Page 35 of Love for Thea

THE RANCH

11:30 Hours (Day 2) (Time Elapsed: 19 hours, 00 minutes)

The Adams kitchen wasn’t transformed into a mess hall because of the crisis; it had been built to serve that purpose. Thirty years ago, when Ben was three and the twins had just arrived, Ronald and Marjorie expanded the ranch house with forward-looking optimism, planning for a bustling household with room to spare, no matter how large their family might become. The large family home was filled with the comforting scents of worn wood and aged stone, its spacious rooms echoing with the ghosts of laughter and the clatter of many meals shared. The heart of the home was anchored by a massive eight-burner commercial Wolf range and double industrial ovens: heavy-duty equipment that had managed countless Sunday dinners and now strained under the weight of oversized stockpots filled with simmering stews.

The air was a thick, clashing swirl of scents: rich beef fighting against the acrid, metallic tang of volcanic ash drifting in every time the mudroom door swung open. The massive oak island in the center of the room, a continent of butcher-block scarred by three decades of knife marks and homework sessions, had become a tactical staging area.

The division of labor was dictated by whoever was closest to the need. At the island, Bill, the sheriff’s deputy from the next town over, worked alongside neighbor women to assemble crates of food. At the range, a local high school teacher methodically stirred two massive pots of soup while Lila orchestrated the supply flow.

“Lila, the art barn is full—I need a count of who needs respirators and who just needs blankets,” Marjorie commanded, not looking up from her clipboard.

Outside, the ranch sprawled across two thousand acres of rolling grasslands and rugged terrain, its vastness having grown with each generation of the Adams family. Now, this immense landscape was a sanctuary for displaced tourists fleeing Yellowstone. The ranch had become a gravity well, drawing people and activity into its steady embrace. Sophie stood in the cool night air, the beam of her high-powered flashlight cutting through the darkness as it illuminated neighbor men struggling to move heavy equipment across the uneven ground. Nearby, Zara crouched beside a local mechanic, the scent of oil and gasoline mingling with fresh pine and the faint, powdery sting of volcanic ash as they worked to stabilize the portable generator. In the distance, the surgical lights of the clinic cast a harsh, clinical white glow where Carole and Dr. Silas Vance triaged the incoming refugees.

The roar of a heavy turboprop suddenly drowned out the yard’s chatter. The windows rattled in their frames as the captured Vanguard helicopter, piloted by Wyatt, descended into the south pasture.

Marjorie was off the porch and sprinting toward the bird before the rotors stopped. The side door slid open, and Ben emerged first, soot-stained and weary. He turned and reached back, lifting Thea to the ground.

For a half-beat, the General of the Ranch vanished. Marjorie let the clipboard fall into the dirt and threw her arms around both of them at once, pulling their ash-covered heads against her shoulders. She squeezed them with a desperate, trembling strength that spoke volumes about the fear she carried for his dangerous job, a fear she would never voice aloud to him.

“Thank God,” she whispered into Ben’s hair, before pulling back just far enough to cup Thea’s face. “You’re safe. You’re all safe.”

The motherly fussing took over like a reflex. “Ben, you’re bleeding from your shoulder, and don’t you tell me it’s just a scratch. And Thea, you’re white as a sheet. You need fluids and a real chair.”

She turned her attention to the helicopter as Reef and Picasso helped a bandaged Falcon toward the door. “Bring him here! Silas has the lidocaine ready! Honestly, you boys can’t go anywhere for five minutes without breaking something.”

“I’m okay, Mrs. Adams,” Falcon coughed out, though his face was gray. “Just a shoulder.”

“It’s a dislocation and possible nerve damage, you stubborn boy,” Marjorie snapped, her authority absolute. “I know Wyatt is a wizard with field medicine, but Silas has the X-ray machine warmed up and he’s going to verify every inch of that joint before we let you back in the fight. You’re staying here.”

Falcon’s jaw clenched as he opened his mouth to argue, but then Mrs. Adams’ gaze locked onto his with an unyielding intensity that stopped the words cold. He swallowed hard, the fight draining out of him. “Alright, Mrs. Adams,” he muttered, resigned. “I’ll see Silas.”

Wyatt emerged last from the cockpit, his flight helmet in his hand. Marjorie didn’t let him take two steps before she caught him by the arm, pulling him into a one-armed hug and kissing his soot-streaked cheek. “Good flying, Wyatt. Now get that bird shut down and get inside. I’ve got stew that’s actually hot.”

As Falcon was ushered toward the clinic, Picasso’s satellite comms unit emitted a sharp tone. He snapped it up.

“Waverly here.”

“Senior Chief, change of plans,” Commander Rachel Bennett’s voice was like tempered steel. “Thorne is heading for a private airstrip in Cody. He’s carrying the kinetic harvest algorithms on a hard drive. If he leaves that tarmac, the Pacific Northwest power grid becomes a weapon of war. You are green-lit for the Cody Intercept. Wolf’s full team, Pacific One: Cookie, Abe, Mozart, Dude, and Benny, are already keyed into the Net with Tex and the twins. They will meet you on-site. They are your hammer; you are the anvil.”

Picasso looked at the helicopter. “Commander, I’ve got a pilot issue. Wyatt is Air Force Pararescue. He’s trained on bird systems, but he’s not a rated pilot for this model.”

“I’ve already cleared it with the Air Force Chief of Staff,” Bennett replied instantly. “Wyatt Adams is officially deputized for this mission. His commander has signed off on the ‘field-expedient’ status. Wyatt, you have the stick. Get that team to Cody.”

“Copy that, Commander,” Picasso said.

In the background, Hurricane let out a low, disbelieving whistle as he checked the magazine on his rifle. “Good lord,” he muttered to Reef. “That woman can get permission to do anything from anyone. I’m pretty sure she just bypassed the entire Pentagon in thirty seconds.”

Reef grinned at Hurricane, then grimaced as he stretched his tired muscles. “Don’t question the magic, ‘Cane. She’s the tailwind in our sails.”

“Inside. All of you. Now,” Marjorie commanded, her tone firm and unmistakably motherly. “The bird needs fuel and you need calories. I’ll have food waiting in the den for you. Ten minutes to confer with the twins, and you eat because if you don’t, no one is going anywhere.”

The team moved as a unit into the house.

“I ate so much ash, I’m not sure I’ll ever eat again,” Hurricane complained.

Reef laughed. “I hear you, but I could go for a couple gallons of water.”

Just then, the rich scent of simmering roast beef hit them full force, and their complaints faded.