Page 62 of The Fire Line

Jay fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

Do not get a fucking erection because a straight cowboy is bed-adjacent.

Harris shifted closer to see beneath the shelf.

Excellent. Extremely helpful.

“There,” Jay said, with what he felt was admirable vocal stability.

Harris read the words. For a second his face changed completely, the guardedness giving way to something softer and younger.

Then he pushed himself upright, at which point Jay’s nervous system could resume pretending it had standards.

“What was she right about?”

“Dad wanted to tear the cabin down. She said the roof was fine.”

Jay glanced overhead. “Was it?”

“Was after she climbed up there and patched it herself.”

“At what age?”

“Sixteen, maybe. Nearly broke her neck. Dad was so pissed he didn’t speak to her through dinner.”

“But she was right.”

“Technically.”

“Hence the historical record.”

Harris went back to the food bags. “She wrote that every damn place she won an argument.”

Jay looked up at the faded marker again.

That was better than another photograph. More alive. A teenage girl climbing onto a roof because somebody had told her she was wrong, then crawling back down and making sure the building itself remembered the outcome. Not Eleanor Shaw, tragic sister and visionary ranch daughter. Not Saint Eleanor of the Guest Operation.

Nell.

“How many are there?” Jay asked.

Harris glanced over. “What?”

“Declarations of victory.”

A small pause.

“Lot of ranch.”

Jay smiled. “So that’s a lot.”

Harris turned back to the food. “She was right a lot.”

11

I’m Caught Up Now

Harris was back in the hospital room, and Nell was asking where Rain was.