Page 72 of Forbidden Rancher's Return

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He looks back at me.

"Walk with me," I say.

He already knows where.

The path through the trees is golden in the last of the evening light. The stream grows louder as we descend. Full after the week's rain, running fast and cold over stone. The sound of it used to feel like a reminder. A scar.

Tonight it just sounds like water.

The oak appears through the trees.

We stop in front of it together. The carving sits at chest height. C + R. Crooked and deep and utterly permanent.

Below it, the crawdad tally. I trace it with my free hand.

"Before we were anything else," I say.

Rowan's mouth curves. "You still won."

"I always win."

He reaches into his jacket.

The mason jar appears.

I laugh.

"Again," I say.

"Last of Fletcher's batch." He holds it out. "Seemed right."

I take it. The amber liquid catches the evening light. I twist the lid and the smell hits. Sharp and sweet and strong enough to water the eyes from a foot away.

I take a sip.

It burns exactly the same as always.

"Still terrible," I say.

"Yes."

I hand it back. He drinks. Sets it in the grass between the oak roots.

We stand at the carving. His hand lifts and covers mine against the bark. Both our thumbs in the same groove.

"I used to drive past," he says. Quiet. "First year I was gone. Twice I made it all the way to the junction."

"I know. You told me."

"I'm telling you again." He turns to look at me.

"Because I want you to know that there was never a day. Not one. When I stopped. When this stopped." He presses our hands firmer against the carving. "When you stopped."

My eyes sting. The evening light is very bright.

"You're going to make me cry at this tree," I say.

"Yes."

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