If that was my reaction to Tex, I’m scared of how awkward it’s going to be running into Billy.
Clara and I pull into the funeral home’s gravel lot with a few minutes to spare, though it feels like time moves strangely today, stretched thin in some places and bunched up in others.
The building looks the same as it did when I was nineteen and came here with my father after a ranch hand passed away. A strange memory, too sharp and too distant at the same time.
My body feels sluggish, but my mind is wired enough to keep pushing forward.
Elvis Randall should have been waiting for us by now, but the lobby is empty. A scattering of polished chairs lines the walls, and a table holds a stack of pamphlets with soft clouds on the cover. The air carries a faint mix of lilies and dust.
Clara takes my hand and squeezes gently. Her expression softens, and I lean toward her almost without meaning to, grateful for the grounding she brings simply by being here.
She stayed beside me the entire walk from the car to the front door, and she stays beside me now as if she can sense how thin the air feels in my lungs.
A door opens down the hall. Elvis walks in with a quick shuffle, wiping his palms against his slacks. His thin silver hair has been gelled into perfect rows, and the collar of his shirt sits slightly crooked.
He gives us a wide, apologetic smile.
“Terribly sorry. I was helping the Daltons out back,” he says, gesturing toward a side room before motioning us to follow him. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
We step into his office, and the worn carpet muffles the sound of our footsteps. Framed certificates line the far wall, allof them slightly tilted. A small fan clicks softly on the edge of his desk, pushing stale air around.
He waves us into the two chairs facing him, and Clara stays close enough that our knees almost touch.
He settles behind the desk with a soft grunt and opens a thick folder. Papers spill across the top, all of them neatly clipped and stamped.
He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat, his features shifting to something more earnest.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, voice low. “Before anything else, I want to tell you how sorry I am. Your father was well known here, even when he was keeping to himself.”
My throat tightens. I nod because anything else might break me open.
Elvis glances at a form near the top. “Sheriff Riley notified me the moment he reached you. He said you took the call with strength. Most folks don’t when the news comes like that.”
Strength doesn’t feel like the word. My voice had cracked. My knees had buckled. I learned my father died in his sleep from the sheriff’s voice on the line, and everything inside me had bucked and stung and spun.
But I nod again because there’s no benefit to explaining any of that now.
Elvis folds his hands together. “I want to reassure you that your father didn’t suffer. Natural causes, peaceful. We did a preliminary postmortem since he passed alone. Everything points to a gentle passing. Nothing alarming at all.”
Clara’s fingers wrap around mine, warm and steadying in a way I lean into without shame. My chest loosens a fraction.
Elvis continues. “Since word got out, we’ve had quite a few calls. Folks asking about service times, burial details, the works. People cared about him more than he may have realized.”
A strange ache stirs at his words. My father spent so many years keeping everyone out, shutting blinds, turning away neighbors. Yet people still noticed he was gone. People still asked.
I lift my chin slightly. “I want the burial at the town cemetery. Sunday morning.”
Elvis writes that down in clean, looping handwriting. “Sunrise or after the morning prayer?”
“After the prayer. And a priest. He may not have gone to church in the end, but he was raised Catholic.”
“Of course,” Elvis says with a soft nod. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
Clara shifts closer, her thumb moving across the back of my hand in slow circles. The gesture soothes something raw inside me.
Elvis flips through another set of papers. “I know this is none of my business, but the clinic is part of the estate. Some folks have already asked if you plan to keep it open.”
My chest draws tight. “I haven’t decided. I need to go through everything with the estate worker first.”
