This Time She Left the Ring

Prologue

Molly

Ten years ago.

The phone rings at six-fifteen on a Saturday morning, which means one of three things: someone's dead, the barn's on fire, or Grandma June needs a favor. I'm betting on the third because June has never waited for a reasonable hour to call anyone, and she's not about to start now.

"Molly, honey, you need to get over here." Her voice crackles through my ancient flip phone. "We've got a situation."

I'm already reaching for my jeans, phone pinned between my ear and shoulder. "What kind of situation?"

"The bee kind," June says, and I can hear her grinning through the static.

That gets me moving faster. I yank open my closet and grab the canvas bag with my bee suit crammed inside, the one that still smells like smoke and sage from yesterday's hive inspection. "Where?"

"On the new neighbor's truck." Her voice drops like she's sharing gossip at church.

"You know Frank Williams finally convinced his boy to come home?

Well, that boy's standing on the tailgate of his Ford like the ground's made of lava, and there's about ten thousand bees on his side mirror having themselves a committee meeting. "

I snort. "Can't he just drive away slowly?"

"He tried. They followed." June sounds way too delighted about this. "I offered to call an exterminator and I thought the man was gonna have a stroke. Said he's not killing anything that isn't actively trying to eat his cattle. So I told him I'd call my bee girl."

"My professional title is getting shorter every year," I tell her, hopping on one foot to get my boot on. "Soon you'll just shout 'Bees!' into the phone."

"You understood me, didn't you?" she says. "Bring your things before he attempts another escape. I'd hate to explain to Frank why his son broke a leg on my driveway."

She hangs up without saying goodbye, which is very June.

I grab my keys, stuff my feet into boots, and I'm out the door of my grandmother's farmhouse in under three minutes.

The old Chevy coughs twice before it turns over.

I really need to get that starter looked at.

And then I'm bumping down the dirt road that connects our properties, dust kicking up behind me in the pale morning light.

June's flower farm sits on the other side of the fence from my grandmother's place, forty acres of lavender and wildflowers that she's been tending since before my mother was born.

I grew up running between the two properties like the fence wasn't even there, and June fed me more cookies than any child should legally consume.

She's not my grandmother by blood, but she's family in every way that matters.

The Williams ranch sprawls out beyond June's western boundary.

The fences meet, but the road around the ridge makes it a twenty-minute drive from my grandmother's house to the ranch buildings.

As I pull through her gate I can see the commotion at the edge of her property line.

There's a black Ford F-250 parked on the gravel, and sure enough, there's a man standing on the tailgate like he's been treed by a bear.

I park next to June's ancient golf cart and grab my bag. As I get closer, I get my first good look at the new neighbor, and I have to admit: my brain kind of shorts out for a second.

He's huge. He isn't just tall, though he is that, probably six-four or six-five.

He's built like he hauls hay bales for fun.

His dark hair is wavy and too long, curling behind his ears like he keeps forgetting to get it cut, and his arms are covered in tattoos from wrist to shoulder.

He's wearing a faded ranch shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans that have actual dirt on them, and boots that have seen real work.

Everything about him screams cowboy, except for the part where he's standing on the back of his truck looking at a basketball-sized cluster of bees like they've personally offended him.

"You the bee girl?" he calls out, and his voice is gruff, almost hostile.

"I'm Molly." I stop a few feet from the truck and squint up at him, shading my eyes against the morning sun. "You want to tell me why you're standing up there looking like someone put a snake in your boot?"

"June said you could move them." His jaw tightens. "I've got cattle waiting on me, and my father will never let me hear the end of this."

"Then come down before she takes a photograph," I tell him, jerking my chin toward the porch. "June has no mercy before breakfast."

He gestures toward the mirror. "They landed twenty minutes ago. I gave them time to leave. Nothing."

"They're swarming." I circle around the truck. Thousands of bees cling together in a healthy, humming cluster. "The old colony got crowded, so some of them left with their queen. They're resting while the scouts look for a home."

He eyes the cluster like it might file a lawsuit. "Could they pick somewhere that doesn't have my registration in the glove box?"

