Well, it's something for later. The road disappears behind the house into a speck too small to see clearly from this distance.
The view is amazing, from up here. Anything a person can see, she can see that far. Like the entire hill captures all the nature around her, and captures the way that the Callahan ranch works with it, around it, and sometimes, against it.
The entire thing is a little humbling. As it always is, but this time is special. This time, she's not thinking about how she can make this space into hers. Not right now.
Once the papers are signed and the ink is dry, she can think about how she's going to set this land up. But right now, all she's doing is admiring the natural beauty. And oh, how abundant it is.
Morgan turns further. No matter where she looks, there's no one there. A whole lot of nothing going on. Something below her vision, though, catches her eye. A pair of stones, set into the ground. There's no dirt or dust on them. Last time it rained, some mud would probably have splashed on them, which means that more than likely, they've been cleaned.
The larger reads "Sara Callahan, beloved wife." A pair of dates thirty-two years apart. Morgan's stomach twists up. She shouldn't be here, after all. She should be out of here. She's not just trespassing on Philip's land. This is a private place. A sick, twisting worry in the pit of her stomach forces her to look at the second plate.
"In Loving Memory," the top line reads. The second, in larger letters: "Roy Callahan." The first and the second dates are the same. It tells her all she needs to know. And it tells her something else.
It tells her what she should've known all along. What her father must have known, whether by doing his research or on instinct or by sheer luck—
She shouldn't be here at all. No matter what she does, Philip Callahan's not going to sell the land. This is his place, and he's not going to leave for anything.
And more than that, she shouldn't come back.
r /> Because as much as she's liked the time that she's spent with him, she's already intruded enough.
Her stomach twists up and for a moment she has to check herself before she loses her fight against panic.
And then she's slipping down the side of the hill and taking her footing, and going back where she belongs. Anywhere but here.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Randy looks strange, lying there in the bed. He's got three inches on Phil Callahan, who'd never thought of himself as short, and he's as strong as the ranch owner ever was. He's got the advantage in terms of age, though, after all.
And yet, now Callahan stands over him, broad-shouldered and stable and he has to keep his face a from getting a little twisted up, because Randy looks like he's practically withered since they were horsing around that morning.
Horses can kick like a son of a bitch, and that Black was always a danger. He was a smart kid, and knew better that to get behind an ornery stallion. But sometimes, it happens, even when you make your best efforts to avoid it. And that's what had happened this time. Nothing to be done about it.
Callahan's gut feels like it's threatening to turn itself inside out, right there on the floor in front of all of them, but there's nothing else that he can do but do but watch. He's no doctor, after all.
It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. It could have been his head. It could have been his neck. A kick in the back, it could mean any number of things.
It was tempting to tell himself that the kick missed the kid's spine. It was awful tempting indeed. He re-played the scene in his mind, over and over again, and it looked like it did. Looked like it hit below the shoulder blade. Right in the meaty part of his back.
But what if he was wrong? What if he was just a little bit wrong, off by a couple of scant inches?
Well, then it is a very different thing. The boys sit. Whatever their nerves are telling them, whatever they're thinking, they've both settled into their chairs, like stony-faced twins.
Except, of course, that it'd take an idiot not to see that James is taking it worse. He's hiding it as best he can. His jaw tightens and he keeps it tight. By itself, that helps to hide the panic in his eyes.
But you can see the thoughts running through his head, clear as day, as if they were on a ticker-tape across his forehead. If they weren't so stupid. If he had been smarter. If he hadn't let this happen.
He hadn't. Nobody could blame him, not in any honest way. But that wasn't stopping him from finding a way to blame himself, and if that was what he wanted to do, nobody could stop him.
For a moment Callahan almost considers giving him a few consoling words. He keeps his mouth shut. He hadn't wanted to hear them, after Sara and he lost Roy. He hadn't wanted to hear them when Sara went to keep their little boy safe up in heaven.
And now, it wasn't his turn to not want to hear it. It was his turn to stand by the bed, his face drawn with panic. It was his turn to not know what to do, to want to tell them that it would be okay. That they'd feel better, some day. That it was all alright and none of it was their fault.
But that's not the problem. The problem isn't knowing that it's not your fault, because you know instinctively, deep down. There's nothing that could have been done to prevent it, except maybe not being such god damn fools.
But that doesn't stop the constant questions. The constant desire to find a way that you could have stopped it. That was a thousand times louder than anything anyone could say to you.
James had to get out of the woods—if he was lucky, and Callahan hoped he was, Randy had to get out of the woods as well—before he'd hear it. Before he'd hear anything other than someone lying to him, trying to make him feel better with petty lies and platitudes.