Page 51 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
"Then stop standing there and start figuring out what we need to rebuild."
He walks toward his truck to call the fire department. Not that there's much left to save, but the paperwork matters and the record of arson matters more.
Calla watches him go. Her mouth curves. Small, private, the smile she saves for things that matter.
"He'll never admit that was his version of giving us his blessing," she says.
"No."
"But it was."
"Yes."
I reach out to tuck a strand of hair back from her face. My thumb rests against her cheek for a moment. Warm skin, the smell of smoke, the stubborn beautiful fact of her still standing here.
"We're going to be all right," I say.
Calla leans into my hand. Just slightly. Just enough.
"I know," she says. "We always were. We just forgot for a while."
Above us the sky is clear and cold and the smoke is thinning, rising and scattering on the ridge wind until it disappears entirely.
But down at the far end of the ridge road, a familiar truck sits parked just beyond the property line.
Halford.
Watching the smoke.
Watching us.
And the expression on his face is not the expression of a man who thinks he has lost.
Rowan
The fire marshal leaves at dusk.
Arson. Accelerant along the south wall. No question about the origin, only about the proof. And proof takes time that Halford knows we don't have in abundance.
Beck stays until dark, helping stack the salvageable timber and secure the stone foundation with a tarp.
He doesn't say much. Neither do I. We work the way men work when the talking is finished, and the doing is what's left.
When his truck finally disappears down the ridge road, the ranch goes quiet.
Calla stands at the pasture fence looking at what remains of the barn. The horses have settled.
The sky has gone the deep blue-black of a mountain night with no cloud cover.
Cold, clear, and full of stars that don't care about arson or old grudges or a woman standing in the dark holding herself together by sheer will.
I crossed over the yard toward her.
She doesn't turn. She knows it's me by the sound of my boots on the ground.
"You should eat," I say.
"You sound like me."