"That's the plan. A hollow tree, a suitable cavity. The scouts come back and recruit the others to their favorite place. Your truck is a waiting room with terrible suspension." I pull out my suit.

"How do they decide?" he asks.

The question surprises me. I look up at him, at the hard set of his jaw and the suspicious narrowing of his green eyes, and see what's underneath the hostility. Curiosity.

"They vote," I say.

He studies the cluster. "How do you get a group that size to agree on anything?"

"The scouts help decide," I say, crouching to get a better look at the cluster.

"They come back and do this little dance to show the other bees where they found a potential home.

The better the location, the more enthusiastic the dance.

Other scouts go check it out, and if they agree, they start dancing too.

When enough of them are dancing for the same spot, the whole swarm takes off. "

"That's—" He stops, frowning like I've said a word that doesn't fit his worldview. "That's actually incredibly sophisticated."

"Bees are smart. Smarter than most people I know." I grin at him. "Present company included, considering you're standing on a truck bed trying not to make eye contact with a bunch of insects."

His ears go red. The red spreads up from his collar to the tips of his ears where anyone could see it, and my stomach does a funny little flip.

"I'm useful with most animals," he says. "Ask me to pull a calf. You'll see a much better performance."

"Let's save that for a day when I've had coffee." I drag my suit on and leave it half-zipped, the veil pushed back off my face. "For now, slow movements. No swatting. You can stand well back if you want."

He shifts his weight on the tailgate. "You don't need help?"

"I can manage. Offering isn't a blood oath." I leave my gloves stuffed in the bag and fetch the ventilated nuc box from my truck. "What should I call you while June organizes your obituary?"

"Tazio Williams," he says, like he's giving his name to a judge.

"Tazio?" I test the word in my mouth. "That's Italian."

"My mom is from Florence." His voice goes slightly softer when he says it.

"Well, Tazio Williams," I say, snapping the box open, "I'm going to relocate your swarm. You can stay up there and supervise, or you can come down here and help me."

His grip tightens on the truck's roll bar. "Help you how?"

"Hold the box while I scoop," I say, and hold it out to him.

His eyes go wide. "Is there an option involving a longer tool?"

"A brush can help," I say, "but I can move this cluster gently with my bare hands.

Swarming bees are usually calmer. They gorge themselves on honey before they leave the hive, so they're basically in a food coma.

Plus they don't have any honey or babies to defend.

They're homeless. They're less likely to fight me. "

I can see him wrestling with himself. He wants to stay on the truck where it's safe, but he also doesn't want to look like a coward in front of a girl who's about to handle bees with her bare hands. It's kind of adorable, actually, watching his pride battle his common sense.

"Fine," he says finally, and climbs down from the tailgate like he's descending into shark-infested waters. He's even taller up close, and he moves like someone who's used to physical labor, all controlled strength and deliberate motion.

I hand him the box. "Hold this under the mirror. When I brush them in, keep it steady."

He takes the box and positions himself next to the truck, jaw set, shoulders tight. The bees hum louder as I approach, but they don't scatter. I reach out slowly, calmly, and slide my bare hand into the cluster.

"Jesus Christ," Tazio mutters.

The bees are warm against my fingers, thousands of tiny bodies vibrating together. I look for the queen as I work, scooping gently and guiding the cluster into the box. They flow like liquid, a living river of gold and black, and Tazio watches with wonder bleeding through his fear.

"They're not stinging you," he says, like he can't quite believe it.

"Told you." Another scoop, then another. The cluster shrinks. "They're actually really gentle, most of the time. People think bees are aggressive because they confuse them with wasps. Wasps are assholes. Bees just want to make honey and mind their own business."

"Better system than our ranch meetings," he says. "Mostly we argue until Dad gets hungry."

"I'd watch you try the dancing," I tell him, easing another handful into the box. "Give me a little notice so I can charge admission."

Two of June's farmhands have wandered over from the lavender rows to watch, leaning on the fence with their coffee.

"Y'all don't have work?" Tazio growls at them without turning his head, and they scatter like he's fired a warning shot.

But when he looks back at me, the growl is just gone. Like someone flipped a switch.

He's quiet for a moment, watching me work, and then he says, "So the scouts—how far do they go? When they're looking for a new home?"