Page 7 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
"You want to blame someone," I say quietly, "blame the river."
Beck shakes his head. "That's not how this works."
He steps closer again. "So, I'll ask you once."
His gaze moves to the house, then the barn, then Calla. Then back to me.
"Why are you here."
I could say work. I could say the farm needs hands. I could give him a dozen clean answers that keep the peace.
I look at Calla instead.
She's watching me like the answer matters more than anything else in the yard right now.
"Because she didn't send me away."
The yard goes quiet.
Beck's jaw tightens. "She doesn't get to make that call."
"Yes, I do."
Calla steps forward, and the authority in her voice stops both of us cold. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just the voice of a woman who buried her father and took the farm with both hands and hasn't let go since.
Beck looks at her like he's seeing that version of her for the first time all over again.
"You know what people will say."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I don't."
Beck exhales hard. But the fight doesn't leave his shoulders. Not the way it should.
His jaw stays locked and his eyes keep cutting between us like he's watching something dangerous take shape.
"This is a mistake," he says. Not softer. Not giving ground. Just changing the angle of attack.
"You're going to let him walk back in here after eight years of nothing and pretend that's fine?"
"I'm not pretending anything."
"He left, Calla."
"I know."
"He left and you stopped eating for a week and I watched you stare at that road every single morning for three months. You remember that? Because I do."
The words land hard. Calla's chin lifts but her eyes go bright for half a second before she locks it down.
"That was then."
"And this is what? Different? Because he showed up with a pocketknife and a sob story?"
