14. Kisses & Memories
Kisses & Memories
Dawn slipped through gaps in the steel siding.
Josie eased out from beneath the blankets, careful not to jolt Layla awake.
One more day.
That was all Josie asked for anymore—enough food for Layla's breakfast, another dozen miles without the engine failing, another night where the only sounds were her daughter's breathing and the wind.
She pulled on her coat and left Beast, stepping into the adjoining feed storage barn.
The cows were already up. Three pairs of eyes followed Josie as she moved, heads bobbing as they paced between the empty troughs. A few impatient moos rolled through the building and bounced off the rafters.
"I know," Josie murmured, offering them a weary smile. “Your hungry aren’t you?”
The feed room was where she'd noticed it the night before: stacked fifty-pound bags against one wall, dust on the paper, dry enough to trust. She took an old utility knife from the workbench and sliced through the first bag.
Shick.
Sweet feed spilled in a golden rush onto the floor.
The nearest cow lowered her head immediately, chewing like hunger had teeth. Josie opened another bag, then a third. Soon all three crowded together, tails swatting lazily, the rhythmic sound of their chewing filling the barn and warming the air.
Josie rested her shoulder against the fence, holding her smile in place even after the work slowed.
Seth stepped into the doorway.
He wore the same sleep-rumpled look she did, but his posture carried focus. Coffee steamed from a mug in his hands, curling upward in the cold. He paused when he saw her feeding the cows.
"You startled me," he said.
Josie glanced over at him. "Just getting a head start on the day."
His eyes moved from her to the open bags. "You feeding them?"
She nodded, turning slightly so the cows could keep eating while she met his gaze. "I couldn't leave them hungry."
Seth took a step closer, then another, drawn in by the quiet competence of it. "You grew up on a ranch makes sense.”
Josie lifted her brows. "Yeah."
He leaned his forearm on the fence beside her. Steam warmed his fingers as he took a slow sip.
"My dad would've haunted me for walking away and letting animals go without food."Josie laughed under her breath at the though of her dad and cows.
His gaze tracked past the barn door toward the snow-covered fields, then returned to her when he spoke again. "We've got livestock now too."
Josie turned fully. "You do?"
"Cara's cabin." Seth's voice softened around the name, a quiet reverence for their journey. "She was already off-grid when they found her."
Josie recalled Jay mentioning it. "She had chickens?"
"She had chickens," Seth confirmed with a careful nod. "And ducks."
Josie's eyes widened. "Ducks?"
"They're loud."
"They're incredibly loud."
"They're mean."
"They're definitely mean."
Seth's grin broadened. "And useful."
"I bet they've kept everyone fed more than once," Josie mused, recognizing the value of such a resource.
Seth drained his coffee, then set the mug on the fence rail by the cows. "Sawyer's already making plans for spring. He wants to expand everything. The garden's getting bigger. Storage buildings, fencing, rainwater catchment system, a root cellar—"
Josie listened intently. "Good. That's... smart."
Seth's smile softened into something more complex, quieter. “He says survival shouldn't be the only goal anymore."
"What does he mean?" Josie asked, though she had a strong suspicion.
"It means building something that lasts," Seth explained. "Not just for this week. For five years. Ten, if we get lucky."
Josie's voice gentled. "I like that."
Seth stared back at the pasture, his hands tightening on the fence. "I just..." He exhaled, the words emerging slower. "I never pictured planning that far out."
Josie watched him, then gave a small nod. “I don’t think anyone planed for this.”
A comfortable silence settled, not pressing, but present. The cows chewed, snow drifted outside in slow motion, and a loose piece of metal somewhere beyond the walls creaked against the wind—a thin, irregular sound indifferent to the people within.
After a while, Josie asked the question that had formed in her mind the moment she saw his tight jaw.
"Someone put that look on your face," Josie said quietly. "Before all this."
Seth didn't answer immediately. His posture remained rigid, shoulders pulled in as if he could hold the past captive by force.
Josie instantly regretted it, but she didn't back down. "You don't have to tell me."
He kept staring at the cows, his jaw shifting as if each word was a heavy weight to lift.
"My wife, Molly," Seth said.
He swallowed. "And our son."
Josie waited, breathing carefully, ready for the shattered sentence that might follow.
