There’s no hesitation, no second thought. I turn toward the truck with my brothers.
The engine rumbles when Billy turns the key, and the tires roll over the uneven ground, heading toward the long dirt road that always brings us home.
The silence between us stretches, filled only with the hum of the engine and the distant sound of festival music drifting through the open window. I glance toward Billy.
His expression stays tight, brows drawn, mouth flattened into a line that tells me nothing will crack through him right now. He looks like a storm held barely at bay.
Seth leans his head against the glass, eyes half-lidded, exhausted more than anything. None of us slept enough last night. None of us have had time to process the day. The funeral feels like a bruise pressed too hard.
We reach the ranch. The gate swings as we pass through.
The house sits in the middle of the land like it always has, steady and unmovable against every storm. The barn roof reflects the last light of evening. Cattle graze in the distance.
Boone waits near the porch, tail swiping the dirt as we step out of the truck. The dog pads toward us, bumping my thigh with his nose.
We barely step inside—just long enough to change—then head straight to the barn, picking up where we left off this morning. The rhythm comes easy.
Swinging hay bales. Hauling feed bags. Sorting tools that someone left out during last week’s storm.
Work fills the space in a way conversations can’t. Work has always been our language.
Billy ties a rope around a fence rail that is coming loose. Sweat drips down his neck, his shirt clinging to his back.
Seth stacks the hay with quick and forceful movements, his jaw clenched. Boone trots between us, snout nudging stray pieces of hay, whining when Seth tosses bales above his head.
I fix the hinge on the eastern stall door, the metal groaning as I wrench it back into position. My hands ache from gripping tools too long, but I don’t stop. None of us do.
The sun dips lower. Orange bleeds into the horizon. A chill threads through the air. By the time we finally stop, night has dropped around us without warning.
Inside the house, we gravitate toward the kitchen. Seth heats up leftover steaks from last night, cutting them into thick slices and dumping them onto plates. The smell fills the room, rich and savory, curling around us.
Billy grabs three beers from the fridge and sets them on the table. The caps clink against the wood as he twists them off.
We sit at the old oak table. Boone lies at our feet with a tired groan, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.
Seth lifts his bottle. “To Dr. Archer,” he says. His voice cracks around the edges. “He wasn’t perfect, but he cared about this town.”
We raise our beers and clink them together. My throat burns as I drink. The cold liquid slides down and pools in my stomach with a heaviness I don’t want to look at too closely.
Dinner passes in a blur of quiet chewing, muted clinks, and the low hum of the ceiling fan above us. We eat until the plates are bare, and then the kitchen sinks into soft darkness except for the warm lamp near the sink.
The exhaustion wraps around me like a tightening rope.
Billy stands first, pushing his chair back with a scrape. “Y’all turn in,” he says, running a hand over Boone’s back before heading down the hallway.
He disappears into his room without another word.
Seth yawns, stretching his arms overhead. “Long day,” he mutters. He gives my shoulder a pat and follows Billy down the hall.
I sit alone at the table after they leave. The silence spreads outward, filling every corner of the kitchen.
Boone nuzzles my leg, then pads toward the back door where his bed sits. I push myself up, wash my plate, and turn out the lights.
My room smells faintly of cedar and old leather. I change quickly and collapse onto the bed.
The sheets feel cold at first, then warm around my shoulders. My eyes close before I can think.
Sleep drags me under fast.
