.” His eyebrows rose.
“I have tea now.”
“I know.”
We went into the kitchen. The room looked cleaner than when I had lived there. Not because I had been messy. Because surfaces were empty. My cookbooks gone.
The ceramic bowl June made me gone. My gloves no longer on the counter. The house had become visibly one-person. That hurt more than I expected. Beckett filled the kettle.
“You can sit.”
“I know how kitchens work.”
“Right.”
I sat anyway. He made tea badly. Too much water. Tea bag left in too long. I drank it.
“This is terrible.”
“I’ve improved from dangerous to terrible.”
“Progress.”
He sat across from me. For a while we talked about land. Fencing. Drainage. Whether the old south shed could be rehabilitated.
It felt dangerously normal. Then I saw a notebook on the counter. The cover read THERAPY. I looked away before it became an invasion. Beckett noticed anyway.
“I keep notes.”
“Apparently.”
“Not about you. Mostly.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He smiled.
“Homework.”
“You have homework?”
“This week I’m supposed to identify when I use competence to avoid vulnerability.”
I nearly choked on tea.
“How’s that going?”
“Extremely competently.”
I laughed so hard I had to put the mug down. He laughed too. Then the laughter faded. We looked at each other across the kitchen table where we had eaten thousands of breakfasts. I remembered mornings when he kissed my temple on the way out.
Mornings when he barely looked up. Mornings when I said I was fine because there was no time to explain otherwise.
“Do you sleep here?” I asked.
He looked confused.
“Where else would I sleep?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d moved into the guest room.”
His expression changed.
“I did.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“The bedroom felt wrong.”
“Because I’m gone?”
“Because I spent years sleeping beside you without understanding how alone you were.”
I looked down at my tea. He added quietly, “I didn’t think I should get the comfort of pretending it was still ours.” My eyes burned again.
“Beckett.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for every difficult sentence.”
“Working on that too.”
Silence. Then I stood. He stood immediately.
“I should go.”
“Okay.”
I reached the entry. My hand went to the doorknob.
“Mara.”
I turned. He was several feet away. Not crowding.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Do you regret kissing me?”
Direct. Vulnerable. No strategy. I answered with the same honesty.
“No.”
His breath left him.
“Okay.”
“But I don’t know what it means.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Do you?”
“It means you wanted to kiss me.”
I smiled despite myself.
“You’ve become annoyingly disciplined.”
“My therapist is expensive.”
I opened the door. Cold air rushed in.
“Goodnight, Beckett.”
“Goodnight, Mara.”
I drove home with terrible tea on my tongue, and the word home no longer meant only one place.