Chapter 26 Marshall
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Marshall
Friday
The bell over the door at the Colter Creek Feed Store rings sharp and metallic when I step inside, announcing me whether I want it to or not.
The place smells the same as it always does. Grain dust. Leather. Oil. Old wood soaked through with decades of boots tracking in mud and hay and sweat.
It should settle me. It usually does. But today it just reminds me how close we came to watching all of it burn.
Tommy Jones is leaning against the counter, one boot hooked on the rail, coffee cup balanced in his hand as if he’s been here long enough to need a second refill. Terry Johnson’s beside him, arms folded, shoulders slumped in that way that says he slept badly and woke up worse.
“Morning,” Tommy says.
I nod. No small talk. Grab a sack of feed from the stack by the door, hoist it onto my shoulder. The weight hits just right. Solid, useful, something that exists outside my head.
“Containment’s holding,” Terry says, reciting a line he’s already said a dozen times today. “Rain did its job.”
“For now,” Tommy adds. “Wind shifted overnight.”
Could’ve gone the other way.
Nobody says it, but it sits there between us anyway. That’s how things work here. We don’t waste words on what everyone already knows.
“Still damage,” I say.
“Plenty,” Terry replies. “Fences on the north end are toast. Lost a good stretch of grazing land.”
“And that draw near Miller’s Creek…” Tommy adds. “Burned hot. Real hot. Ground’s still warm this morning.”
I pause, sack still on my shoulder. “That fire didn’t behave right.”
Both of them look at me then.
Terry exhales through his nose. “No, it didn’t.”
“It jumped the creek,” Tommy says. “I’ve lived here sixty-three years. Never seen fire do that. Not without a hell of a wind behind it.”
“I know,” I say. “It was wild to watch.”
“That’s what scares me,” Terry mutters. “It moved like it had a mind of its own.”
The radio crackles behind the counter, some upbeat voice talking about weekend weather and community announcements as if we didn’t all spend the last few days staring at the sky and wondering what would still be standing come morning.
Tommy takes a long drink of his coffee. “Used to be you could read a fire. Wind, fuel, slope. You could make a decent guess where it’d go.”
“And now?” I ask.
“And now it feels like guessing which way a rattlesnake will strike,” he says.
Terry nods. “Fire crews said the same. Said they’re seeing behavior they’re not trained for. Spot fires starting miles ahead. Embers riding thermals like they’ve got somewhere to be.”
I shift the sack on my shoulder, jaw tight. “Town’s lucky the rain came when it did.”
“Town’s lucky the lightning didn’t keep up,” Terry says. “Another hour of that storm and we’d be telling a different story.”
Tommy shakes his head slowly. “My granddad used to say this valley was fireproof. Too wet. Too green.”
“Your granddad didn’t live through the last ten summers,” I say.
That gets a grim huff out of Terry. “That’s true.”
Silence stretches again, heavier this time. It’s the kind that comes when you realize the rules you grew up with don’t apply anymore.
The radio crackles again. A fire update. Containment percentages. Acres burned. Numbers that try to make turmoil sound manageable.
The bell rings again.
Sammy Brooks strides in, hat clean, boots barely scuffed. He looks around the feed store, expecting applause for showing up at ground zero with a smile.
“Gentlemen,” he says brightly. “Tell me we’re not letting this whole wildfire scare derail the summer rodeo.”
Tommy groans outright this time, not even bothering to hide it. Terry mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “What the hell?”
Sammy doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just decides not to care.
He claps his hands together once, sharp and decisive. “Tourism’s already shaky. We cancel the rodeo, we’re sending the wrong message.”
Tommy turns slowly, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “And what message is that?”
“That we’re scared,” Sammy says. “People don’t like scared towns. They like resilience. Confidence. Tradition.”
Terry snorts. “Fire doesn’t care about tradition.”
Sammy waves that off. “Rain did its job. We adapt. Extra patrols. Firebreaks. Adjustments.”
Adjustments don’t stop lightning.
I finally turn to him. He looks like a man who slept in his own bed the last two nights and probably didn’t wake up smelling smoke.
“People don’t like burned towns either,” I say.
That gives him pause. Just a flicker. A crack in the polish. He shifts his weight, clears his throat.
“Well,” he says, recovering fast, “that’s why we don’t panic. Panic makes people irrational.”
Tommy lets out a humorless laugh. “Funny. Thought panic was what kept half this valley from losing everything.”
Sammy smiles, humoring Tommy. “Look, I get it. It was scary. But we can’t let one bad week dictate the whole summer.”
“One bad week?” Terry echoes.
I set the sack of feed down harder than necessary. The thud echoes in the small space.
