Chapter 10
Ten
Tessa
The funeral took place three days after the argument in the kitchen.
They were the longest three days of my life.
Every hour felt heavy. Every phone call felt like it took something from me.
The paperwork, the condolences, the casseroles, the decisions, they all blurred together until I felt hollowed out.
When I arrived at the small white church in River’s Edge, the parking lot was already full.
Trucks and old sedans sat everywhere in crooked rows.
People dressed in muted colours gathered on the steps, murmuring to each other with the soft, reverent tone small towns used when someone important passed.
Ray had been important here.
I stood on the bottom step for a long moment, clutching the hem of my black dress, trying to steady my breathing.
The sky was pale, thin clouds drifting across the sun, softening the light.
The air smelled faintly of wild sage. Somewhere nearby, cattle mooed, a reminder of the life outside this one moment.
When I finally walked inside, the sanctuary was already packed. Every pew was filled, and chairs lined along the back wall. People turned as I entered, familiar faces from childhood, neighbours, ranchers Ray argued with, old friends who loved him anyway.
And I wasn’t ready to face any of them.
But I did.
I made my way down the centre aisle to the front row, the spot reserved for me, and sat alone for only a moment before I sensed him.
Turning around, I saw Wyatt step into the aisle. He wasn’t wearing his hat. His hair was combed back, still damp, and he wore a black jacket that fit him too well. His gaze swept the room until it found me, and for a second, neither of us looked away.
He walked down the aisle with the other pallbearers, but when he reached the front, he sat beside me as Ray had explicitly written in his funeral instructions. The pew groaned slightly under his weight. His presence filled the small space between us. I stiffened, but I didn’t move away.
The minister stepped up to the pulpit, smoothing the pages of his notes. “Good morning,” he began gently. “We are here to honour the life of Raymond Callahan, a man who worked hard, argued harder, and loved in a way that wasn’t always spoken aloud, but was always felt.”
A soft ripple of warm laughter and murmurs of agreement moved through the crowd.
The minister continued. “Ray’s life changed the day he became a father in the most unexpected way.
Many of you know the story. One morning, more than twenty-three years ago, he opened his front door to find his two-year-old niece standing on his porch with a grocery bag of clothes and no explanation.
” My throat tightened, and my hands went cold.
“He never discovered who brought her to him,” the minister said. “He only found a short note inside the bag telling him that he needed to look after Tessa. And from that moment on, she became his whole world.”
My vision blurred. The room tilted. I felt Wyatt shift next to me, but he didn’t touch me. He didn’t speak. He just stayed exactly where he was.
“He raised Tessa as his own,” the minister continued. “He taught her how to work the land, how to care for animals, how to be stubborn, how to be strong, and how to fight for the things that matter.” I lifted the tissue to dab at the tears that came freely.
My jaw trembled. I pressed my fingers together so tightly my knuckles hurt. Wyatt shifted, and he put his arm over the back of the pew, gently wrapping his big hand around my shoulder.
“Ray wasn’t perfect,” the preacher said, smiling faintly, “but he was present. And that mattered. It mattered to the child he took in, and it mattered to this town.”
Wyatt’s breath slowed beside me. I could feel it even though he hadn’t moved closer.
The minister opened the floor for memories. People stood and talked about Ray’s kindness, his temper, the way he fixed fences for neighbours without being asked, and did not worry about his own work. The way he pretended it annoyed him when children offered to help, but secretly loved it.
When he gestured for me to speak, my chest tightened painfully. My throat closed. Words backed up behind my tongue, but none of them would come out.
Wyatt’s shoulder brushed mine as he stood. A whisper of contact. But it steadied something inside me, and I hated that it did. He reached out his hand to help me stand, and I took it.
The church blurred around the edges as I moved toward the pulpit. My voice wavered at first, but I forced myself to speak.
“It’s hard to believe after all these years, I still don't know who left me on Ray’s doorstep.
I don’t even know if he is truly my uncle, but it never mattered,” I said softly.
“He took me in. He taught me how to be part of this town and gave me a home. And for every hard moment we had, and there were many, I knew he loved me. He loved me the best way he knew how. I will miss him terribly. Thank you, Uncle Ray, for making me the woman I am.”
A few sniffles echoed across the room.
When I sat back down, my hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together again. Wyatt didn’t look at me, but his jaw tightened in something like restraint or understanding. Maybe both.
Then it was time.
The six pallbearers, Wyatt included, stood and walked toward the casket. Wyatt took the front right position, closest to me. The wood looked heavy, carved from simple pine, exactly what Ray would have wanted.
They lifted it in one smooth motion.
My breath cracked.
Wyatt’s fingers curled around the handle, and I watched his shoulders shift as he adjusted the weight. His face didn’t move, but I could see the tightness behind his eyes.
They carried my uncle out of the church and into the sunlight.
I followed. My steps were unsteady, but I forced each one. People fell in behind us, their heads bowed, their hands folded.
The cemetery overlooked the open range, a rolling stretch of foothills, golden grass, and wide sky. It felt too big. Too quiet. Too permanent.
As the pallbearers set the casket down over the open grave, a breeze ran through the grass, whispering across the hillside. Birds circled overhead. The sun slid behind a thin cloud, dimming the light.
The minister spoke again, but the words washed over me. I stared at the casket, willing myself not to fall apart in front of everyone.
When the time came to throw the first handful of soil, I stepped forward, but my knees nearly buckled. Wyatt moved before I could collapse.
He placed his hand gently, but firmly, around my waist. He didn’t push; he didn’t guide. He just kept me upright. His warmth anchored me in a way that made my throat burn.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured quietly enough that only I could hear it.
I hated that I needed it. And I hated even more that I believed him. I hated him. Except I didn’t, not really, at least not today.
