22. Wyatt
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wyatt
Thursday
Abilene stays crouched by the hives longer than she needs to.
I know this because the bees have settled. Their hum has smoothed out into that purposeful rhythm I associate with everything is fine, please stop hovering.
They’re coming and going in lazy arcs now, little bodies dusted with pollen, entirely unconcerned with wildfires or evacuation orders or how close everything came to burning down.
She presses her palm flat against the weathered wood, eyes closed, breathing slowly, syncing herself to them.
“They’re okay,” she whispers again.
Not for us. For herself.
Marshall stands several feet back, arms crossed, weight shifted onto his heels, holding position rather than resting.
It’s the same stance he takes when he’s watching a storm roll in or a horse he doesn’t quite trust. Protective, but not intrusive.
He’s good at that. Giving space without leaving.
I hover closer.
Because that’s what I do.
After a long moment, Abilene exhales and reaches for the small kit she stored with the hives. Gloves, smoker, and a folded cloth.
Her movements are careful but sure, the way someone moves when their hands know what to do, even if their heart is still shaking.
She checks the hive entrances first, crouching low again, peering closely. Her fingers trace the edges, brushing away damp debris, clearing mud and ash, tidying up after an unwanted guest.
“Okay,” she murmurs softly. “You’re all flying. That’s good.”
I crouch a little closer, keeping my distance but watching intently. I’ve treated livestock my entire adult life, stitched wounds, delivered calves, calmed animals thrashing in fear.
But there’s something different about the way she handles the bees.
She lights the smoker, coaxing a thin ribbon of smoke, and gives each hive a careful puff. Not too much. Just enough to settle them, reassure them that nothing bad is happening right now.
“You don’t rush them,” I say without thinking.
She glances at me, surprised. “No. They don’t respond well to panic. Or impatience.”
I nod slowly. “Makes sense.”
She smiles faintly and returns her attention to the hives, lifting one lid just enough to peer inside. Her face softens instantly, the tension in her shoulders easing as she watches the movement within.
“They’re clustering well,” she says. “Queen’s probably fine. If she weren’t, they’d be… louder. Disorganized.”
I hum quietly. “Same, honestly.”
That earns me a small huff of laughter.
She replaces the lid gently, tucking them back in, then moves to the next hive, repeating the process. Checking airflow. Clearing damp leaves. Adjusting a stand that’s sunk slightly into the softened earth.
She hums as she works.
It’s a soft, absent-minded tune that blends into the sound of rain and wings and distant birds testing the sky again. The sight of it does something strange to my chest.
She’s been through hell in the last few days. Fear, loss, displacement. And still, the moment she’s able, she’s here. Hands in the dirt, tending to creatures smaller than her thumbnail, making sure they feel safe.
I don’t think she even realizes how remarkable that is.
“You’re… really good at this,” I say finally.
She shrugs, still focused on adjusting a hive strap. “I had good teachers.”
Her fingers brush the bee pendant at her throat.
I watch her straighten a hive that’s tilted, bracing it with a rock, testing it twice to make sure it won’t shift again.
Marshall clears his throat gently from behind us, a subtle reminder of time and responsibility.
“Animals will need checking,” he says. “Fire might not have reached them, but smoke stress can do damage.”
I nod. “I’ll come with you.”
Marshall and I head toward the pasture, boots sinking into wet ground that smells of rain, ash, and trampled grass. The sky is lighter now, the kind of gray that means the worst has passed, but the cleanup is just beginning.
The animals are together more than I like.
Horses tend to cluster when they’re unsettled. Cattle too. Right now, they’re grazing, yes, but cautiously, heads lifting at every sound, muscles tight under their hides tight as coiled wire.
“Smoke stress,” I murmur. “They’ll look fine until they don’t.”
Marshall nods. “That’s what I was worried about.”
We start with the horses.
I approach slowly, hands visible, posture relaxed. Years of instinct take over. Soft voice, steady movements, no sudden changes.
The first mare flicks an ear toward me, nostrils flaring as she tests my scent. Her breathing’s a little fast.
“Hey, girl,” I murmur, resting a hand against her neck once she allows it. Her skin twitches under my palm, muscles tight. “You’ve had a rough couple of days, huh?”
I check her gums, her eyes, run my fingers along her legs, looking for heat, swelling, anything hidden by adrenaline. Smoke inhalation can sneak up on them. Same way trauma sneaks up on people.
She snorts softly but stands still.
“She okay?” Marshall asks, staying back but watching closely.
“So far,” I say. “Respiration’s elevated, but that’s expected. I’ll want to check them again tonight, though. And tomorrow. Stress crashes tend to come later.”
“Of course they do,” Marshall mutters.
I smile faintly and move on.
We work in quiet tandem. Me assessing, him observing, stepping in when an animal spooks or needs reassurance.
He’s good with them. Better than he gives himself credit for.
There’s a steadiness to him that animals recognize instantly. They know he won’t lie about what he can offer.
At one point, a young gelding sidesteps sharply when a branch cracks nearby. Marshall reacts instantly, body angling between the horse and the sound, calming him before panic can escalate.
“Good timing,” I say.
He shrugs, but I catch the tension ease from his shoulders. “Didn’t even think about it.”
“That’s usually when you do your best work.”
We move on to the cattle next. They’re alert, eyes bright, tails flicking. One cow coughs. A dry, irritated sound.
I pause. “That one inhaled more smoke than I’d like.”
Marshall follows my gaze. “Bad?”
