Chapter 2 Willa
TWO
WILLA
The air smells of snowmelt and cedar. I grip the steering wheel until my fingers hurt. I watch the house for any sign of movement, but no one appears. I turn off the engine and wait. On the porch, old wasp nests line the eaves. I stare at them, daring them to come after me.
When I finally climb the steps, the blue heeler comes over to sniff my shoes and calves, then loses interest and returns to his shady spot. Only then does the front door open. Beau stands there, holding a cup of coffee, his jaw set for the day.
"You're early."
“Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
He leads me down a narrow hallway lined with black-and-white family photos. The kitchen is spotless, almost too clean to be used often. There’s a single mug by the sink and a new box of store-bought donuts on the table.
"You eat?" he asks, pouring his refill.
“I’m good.”
He watches me a little too closely, then nods outside. “We’ll take the truck.”
I follow him outside. The wind cuts through my sweater, cold against my skin, but I refuse to shiver. I hold on to the faint warmth coming from Beau. His presence feels heavy, both comforting and unsettling, testing my resolve.
The first thing I notice in the truck is the smell: cedar, wet dog, and the mineral sting of caked mud. The bench seat is torn at the seams, and springs poke through duct tape. He slides in first, waits until I’m settled, then starts the engine.
We drive in silence for a mile. I keep my eyes on the horizon, ignoring the urge to glance at him. On the dash, a dead moth is trapped under the speedometer glass, its wings crumpled to parchment.
“You don’t look like a rancher,” he says, finally.
“Neither do you.”
He grunts. “Is that right?”
“Your hands say so, but your shirt’s too new.”
He glances over. "I change before work."
We leave the highway and take a narrow gravel road. The truck rattles as we drive. The sky is huge, and empty grassland stretches in every direction, held together by rusted barbed wire.
“Was your grandfather really that bitter about losing the land?” I ask, keeping my tone easy.
“Wasn’t just him. You hold on to what’s yours, or it gets taken.”
“Not a very optimistic worldview.”
“Not about optimism. It’s how things are here.”
I let his words sit. We pass through a gate propped up by one post, wire loosely stretched across the gap.
He drives slowly, letting the silence return.
I try to imagine what he sees: the rolling land, thin grass, and the line of pines on the north side.
It’s not beautiful to me, but it feels honest.
We park near a stand of cottonwoods. A small creek cuts through the pasture, running fast and cold with the snowmelt. Beau swings out of the truck and waits for me to join him.
I follow, careful not to slip on the slick grass. He moves ahead, boots plunging straight into the mud at the creek bank.
“You know what you’re looking at?” he asks, sweeping his arm at the horizon.
“Rangeland. Grazing pasture. No visible improvements.”
He looks me over, surprised. “You do your homework.”
“I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
He nods. We He nods. We walk along the fence, taking slow, careful steps. The air smells strongly of mud and thawing earth. He stops to check a loose wire on the fence and tightens it with practiced hands.you can handle this?"
“You think I can’t?”
He exhales. "City people. Want the views, not the work."
“I didn’t come for the views.”
“Then why?”
I look down at my sneakers, already soaked through. “He wanted it to stay in the family. Left me just enough money to make sure it did. I’m here because I want to carry that forward, not just hold the land but do something new with it.”
He nods, jaw tight. “It’s hard. Fix the fencing, add irrigation. No one’s run cattle here in years.”
“I’m not running cattle,” I say.
He freezes. “What are you doing, then?”
I hesitate. “Turning it into a sanctuary.”
He blinks. For a moment, his expression is unreadable.
“For what?”
I want to rescue animals—a few horses, cattle saved from the slaughterhouse, dairy cows who are tired of losing their calves, and maybe llamas or sheep. I might even start a B-and-B to support this rescue work.
He laughs, once, sharply. “Out here?”
“Yes.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
I cross my arms. “You said it yourself—city people want the views.”
He shakes his head, but there’s something in his eyes. It’s not quite contempt. Maybe it’s a longing he won’t admit. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him, but then the distance between us returns.
“You really think you can make that work?”
“I have a business plan. I’m not an idiot.”
He snorts. "That’s new. Most subdivide or build a strip mall."
I smile. "If you want to buy me out, you’ll have to try harder."
He turns away, studying the horizon. “You’re stubborn.”
“So I’ve been told.”
We walk some more, silence stretching out between us. He stops at a break in the trees and points down at the creek.
"This is Gamble herd's water. More stock, well, won’t support it."
“I’ll drill a new well if I need to.”
He lifts an eyebrow, skeptical. “That’s twenty grand, at least.”
“I’ll manage. I have savings.”
He shakes his head. “You’ll be broke by winter.”
I shrug. “There are worse things.”
He looks at me for a moment, then nods once, as if I’ve passed some unspoken test.
We climb back in the truck. The heater whines, barely audible over the tires on gravel. I flex my toes, numb from the cold.
"You sure about the B-and-B?"
"I'm sure."
He doesn’t answer, but his sideways glances make me feel exposed. I wonder if he’ll try again to push me out, or if, deep down, he’s drawn to the determination he sees in me. Maybe he’s surprised I haven’t given up yet.
Back at the house, he kills the engine and turns in the bench seat to face me. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I feel the tension between us, close and tight as the cab itself.
"If you do this, you’ll need help," he says.
“I don’t need your help.”
He almost smiles. “That’s what I said, too.”
He gets out of the truck and slams the door. I watch him walk away, stubborn and alone. For a moment, I just sit there, the air heavy with adrenaline and a hint of hope, trying not to shake.
The wind picks up, snatching my hair out of its ponytail. I let it go wild. I pull out my phone, open the notes app, and start a new list:
To Do: Contact fencing contractor; Schedule well survey; Find local large animal vet; Price out supplies for B-and-B.
It’s overwhelming, the number of things I don’t know yet. But I’m determined to make this work—for family, for the animals, and for myself. That’s always been enough.
I drive back to town with the windows open, the cold air keeping me alert. The motel room is tiny, but the water’s hot and the heater works. I peel out of my soaked clothes, shower, and stand shivering at the mirror.
The girl looking back at me isn’t as tough as she wants to be. But it’s something close. The scar over my eyebrow is a sharper white in the hotel light. I touch it, pressing two fingers flat against the old wound until the skin turns pink again.
I eat cereal straight from the box and watch cable news with the volume off. Each time my phone buzzes, my heart jumps, but it’s never him. The only message is from Jasper Reed, asking if the tour went as expected. I write back: He’s less of an asshole than I thought.
An hour later, there’s a knock at my door. I open it to find a large cardboard box sitting on the mat. No note. Inside, two pairs of work gloves, three flannel shirts, and a worn Carhartt jacket.
At the bottom of the box: a brand-new pair of waterproof boots, size seven.
No card, but I know exactly who sent them.
I laugh, quick and sharp, and try them on. They fit perfectly.
I set my alarm for dawn. Some things are worth fighting for, even if you’re the only one who believes in them.