I released the soil. It hit the wood with a soft thump that broke something inside me. When I stepped back, my breath hitched. Wyatt didn’t touch me again, but he remained close, standing slightly behind me, like a wall between me and the rest of the world.
One by one, people followed. Soil. Flowers. Whispered goodbyes.
Eventually, the long walk back from the gravesite funneled everyone toward the parking lot.
I expected people to drift to their trucks and head for the church, because that’s what the minister announced, but instead the crowd was shifting north, chatting in small clusters, pointing toward the outskirts of town.
I frowned and turned to my friend Brooke just as she looped her arm through mine like I was a toddler she wasn’t confident would stay upright.
“Where is everyone going?” I asked.
“To the brewery,” she said with a sympathetic little squeeze. “Wyatt closed the place for the afternoon. Said it was the only spot big enough to hold everyone.”
I stopped walking, my boots sinking into the gravel. “The brewery?”
She blinked at me as if I’d asked what a cow was. “Hargrove Brewing. Didn’t he tell you?”
Of course, he didn’t. Why would he tell me anything he decided about my life?
Brooke mistook the shock tightening my throat for gratitude and patted my hand. “It was really generous of him. He told Natalie to cancel the lunch service, send the barflies home, and make Ray’s family comfortable.”
Family. The word scraped across something raw.
I followed the stream of mourners to the northern edge of town, where the brewery rose from the prairie like it had been built from the land itself.
Timber beams, stone walls, wide windows catching every bit of late afternoon light.
It was warm and alive and far larger than I remembered from childhood glimpses.
Inside, the shift in atmosphere hit immediately.
Woodsmoke from the massive stone fireplace at the far end curled through the air.
Glasses clinked. Voices murmured gently.
Warm lighting spilled across comfortable chairs grouped around the fire, the way other restaurants used tables.
People settled into them like they belonged there, like the space was designed to be a community hub.
My breath caught because it didn’t look like a bar or a business. It looked like a haven.
And then I saw him.
Wyatt stood behind the long wooden bar, the black jacket gone, sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms leading to it, tight over his shoulders.
He was talking to a woman while pointing toward trays of food being laid out: beef sliders, roasted chicken, platters of vegetables, and dainties.
As I watched him, he lifted a half keg and slid it into place while someone else steadied the tap line.
His posture never faltered. His expression never wavered.
Commanding without raising his voice, calm without ever seeming soft, grounded in a way that made something in my stomach twist.
He glanced up.
Our eyes met across the space, sunlight washing in from the windows at my right. The room seemed to narrow around that single moment, the noise pulling back, a sharp and unwelcome heat tightening under my ribs. His expression didn’t shift at all.
I tore my gaze away.
Mrs. Kowalski rested a warm hand on my shoulder. “Your uncle loved this place,” she said gently. “Wyatt said he wanted folks to gather somewhere Ray loved, and this felt right.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t want it to feel right. I didn’t want Wyatt to know anything about what Ray would’ve wanted. I didn’t want the floor under my feet to steady just because Wyatt prepared it. But it did. And I hated that almost as much as I hated how much I needed it.
As I moved through the room, people hugged me, pressed plates into my hands, and offered condolences that blurred together.
The food disappeared quickly, trays emptied and refilled by staff moving with quiet efficiency. Laughter mixed with tears. Stories drifted like smoke up toward the vaulted wooden beams. It should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t. It was too much. Too loud. Too kind. Too relentless.
I felt overwhelmed, untethered, as if the room kept shifting beneath my feet. Even with the fire glowing, none of the warmth seemed to reach my bones.
But every time I felt myself tipping toward the edge, I sensed Wyatt nearby. Never approaching. Never inserting himself. Just close enough to anchor.
I kept catching glimpses of him. Checking that the staff had enough trays prepared.
Speaking quietly with older ranchers, steadying them when emotion caught them off guard.
Adjusting a dimmer light so the room wasn’t so harsh.
Pouring coffee for a widow whose hands shook too much to lift the pot herself.
Standing near the fireplace while talking with the minister, posture relaxed but controlled, as if the entire room ran on the same quiet pulse he carried.
Each moment tightened something deep inside my chest. I hated that he made this easier. I hated the strange, unwanted softening in me every time my eyes drifted in his direction.
By the time the room emptied, the tension I’d been gripping dropped all at once, leaving me hollow and shaking. I finally turned to where he stood watching me from a careful distance.
He didn’t step forward or speak. He simply waited, steady and patient, like he understood something in me needed space to decide which emotion would surface first.
“You didn’t have to help me today,” I whispered.
“Yes, I did.”
The simplicity of it landed like a hand pressed firm and warm against my sternum, steadying something I hadn’t admitted was slipping.
“Do you want me to drive you home? ” he asked.
I wanted to tell him no, I wanted to tell him to leave me alone. I wanted to walk all the way back to the ranch in these terrible shoes before I let him see me shake again. But I was so tired. My body ached from holding itself together.
“That would be great, thank you,” I whispered. His jaw tightened like he hadn’t expected me to say yes. He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a phone.
“Holt’s going to bring my truck; we can take yours. Then you don’t have to worry about figuring out how to get it home.”
He walked me to the truck without touching me. He opened the passenger door. I climbed in. He shut it gently, then rounded the hood and slid behind the wheel.
When we reached the ranch, he pulled up to the house and put the truck in park. I stared at the front steps for a long minute before I had the strength to move to the door.
“Thank you. For everything,” I said quietly.
Wyatt nodded once, expression unreadable. “Anytime.”
I stepped out of the truck, closed the door behind me, and walked toward the house. The grief pressed down on me again, but something else lingered beneath it.
Something I didn’t have the energy, or the courage, to name. I sank down the door once I made it inside, pulled my knees up to my chest, and sobbed.