“That fire moved faster than anything I’ve seen,” I say evenly. “Jumped water. Changed direction without wind. Crews said it behaved outside prediction models.”
Sammy nods, quick and dismissive. “Yeah, yeah. Unprecedented. I’ve heard the word. But unprecedented doesn’t mean unstoppable.”
“It means unpredictable,” I correct. “And unpredictable doesn’t mix well with crowds, livestock trailers, fireworks, and alcohol.”
That earns me a tight smile.
“That’s why we plan,” he says. “And you’ll help figure it out. You always do.”
He claps my shoulder as he passes. We’re teammates in something straightforward. This is just another logistical puzzle and not a warning shot.
That’s the thing about being reliable. Folks decide who you are for you. They see a problem and assume you’ll shoulder it, because you always have.
When the door closes behind him, the bell rings softer somehow. The store itself disapproved.
The silence afterward is heavier than before.
Tommy shakes his head slowly. “Man’s allergic to reality.”
“He’s not wrong about one thing,” Terry says after a moment. “Town needs something to hold onto.”
I stare at the floorboards, at the grooves worn deep by generations of boots. “Normal doesn’t come back just because you ask it to.”
“And it sure as hell doesn’t come back because you schedule it,” Tommy adds.
Neither of them argue.
I pay, nod once, and head back out into the daylight.
I don’t plan to stop at the bakery. I just… do.
My boots slow as I pass the window, the glass fogged slightly from warmth inside.
The bell above the door is softer than the one at the feed store. Friendlier. It expects people to come in carrying good news, or at least an appetite.
The smell hits me the second I step inside.
Butter. Sugar. Yeast.
The kind of smells that exist because someone got up early and decided the world was worth feeding, even if it didn’t feel that way yesterday. Maybe especially then.
Millie McDougal looks up from behind the counter, flour dusted on her apron. She’s been wrestling dough since dawn. Her eyes sharpen the way they always do when she clocks exactly who just walked in.
“Marshall Jones,” she says. “You here to buy or brood?”
“Buy,” I say.
She hums, satisfied, already reaching for a box without asking what I want. She knows. Everyone does.
Two bear claws, one cinnamon twist, something glazed that sticks to the paper no matter how careful you are.
“Ranch still standing?” she asks, casual as she folds the box.
“For now.”
“That’s better than expected.”
She slides the box toward me, then follows my line of sight before I even realize I’m looking.
Because there they are.
Candles. Jars. Small, orderly rows of honey-colored light in glass.
Sweet Haven Honey Co.
Abilene’s.
I don’t mean to stop. My body just does it. Muscle memory I didn’t know I had. I stand in front of the display, reading labels I’ve already seen a dozen times, pretending this is just curiosity.
The jars are warm in color, even in the bakery’s fluorescent light. The labels are neat, careful, the kind of tidy that comes from patience, not perfectionism. Nothing flashy. Nothing trying too hard.
I pick up a candle without thinking.
Beeswax. Smooth glass. Warm, even before it’s lit.
Millie leans her elbows on the counter, watching me over steepled fingers.
“Smells like coming home, that one,” she says.
I don’t answer.
Because my mind has already gone somewhere it shouldn’t.
Abilene’s kitchen. Mud tracked in near the back door. Rain tapping against the window. Her standing there with that letter in her hands, shoulders tight, eyes too bright.
She was trying to hold herself together with willpower alone. Same as she always does.
I set the candle down.
Then pick it back up.
“Add this,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it.
Millie’s mouth curves into a knowing smile.
“Good choice,” she says, ringing it up. “She pours those herself, you know. Every batch.”
“I know,” I mutter.
She bags the candle carefully and slides it across the counter with the pastries.
I take both.
Outside, the air is cooler. Cleaner than yesterday. Rain washed. Still faintly smoky if you breathe deep enough.
The town looks the same. Buildings intact. Windows unbroken. People moving around, trying to convince themselves everything’s normal again.
But I know better.
As I walk back toward the truck, the paper bag feels heavier than it should.
When I think about Abilene, everything in my mind gets mixed up in a way I can’t control. And I hate things I can’t control.
Somewhere between the fire and the rain and the way she looked at me yesterday, everything shifted.
I also know that something happened between her and Jesse. I saw it in the hallway. Saw the way she ran. Saw the way he stood there afterward, wrecked and quiet in a way that didn’t match his usual noise.
That complicates things. I don’t do complications.
I do fences. Livestock. Problems I can see and fix with my hands.
Abilene isn’t a problem.
She’s something I don’t know how to approach without risking damage I can’t undo.
I open the truck door and set the bag carefully on the seat. The candle thumps softly against the vinyl.
I close the door and sit there for longer than necessary, staring at nothing in particular.
What the hell am I going to do?