“Not yet,” I say. “But she’ll need monitoring. Hydration. If it worsens, antibiotics, anti-inflammatories. We caught it early.”
He nods, jaw set. “Tell me what you need.”
I glance at him, surprised despite myself. “I will.”
We finish the rounds slower than necessary, double-checking, because neither of us is in a hurry to leave things uncertain today.
When we’re done, we stand near the fence, rain dripping off our jackets, watching the animals settle back into a life resembling normal.
“Let’s check the houses,” he says. “Make sure there’s no hidden surprises.”
“Because fires love surprises,” I agree.
We check Willow Ranch first.
It’s the practical choice, since we’re already here. The one that lets Marshall stay in motion instead of thinking too hard about what could have happened if the wind had shifted one more degree to the east.
The ranch smells of wet earth and singed grass, that sharp, bitter edge of smoke still clinging to everything as an accusation. But the structures are standing.
Fences are scorched but intact. The barns creak the same way they always have—old wood complaining, not failing.
Marshall moves through it all with methodical focus, testing beams, scanning sightlines, checking gates and latches as if muscle memory alone could keep disaster from circling back.
“Barn roof’s fine,” he calls. “Didn’t take any embers.”
I look up from where I’m checking a stall door that got jammed with debris. “Ventilation held. No heat damage.”
He nods once, relieved, mentally checking off boxes faster than his body can relax.
We move through the rest quickly. Everything we see tells the same story: Willow Ranch took a hit, but it didn’t break.
By the time we finish, the rain has eased to a mist.
Marshall exhales hard through his nose. “Alright.”
That’s all he says.
It’s enough.
Abilene has been hovering near the fence line while we work, eyes tracking every movement, every pause that lasts half a second too long. She looks up immediately when we head toward her.
“Everything okay?” she asks, already bracing herself.
“All good,” I tell her. “You’re not looking at any surprise emergencies here.”
Her shoulders drop. She’s been holding them up with sheer force of will. “Okay. Good.”
Marshall gestures toward the road. “Let’s check your place.”
Her breath catches.
Not fear, exactly. It’s more complicated. The kind that comes from knowing something important might be different now, even if it’s still standing.
The drive to her house is quiet.
When we arrive, the first thing I notice is the ground.
Debris flow.
Mud and ash carried downhill by the rain, settled thick around the foundation. It tried to claim the house and gave up halfway through.
The house itself is still standing. But not untouched.
Abilene is out of the truck before we’ve even fully stopped moving.
“Hey…” Marshall starts.
She’s already halfway to the porch.
I follow.
The damage isn’t catastrophic, but the debris flow has done a number on the place. The fire stripped the hillside above her house bare, burned away roots that once held the soil in place. Then the rain came hard and fast, with nowhere to soak in, nothing left to slow it down.
Mud, ash, and broken branches slid downhill in a thick, grinding wave and slammed into the house before losing momentum.
A cracked porch step. Mud smeared up the siding. One corner gutter bent under the debris. The kind of damage insurance adjusters describe as minor and owners know is a personal affront.
Abilene stops short, staring. Her mouth opens, then closes again.
“It’s not bad,” I say gently. “Structurally, this is—”
“I know,” she interrupts tightly. “I know it could be worse.”
She steps forward anyway, fingers brushing the warped porch rail, checking for a pulse.
“This just…” She swallows. “This is where my mom used to sit.”
The words land heavier than any cracked beam.
I step closer.
“Do you want me to check it?” I ask quietly.
She nods.
I crouch, inspecting the step, pressing gently, testing stability.
“It’s safe,” I tell her. “It’ll need replacing, but it didn’t shift the foundation.”
She lets out a shaky breath.
Inside, the house smells of rain and honey and wood, faintly burned. Familiar, but altered. A room you know well after the furniture’s been moved just enough to throw you off.
Marshall does a quick perimeter check while I follow Abilene through the rooms, pointing out what’s cosmetic, what’s worth fixing later, what’s fine and just looks worse because everything feels raw right now.
“Walls are solid,” I tell her. “No cracks that matter.”
She nods, eyes glossy, hands clenched at her sides.
In the kitchen, she stops.
Mud has tracked in near the back door. A small pile of debris rests against the threshold as if it tried to come inside and thought better of it.
She stares at it, unmoving. I step in beside her without thinking.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “It didn’t win.”
Her breath stutters. She turns toward me, eyes bright, unguarded, and I forget how to breathe.
“I hate that I’m this upset,” she whispers. “Nothing’s gone. Nothing important.”
“That’s not true,” I say before I can stop myself. “This is important. This is your life.”
Her gaze holds mine, fragile and fierce emotions flickering there.
I don’t touch her, no matter how much I want to.
Instead, I ground myself in the sound of her breathing, the feel of the floor under my boots, the knowledge that I’m here to help, not unravel.
Marshall cuts through the moment.
“Abilene?”
We both turn. He’s standing on the porch, looking down at something near the door.
“There’s… something here,” he says.
He bends and picks it up.
An envelope.
Plain. Unmarked. Out of place.
Abilene goes very still. All the color drains from her face so fast it’s startling.
“What is it?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Marshall holds it out to her. “It was on your mat.”
Her fingers shake as she takes it.
She reads the front, and whatever she sees there guts her.
“Abilene?” Marshall says, sharper now. “What’s going on?”
She looks up at us.
“I…” Her voice fails. She swallows hard. “I think someone knows something they shouldn’t.”