Seth is standing by a long picnic table laden with food and drinks. He gives me a small, genuine smile. “Thanks for coming, Sedona. Really.”
“Everything smells so good,” I say, my stomach rumbling in response.
He gestures to the tables and chairs they’ve set up, a surprisingly cozy arrangement under the sprawling branches of an old oak tree.
“Have a seat. I made some sliders to start. Hope you’re hungry.”
Tex appears with three beers, expertly popping the caps off with the edge of the counter and handing them to us. We sit, the easy conversation flowing around us like a current.
We talk about the unseasonably warm weather, about Clara’s life in New York, about how she actually lived in Prairie Pine for a year when she was younger.
“These sliders are so good,” Clara says, her eyes wide with culinary delight after her first bite. “Honestly, I could marry the chef.”
The words hang in the air, and the easy conversation comes to a screeching halt. Clara’s eyes widen as she realizes what she’s said, her gaze darting to me.
“Oh, Sedona, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking…”
I shake my head, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “It’s all okay, Clara. Really.”
Seth, bless his heart, jumps in to save the day.
“Well, luckily for you, I’m single if you’re serious.” He winks, and the tension breaks, everyone letting out a relieved chuckle.
Tex sips his beer, his gaze fixed on the grill, but I see the way his jaw tightens, just for a second.
The conversation shifts then, turning to the practical matter of the cattle.
I explain what the process of sample collection will look like, what I’ll need from them. Seth listens intently, nodding, already plating thick, juicy steaks and roasted potatoes that smell like heaven.
Mid-conversation, Billy walks back over, dragging a simple wooden chair in one hand. Jasper trails behind him like a shadow, looking uncomfortable.
“Glad you could join us,” Seth says, his voice carefully neutral.
Billy just grunts in response, setting his chair down a little ways from the table. The three brothers share a look, a silent, complicated exchange of glances that I can’t even begin to decipher.
“Was hungry,” Billy says by way of explanation, his gaze landing on the plate Seth is holding out to him.
I’m hyperaware of him as I continue to explain the sampling procedure, my voice feeling thin and reedy.
We eat, the food delicious but tasting like ash in my mouth. Billy is quiet, a dark, brooding presence at the edge of our little gathering.
He eats quickly, efficiently, his eyes never quite meeting mine. After he’s finished, he stands, pushing his chair back with a scrape.
“I’m gonna go check on my horses,” he says, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the growing darkness.
I think about making an excuse to go talk to him, to try again, to break through that wall of ice he’s built around himself. But I can’t. I’m physically unable to stand, my limbs feeling heavy and useless.
I hate how angry he is, even after all these years. A stupid, naive part of me had thought that time would soften him, that maybe he would understand my reasons, or at least hate me less by now.
But he doesn’t. And that knowledge is a crushing thing.
The silence Billy leaves behind is a void that sucks all the warmth and air out of the space. The cheerful crackle of the fire in the pit suddenly sounds lonely, the earlier camaraderie evaporating like mist in the morning sun.
Tex pokes at the logs with a stick, his movements sharp and agitated, while Seth quietly starts gathering empty plates, the clatter of ceramic the only sound.
My appetite is gone. The slider I was eating sits like a stone in my stomach. I can still feel the weight of Billy’s stare, the cold finality of his departure.
He didn’t just leave the table; he left the conversation, the plan, the shared problem.