"He was eleven months old." Seth's eyes closed for a moment. When they opened, they were too bright. "AJ."
"No," she whispered, barely audible. "I'm sorry."
Seth shook his head, a sharp refusal of mercy. "I couldn't save them."
His voice broke at the end of the sentence, as if all his training had failed him against this. "I was trained for war. I knew how to survive. I knew how to protect people."
He let out a humorless breath. "I couldn't save the two people who mattered most."
Seth's shoulders sagged. "I wasn't there. I should've been there. I should've—"
"No," Josie cut in, her voice firmer than intended.
Seth looked at her.
Josie stepped closer, until they stood shoulder to shoulder at the fence. She was close enough to see the strain in his face. "You don't get to punish yourself like that."
"You don't know that," he said, his voice uneven.
"I know grief," Josie answered, her throat tightening. "And I know guilt."
Her eyes burned as the words came. "I spent weeks torturing myself with what I didn't do.
I questioned every choice. Mark's symptoms—thinking I missed the moment.
Wondering if I should've recognized it sooner.
Wondering if I could've gotten him to a hospital faster.
Wondering if I should've tried something different. "
Tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them. She hated them in that moment—hated their easy betrayal when she wanted to be strong. "It turns you into your own enemy."
Her gaze searched his face, desperate for something steady. "You loved them," she said, quieter now, as if she didn't want the truth to scare him off.
Seth nodded through his tears. "More than anything."
Another tear escaped, and his hands curled into fists. "You were enough," she told him.
She stepped forward, closing the distance with purpose, and wrapped her arms around him.
At first, Seth went rigid, as if he couldn't remember the rules for comfort. His hands hovered, unsure. Then something in his chest loosened. He leaned in, his forehead resting against her shoulder.
One trembling breath left him, then another.
His grief wasn't in tears but in small, harsh shakes—silent, stubborn, relentless. Josie held on, anyway. No speeches. No promises. Just her arms, her steady presence, her refusal to let him carry it alone.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Outside, the wind continued. Inside, the barn held them together with the hum of chewing and the slow shift of morning light.
Eventually, Seth pulled back just enough to look at her.
She was close enough to see the amber flecks in his eyes, the tiny white scar that cut through his right eyebrow—a detail she'd never noticed before, one that only appeared when someone stood this near.
Neither of them moved.
Then Seth lifted a hand, almost unconsciously, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. Josie didn't pull away.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, quick and undeniable, but she didn't let fear slow her down. She met his gaze and held it, asking permission with her eyes without letting doubt take over.
Seth leaned in.
Josie met him halfway.
Their lips touched in a gentle kiss—no rush, no hunger. Just a quiet agreement between two people who had carried too much for too long and recognized the same hurt and grief in one another.
When they parted, their foreheads rested together again.
They breathed the same cold morning air without talking, letting the closeness settle into something solid.
Then—
A loud, indignant moo burst through the silence.
Both Josie and Seth looked over at the cow, which stared at them as if lodging a complaint.
Josie laughed first, the sound bright enough to cut through months of tightness. Seth's laugh followed, softer but real, filling the old feed barn.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, casting gold across the snow-covered fields.
As they prepared to leave, Josie made one last slow pass through the feed storage barn.
The three cows lifted their heads as she approached.
Grain dust clung to their muzzles, and their eyes tracked her with calm, steady curiosity while morning light slipped through cracks in the weathered steel walls.
They chewed contentedly, unconcerned with the plans humans made when the world turned cruel.
Josie smiled anyway, the edges softer than she meant them to be.
"You're on your own now, girls."
One by one, she cut open every remaining bag with the utility knife she'd found. Grain spilled across the floor in long golden streaks, a feast the cows could reach without fighting the sacks.
She crossed to the enormous sliding doors, hands braced against the cold metal. With both palms, she shoved, forcing the frozen seam to give. The rollers groaned, protested, then finally released.
Cold morning air surged inside.
Josie propped the doors open with a rusted length of pipe and walked around to the opposite side, opening the second door as well. Wind could move through now. Animals could wander without scraping themselves on locks.
"There," she said under her breath, as if the barn needed reassurance.
Now they could come and go as they pleased—shelter from the wind, step into the surrounding fields if they chose, follow whatever instinct still told them the day might not end in disaster.