Page 52 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
"You sound like someone who hasn't eaten since this morning."
She exhales. Not quite a laugh. Close enough.
I reach into my jacket and pull out the mason jar.
Calla turns. Looks at it. Then looks at me.
"You've got to be kidding."
"Old man Fletcher pressed two jars last fall." I hold it out. "Seemed like the right night for it."
She takes it. Turns it in her hands, the amber liquid catching the last of the porch light.
"You're using moonshine to comfort me after my barn burned down."
"Yes."
"That's either very thoughtful or very stupid."
"Both, probably."
She almost smiles.
She twists the lid open. Takes a careful sip. Her eyes water immediately.
"Good Lord."
"Strong batch."
"Strong." She coughs once. "That's one word for it."
I take the jar back and drink deeper. The burn slides down clean and honest.
We end up on the porch.
Not the stream. Not tonight.
Tonight the porch is right. The burned barn frame visible in the yard, the stars overhead, the ridge settling into the kind of silence that follows destruction.
We sit on the top step with our shoulders touching and the jar between us and look at what's left of the thing Halford tried to take.
"Tell me about Virginia," she says.
I lean back on one hand. "Not much to tell."
"You were there eight years."
"Yes."
"Something happened."
I'm quiet for a moment.
"First winter," I say. "Cattle operation outside Danville. December. Cold enough that the water lines freeze every three days."
"Sounds miserable."
"It was." I pause. "Christmas morning, I drove to the top of a ridge that looked like this one and sat there for four hours."
