Chapter 11 Abilene #2
“Debatable,” Wyatt mutters.
“You’re all talk for someone about to get into a bee suit,” Jesse shoots back.
“It’s fine,” Wyatt says. “I understand animals. Bees are just… very tiny livestock.”
“With wings,” Jesse points out. “And weapons. I’ll keep an eye on the truck, the kids, and the shotgun,” he adds.
“Don’t listen to him,” I tell Wyatt. “As long as we move slowly and don’t jostle them, they’ll mostly just be confused.”
“Mostly?” Wyatt repeats.
“Eighty percent,” I say. “Ninety on a good day.”
He just looks at me.
I sigh. “I have a suit you can borrow.”
Marshall glances toward the west again.
“If we’re gonna do this, we should do it quickly.” He looks back at me. “You ready?”
I glance toward the back of the property, where my hives sit humming quietly.
No, I’m not ready.
But also, yes.
“Yes,” I say. “Let me grab the equipment.”
Moving several thousand bees turns out to be the perfect distraction from thinking about everything that could go wrong.
I lead the men around the house to the apiary, the familiar sight of my hives calming me: white boxes stacked neatly, each one with a brick angled just so on top to tell me what’s inside at a glance.
My girls are flying heavier than usual, their hum pitched high with unease.
“They’re already off,” I murmur, listening. “Too noisy for this time of day.”
“You can tell that just from the sound?” Wyatt asks.
“Bees have moods,” I say. “You learn the different hums. This is ‘what is happening and why don’t we like it?’”
“Relatable,” Jesse says.
I haul the spare bee suits off the hook in the shed and hand one to Wyatt. It’s just a little too short in the legs and tight in the shoulders, but it’ll do.
He wrestles with the zipper and the veil like they personally offended him.
“Here,” I say, stepping close. “You have to click the veil ring into the collar first, or you’ll leave a gap.”
His eyes widen behind the mesh. “Gaps sound bad.”
“Gaps are invitations,” I say. “We prefer no invitations.”
I fasten the veil properly, check the elastic at his wrists and ankles, then tug his gloves over the cuffs.
“There,” I say. “You’re sealed.”
He flexes his fingers. “I feel like a very nervous astronaut.”
“You’ll be fine,” I assure him. “They respond to how we move. Calm, cool, confident.”
“Internally, I’m none of those things,” he says. “But I’ll fake it.”
“That works too.”
I pull on my own veil and gloves, moving on autopilot: smoker, hive tool, ratchet straps, duct tape, foam plugs for the entrances.
Jesse eyes the equipment warily from a safe distance.
“Just to confirm,” he says, “how many bees are in one of those boxes again?”
“Anywhere from twenty to sixty thousand,” I say, checking the smoker fuel. “Depending on the time of year.”
He blanches. “Per box?”
“Per box.”
“I’m gonna stay over here,” he says.
“Daddy, can we have bee suits?” Eliza asks.
“No,” three adults say at the same time.
She pouts. “We never get to do anything fun.”
“You named a honey today,” I remind her. “That’s very advanced beekeeper work.”
Her face brightens. “That was fun.”
Caleb nods. “We helped.”
“You did,” I say, pride tugging at my chest. “My best apprentices.”
While Jesse herds them to the fence line to watch, I turn my attention back to the hives.
“All right, girls,” I murmur, opening the smoker and lighting the fuel. “We’re going for a ride.”
I add dried pine needles and a bit of burlap, coaxing the flame down into a cool smoke. Never hot.
Hot smoke makes them angry. Cool smoke just makes them think there’s a forest fire, and they’d better eat fast.
“How does that help?” Wyatt asks, watching.
“It distracts them,” I explain. “They gorge on honey to ‘prepare’ to evacuate, and full bees are calmer bees. Also, smoke masks alarm pheromones. If a few get upset, the whole hive doesn’t cascade.”
“That’s… actually fascinating,” he says.
I puff a few small clouds of smoke at the entrance of the first hive, wait a beat, then gently wedge in my hive tool to pop the lid. The hum inside rises, then evens out as they sense me and the familiar rhythm of inspection.
