But Charlotte is here.
Mom is here.
And I am here too, still standing. Still breathing. Still trying to figure out what comes next.
Still thinking about Dallas every time I close my eyes.
And still wondering, with a quiet ache I can’t seem to shake, if coming back to Buckhorn wasn’t an accident at all, but the first real choice I’ve ever made for myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dallas
January 10th
Buckhorn Feed& Supply always smells of dust, hay, motor oil, and a childhood I never outgrew.
The bell over the door sticks when I shoulder it open, then gives with a rusty jangle that’s been the exact same sound since I was big enough to toddle in here after Dad. The heater rattles overhead, threatening to drop right out of the ceiling, a country station hums low from an old radio in the corner, and every aisle is stacked with enough ranching supplies to run a small kingdom.
It’s comforting. Predictable. Exactly what my brain needs today.
I’ve spent the whole morning drowning in paperwork. Feed orders, vet invoices, a spreadsheet from Boone that made my left eye twitch, and every other line I read turned into Faith’s mouth, Faith’s hands, Faith’s hair in my fingers.
Really helpful, brain. Thanks.
So when Mom said, “We’re low on grain and mineral, run into town,” I didn’t argue. I grabbed the list, grabbed my keys,and told myself that going into Buckhorn didn’t automatically mean running into her.
I’ve managed to avoid it for days.
I can do it again.
“Afternoon, McCoy,” Virgil Lewis grunts as I step up to the counter. “You’re late. I was about to call missing persons.”
He’s leaned against the old wooden counter with a mug of coffee big enough to drown a calf in, weathered hands wrapped around it. Virgil has looked seventy-five since I was ten; I’m convinced he made a deal with the devil to stay exactly this age forever.
“Morning, Virgil,” I say, setting Mom’s list down. “Or afternoon. Whatever we’re calling this.”
He squints at the clock on the wall. “Eleven forty-three. Practically midnight, far as the stock’s concerned.” He peers at the list, tongue pushing his cheek out while he reads. “You McCoys goin’ through this stuff faster than usual. What’re you feeding out there, dinosaurs?”
“Growing daughters,” I say. “Close enough.”
Virgil snorts. “Charge double then.”
His granddaughter, Penny, who runs half this place on customer service alone and the other half through sheer force of personality, pops her head around a stack of dog food bags. Her dark braid swings behind her as she checks something off on a clipboard.
“You tell your mama her mineral tubs will be here Friday,” she calls. “And tell Nash if he steals the caramel apple suckers out of my jar again, I’m calling the sheriff.”
“I’ll tell him,” I promise.
“Tell him like you mean it,” Penny adds, narrowing her eyes.
“I’ll try,” I say.
Virgil starts pulling the order. Grain, salt blocks, a couple bags of chicken feed Mom added because the hens are her latestproject, and I fall into the familiar rhythm. Haul a fifty-pound sack up onto my shoulder, carry it out to the truck, come back for the next. The rough burlap bites through my glove, and my muscles burn in a good way.
I enjoy work that feels like this. Push, lift, done. No room for thinking.
By the time I come back in for the last bag of grain, Virgil’s added a sack of dog food I didn’t ask for to the pile.
