She doesn’t respond right away, her gaze fixed on the sweep of pasture rolling into the distance. Finally, she speaks, “I thought leaving here would make me happy. That if I just followed the path laid out for me, eventually the ease would come. But I spent years waiting to feel at peace, and it never came.”
Her honesty cuts deep. I want to reach across the space between our horses, to take her hand and promise she’ll never feel that emptiness again. But I keep my hands on the reins, my heart in my throat.
“I used to ride out here alone,” I tell her. “At sunset, when the sky went gold and purple, I’d sit in the grass until the stars came out. I’d talk to you like you were still here. Not out loud—just…inside. Like maybe you’d hear me somehow.”
Her breath catches, the faintest sound, but enough. “I think I did,” she whispers.
We crest a small rise, and there it is—an old one-room building tucked against a stand of cottonwoods. Its roof sags a little, weathered shingles lifting at the edges, but the bones of it are still strong. The porch sags too, yet the door hangs steadily on its hinges, the windows catching bits of light.
I pull on the reins, bringing my horse to a slow stop. “Let’s rest here,” I say, nodding toward the structure. Clara follows my lead, her mare tossing its head before settling.
She looks at the building with quiet curiosity. “What is it?”
“Used to be the ranch manager’s quarters,” I explain as I swing down from the saddle. “Back when Frank ran things. Haven’t used it in years. Some of the hands bunk here now and then, but it’s mostly just…waiting.”
I take her reins as she dismounts, steadying her with a hand at her waist. Her boots touch the earth, and she glances at me briefly—one of those fleeting, searing looks that makes my chest ache.
We tie the horses beneath the cottonwoods and climb the shallow steps. The porch creaks under our weight, the sound sharp in the stillness of the land. I push the door open, and a draft of air escapes, smelling faintly of dust, cedar, and time itself.
Inside, the space is simple. One room, with wood-planked walls, a stone hearth that has gone cold, and a few shelves nailed unevenly along the wall. Light filters through cracks in the shutters, casting long stripes across the floor.
Clara steps in beside me, her arms folding lightly across her chest. “It feels like a place full of secrets.”
I smile faintly. “Maybe. Or it could be waiting for new ones.”
Her eyes flick to mine, hazel darkened by shadow and memory. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the weight of her thoughts pressing close, the way the air seems to hum when we’re near each other.
We stand together, listening to the silence. And in that silence, I can almost see it—this space alive again. Not with bunk beds and ranch tools, but with something gentler. A table by the window. Books stacked on shelves. Her laughter filling the walls.
The thought steals my breath, and I have to turn away, running a hand along the worn frame of the hearth to steady myself.
“Doesn’t look like much now,” I say finally, my voice low. “But it could still be something.”
When I glance back, she’s watching me, lips parted like she wants to ask what I mean. But she doesn’t.
Clara drifts through the room slowly, her fingertips trailing over the dusty mantle, the shelves, the empty windowsill. For a moment, she looks at peace here, like she’s listening to the ghosts of what this place once held.
Then her brow creases, and she glances toward the door, toward the wide stretch of pasture beyond. “Grace will be back at the house soon,” she says softly, almost to herself. “I should be there when she arrives. She’ll have questions…and even if it sounds crazy, I don’t want her to feel alone.”
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting a smile tug at my mouth. “I think Isaac will keep her plenty entertained.”
Clara’s head snaps toward me, eyes widening before she lets out the sweetest, most unexpected laugh. It’s warm and genuine, the sound of a memory I thought I’d never hear again. Sheshakes her head, hazel eyes dancing. “Oh, dear. I suppose I should warn her about handsome ranch hands, shouldn’t I?”
I chuckle, feeling the knot in my chest ease. “Might be too late for that.”
Her smile lingers as we step back out into the sun, the one-room house behind us holding its silence once more. We untie the horses, saddle leather creaking, reins slipping into our hands.
As we ride back across the pasture, the land stretches wide and golden before us, the ranch rising in the distance. Clara’s laughter still hums in my ears, sweeter than any hymn,
Cruel
Clara 1923
The porcelain cuptrembles ever so slightly in my hand, though I pray Irene doesn’t notice. Sunlight spills in through the wide windows of the sitting room, gilding the edges of the teacups, catching in the silver hair at her temples. She’s perfectly composed, as always—ankles crossed neatly, fan tucked against her lap, her gaze fixed on me with the warmth of a woman who sees far more than she lets on.
The butler steps into the room with the day’s mail arranged on a silver tray. “For you, Miss Albright.”
I thank him, though my voice is thinner than I intend, and take the bundle. My stomach knots as soon as I see the familiar hand. Phillip’s.
