Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Abilene
Thursday
I wake up tangled in sheets that aren’t mine, heart already racing as if I’ve missed something important. For a few disorienting seconds, I don’t know where I am.
Then the memories rush in all at once. Firelight, the hallway, Jesse’s mouth, the sound of Marshall breaking through it all like a slammed door.
I sit up too fast, breath hitching.
Okay.
Okay.
I press my palms flat against the mattress and stare at the knotty pine wall until my pulse slows enough that I can think again. The cabin is quiet in that early morning way that makes every sound feel louder.
Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks. The wind sighs against the windows. Rain taps gently on the roof, persistently.
Rain is good. Rain means the fire is losing.
I cling to that thought like a lifeline.
I pull on my leggings and an oversized sweater, tug my hair into a loose braid, and step quietly into the main room. The kids are still asleep, thank goodness. The coffee pot gurgles softly on the counter, already half empty.
Someone else is awake.
I don’t see Jesse. The absence is… noticeable.
I tell myself that’s normal. That, of course, he wouldn’t be hovering this morning after everything that happened. That it’s better this way. Easier.
Still, my chest feels tight as I pour myself tea instead of coffee, hands shaking just enough that I have to hold the mug with both palms.
I can’t stay here today.
The thought arrives fully formed, sudden, and undeniable.
I love my bees because they’re busy. Purposeful. They don’t sit and spiral. They work. They move. They check and recheck and adjust.
Sitting in this cabin, replaying last night on an endless loop, is the opposite of that.
I step to the window and peer out at the rain-darkened trees. The lake is a dull gray sheet, mist rising from its surface like a held breath. Somewhere out there, beyond the trees and roads and fire lines, are my hives.
I need to see them.
“Morning.”
Wyatt’s voice comes from behind me, gentle enough that I don’t jump. He looks rumpled in the way people do when they didn’t really sleep, glasses crooked, hair flattened on one side.
“Morning,” I say, managing a small smile.
He pours himself coffee and takes a sip, grimacing. “This might be the strongest thing I’ve ever willingly ingested.”
Marshall comes in a moment later, jacket already on, hair damp because he’s been outside. His gaze flicks to me immediately, sharp and assessing, as if he’s checking for damage he might’ve missed.
I look away.
“We’re heading out,” he says. “Going to check the ranch. Fire crews said containment improved overnight. The evacuation order has been lifted.”
My heart jumps hard enough that it almost hurts. “You’re going back?”
“Just to assess,” Wyatt says. “See what needs fixing.”
I nod, already knowing what I’m going to say next. “I’m coming with you.”
He opens his mouth, probably to argue. I don’t give him the chance.
“I need to check on my bees,” I say, firmer than I feel. “I can’t sit here wondering. I won’t. Please.”
The word slips out softer, more vulnerable than I intend.
Wyatt studies me, then nods. “That makes sense.”
Relief floods me so fast my knees go weak.
Wyatt sets his mug down and glances toward the hallway. “Jesse will stay here with the kids.”
My stomach flips.
“Oh,” I say, far too quickly. “Right. Of course. That makes sense. Keep the kids safe.”
“Let’s go,” Marshall says.
The rain is coming down harder by the time we load into the truck, a drumming against the roof that feels like the world trying to calm itself down.
Marshall drives. Hands on the wheel, shoulders squared, posture rigid. He’s holding himself in check.
Wyatt takes the front passenger seat, already wiping fog from his glasses. I slide into the back and immediately regret it.
Not because it’s uncomfortable. Because it’s quiet.
The kind of quiet that hums with things nobody wants to say.
The truck smells of damp jackets and coffee and the faint, stubborn ghost of smoke that won’t quite leave our clothes. My leggings cling slightly, and the sensation makes me painfully aware of my body in a way I wish I wasn’t.
I fold my hands in my lap and stare out the window.
Trees blur past in shades of green and gray, rain streaking the glass and turning the world into something soft and indistinct. I latch onto that, grateful for anything that keeps me from looking at the front seat.
From thinking about the hallway.
About Jesse.
I can still feel him if I let myself. The heat of his body, the certainty of his hands, the way my own body responded like it had been waiting for him to stop holding back.
And then Marshall’s voice.
I swallow hard and press my thumb into my palm until it aches.
This is fine.
People get stressed. People make mistakes.
The truck jolts over a pothole, and I suck in a breath before I can stop myself.
“You okay back there?” Wyatt asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes,” I say too quickly. “Just startled.”
Marshall’s grip tightens on the wheel. Just a fraction. I notice anyway.
The silence stretches again until I can’t stand it.
“My bees should be fine,” I say, mostly to the rain. “The far pasture’s greener, and the wind was blowing away from them last night.”
Wyatt nods. “Fire crews said the same. Moisture helps.”
“And the rain,” I add. “That’s… good.”
“Yes,” he agrees softly. “Very good.”
The truck keeps moving.
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how close we all are in this small space. The brush of my knee against the seatback. The flex of Marshall’s shoulder as he turns the wheel. The way Wyatt’s fingers tap absently against his thigh, a nervous habit he probably doesn’t even realize he has.
I wonder if they feel it too. The tension.
The rain eases as we near town, the downpour softening into mist. Smoke still curls in the distance, but it’s thinner now, less aggressive.
Hope sneaks in before I can stop it.
When the ranch comes into view, my breath catches.
There’s damage. Burned fencing. Blackened ground where green used to be. My heart stutters.
Then I see movement.
Horses grazing. Donkeys braying. Longhorns clustered together as they always are, unimpressed by disaster.
Alive.
“They’re okay,” Wyatt says, relief threading his voice.
I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Marshall pulls to a stop, and I’m out of the truck before anyone can tell me to wait, boots sinking into wet earth as I scan the pasture.
And then…
My hives.
Standing. Intact. Bees already moving despite the weather, stubborn and alive and humming softly.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I whisper.
I crouch near them, listening, checking entrances, watching the purposeful movement that feels like the heartbeat of my entire life.
They’re okay.
I laugh, a broken sound that turns into tears before I can stop it. I scrub at my cheeks, embarrassed but unable to care.
Wyatt crouches nearby, giving me space. Marshall hangs back, watchful.
“They’re good,” I say hoarsely, looking up at them. “They’re really good.”
Wyatt smiles. “Tough little creatures.”
“Like their keeper,” Marshall says.
The words land deeper than he probably intends.
I stand slowly, taking in the ranch, the damage, the survival of it all. The fire tried to take this place.
It didn’t win.
The fire didn’t destroy me.