“They know you,” Wyatt says quietly.
“They know my scent,” I say. “My footsteps. The way I handle the frames. Bees notice everything.”
I work fast but careful: strap around the stacked boxes to keep them together, foam at the entrance to keep most of the bees inside, tape at the seams to prevent gaps.
“Won’t they… suffocate?” Wyatt asks.
“They’re fine for a short ride,” I assure him. “We don’t block everything, just enough to keep them contained. If we took hours and hours, it’d be a problem. But we’re only going across to the ranch.”
Once the first hive is secure, I brace my hands against the stand.
“These boxes are full of brood and honey,” I say. “So heavy. We’ll do a slow, even lift. No jerking. Keep it level so the frames don’t slam.”
“And if we drop it?” Wyatt asks.
“We won’t,” I say. “Right?”
He swallows. “Right.”
We squat together, slide our hands under the bottom board, and lift. The weight hits immediately, a dense, living heaviness that pulls at my shoulders. I’ve done this a hundred times, but it still demands respect.
Wyatt grunts softly. “Okay,” he says. “That’s… not light.”
“Don’t think about it as weight,” I say through my veil, adjusting my grip. “Think of it as sixty thousand very judgmental passengers.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Then don’t drop them.”
He huffs out something similar to a laugh.
We walk in slow, measured steps toward the waiting truck, Marshall pacing beside us, ready to take some of the load at the last second.
Bees crawl over the outside of the box, confused but not panicking, brushing against my gloves and veil. I murmur to them as we go, nothing words in a calm tone.
“That’s it, girls,” I say. “Just a little trip. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“Do they really understand you?” Wyatt asks, strained with effort.
“Not the words,” I say. “But they read calm. And they read fear. We’re aiming for the first one.”
“What am I radiating?” he manages.
“Currently? Mild hysteria,” I say. “But your hands are steady. That’s what matters.”
We reach the truck. Marshall steps in, taking some of the hive’s weight as we guide it into place. Once it’s sitting level on the bed, my arms tremble with relief.
“That’s one,” I say, a little breathless. “Three more for tonight.”
Wyatt rolls his shoulders, breathing hard inside the suit. “That weighs more than a Great Dane.”
“You lift Great Danes into trucks often?” I ask.
“You’d be surprised.”
We repeat the process with the remaining hives: smoke, strap, plug, lift, carry, load. My muscles burn, sweat trickles down my back, and I can feel a few stray bees crawling over my veil, but they’re not stinging.
“Is this the usual time of day you move the bees? If you have to, that is?” Wyatt asks at one point, as we prepare the third hive.
I nod. “More foragers are home this time of day,” I say. “If we moved them mid-day, we’d strand thousands of workers in the field. They’d come back to an empty spot and burn through their energy looking for the hive. This way, most of the colony moves together and can reorient.”
“Reorient?”
“Bees learn where home is by flying patterns in front of the hive,” I explain.
“They memorize the landmarks, the sun angle, the scent of the place. When we put them somewhere new, they’ll do orientation flights again.
Big looping spirals in front of the boxes.
Looks mad, but it’s just… them learning. ”
He goes quiet. “You really love them.”
I keep my focus on the strap I’m tightening. “They’re what I have left.”
The words slip out before I can catch them. When I glance up, Wyatt’s watching me, eyes soft behind the mesh.
“We’ll keep them safe,” he says simply.
The last hive goes on the truck. We ratchet the straps down tight, double-check the plugs and tape, then step back.
“All right,” I say, exhaling. “We’re good to go.”
“Can we wave goodbye?” Eliza asks from the fence.
“You can,” I say. “But only if you tell them thank you for working so hard.”
“Thank you, bees!” she calls, flapping both hands enthusiastically.
“Thank you!” Caleb echoes.
I smile under my veil. The panic in my chest loosens enough for me to breathe all the way down.
These hives are my livelihood.
My inheritance.
The last living thread tying me to my grandmother.
Losing them would break something in me I don’t think I could fix.