Chapter Nine
The barn was quiet.
Not the usual quiet that came with nightfall and resting animals, but a painful quiet that pressed on Henry’s chest like a stone.
He stood in the dim glow of a lantern swinging from the beam above, its light casting long, uneven shadows across the stalls. The air was thick with the smell of hay… underlaid with sickness.
One of the geldings lay on its side, its stomach rising and falling unevenly. Another stood, but barely, legs trembling, head hanging low as though it took too much effort to lift it.
Henry moved down the line, checking each horse, his footsteps soft against the packed dirt. There had been no improvement in their condition; thankfully, though, they hadn’t gotten worse either.
He reached out, resting a hand against a mare’s neck. Her skin twitched beneath his touch, her breathing shallow.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Fight it.”
But the animal only shifted weakly while the lantern creaked softly as it swayed.
Just then, footsteps sounded behind him.
“You’re not going to change anything by staring at them,” George said quietly from the doorway. “You need to eat, get some rest.”
Henry didn’t turn. “I’m fine.”
George stepped inside, arms folding loosely as he looked over the stalls. His expression darkened. “They don’t look worse, at least.”
Henry exhaled slowly.
“Come on,” George said. “Let’s get a drink.”
Henry hesitated, but he knew George was right: he wasn’t going to magically heal the horses by staring at them so, finally, he nodded.
They headed out of the barn and across the yard to the house. The night air was warm, heavy with the scent of damp earth after the day’s rain. Crickets hummed in the distance, the rain from earlier that day had gone and the sky was clear now, dotted with stars.
The porch boards creaked beneath their weight as they settled into the chairs. George pulled a metal flask from his coat and handed it to Henry.
Henry took a long drink and felt the burn settling in his chest, then handed the flask back to George.
After a while, George asked, “What’d Doc say when he came by this afternoon?”
Henry leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Thinks something they ate is causing the shaking… the weakness.”
George nodded slowly. “And?”
Henry stared out into the dark. “We wait.”
George huffed quietly. “That all?”
“Yep.”
George took a drink, then leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting toward the pastures.
“You’ve always been careful with your land,” he said. “Rotating grazing. Checking the feed. Making sure nothing grows where it shouldn’t.” He looked at Henry. “Hard to believe you’d miss something like that.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t miss anything.”
George met his gaze and held it for a time before looking away. “Then maybe it’s not something you missed.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
George shrugged one shoulder. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to make things difficult for you.”
Henry nodded slowly. Ranchers competed with one another—they always had. The stakes were high for anyone who wished to make a living out here on the land.
And Henry had built something worth taking.
“You reckon you know who it might be?” George asked.
Henry nodded. “For something this dirty, one name comes to mind …”
“Wilkes,” George finished.
The name sat, heavy and unwelcome, in Henry’s chest as he took another drink.
Would he really go that far?
George studied him a moment. “That what got you twisted up, or is anything else on your mind?”
Henry hesitated before exhaling deeply as he dragged a hand down his jaw.
George leaned back, waiting.
“I was too hard on her.” Lowering his voice, Henry stared out into the dark. “She came out here to help, and that mutt followed her. She didn’t know any better. And I …” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I took my frustration out on her.”
George took a slow drink. “You’ve been known to do that.”
Henry shot him a look, but George just shrugged.
“She doesn’t belong here,” Henry muttered after a moment. “She grew up in the city, has no idea what it takes to run a ranch.” He exhaled slowly and shook his head. “This life… it’s not hers.”
“Maybe not yet,” George said.
Henry ignored that. “She’d be better off somewhere else.”
George studied him quietly. “You trying to convince me,” he said, “or yourself?”
In the silence that followed, a soft sound drifted through the night.
Henry stilled. “You hear that?”
George tilted his head as Henry sat up, listening.
There it was again.
George huffed quietly, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll leave you,” he said, setting the bottle aside. “Looks like you’ve got something else to tend to.”
The porch creaked beneath Henry’s boots as he stepped inside the dim house, only the faint glow of lamplight spilling from above.
He moved up the stairs without thinking. At the top, the hallway stretched. One door stood slightly ajar, light spilling from within.
Henry stepped closer, then paused as he peered inside.
Ruth sat on the edge of the bed, Clara curled tightly against her, small hands gripping the blanket.
Ruth’s hand moved gently over Clara’s back as she sang, her voice low and soothing, each note soft but certain.
“Shh… It’s all right,” she murmured between verses. “You’re safe.”
Henry started to turn away; this wasn’t his place. Watching her patient, gentle nature made his chest ache in a way he didn’t quite understand.
But then, Ruth’s voice faltered as her head lifted …
And her eyes met his.