Page 54 of The Lonely Road

I don’t have to think about it, but I do, because I want to lie—and ultimately don’t. “I do.”

“Okay.” She squeezes my arm once. “Then just feel it and enjoy it. Don’t think about the future. It isn’t here.”

“But it will be.”

“We’ll pay attention to it when it gets here.”

There’s something remarkable about the way Joy lives—in the present. I know she’s had difficult years, losing her parents, being raised by Mav—but she’s one of the most positive people I know, always finding something worth holding on to, even in the worst moments.

Clara Whitman arrives at noon with Dakota and Eli, who is carrying a wooden horse—hand-carved, a pinto coat with a braided mane. He holds it up when he sees me.

“My father gave him to me!”

I crouch down for a better look and nod appreciatively. “He’s beautiful.”

Clara’s hug holds a beat longer than usual. She looks better than she did in my office—still tired around the eyes, still carrying the weight of eighteen months of holding everything together, but the set of her shoulders is different. She’s starting to believe. That does something to me—the responsibility of keeping her ranch alive so she can keep living the life her family built.

Mason is at my side when she lets me go, and I make the introduction without quite planning to.

“Clara Whitman. Mason Brooks—he’s working on the Feig rodeo project.”

Clara shakes his hand. “The rodeo will be good for the valley.”

Mason’s lips twitch into an almost-smile. “That’s what I keep hearing.”

Eli tugs Mason’s hand. He crouches down. “Hey.”

“I’m Eli.”

“Hello, Eli. I’m Mason.”

Eli holds his horse out. “This is Ranger. I named him.”

Mason nods gravely. “That’s a good, solid name for a horse.”

Eunice commandeers the conversation then, and while she does, Clara leans over. “The ditch company records came in.”

“I’ll come by next week and get them.”

When they drift toward the food table, Mason puts his arm around me. “She seems stressed.”

“You’d be too, if you were living her life.” I hear the snap in my voice and let it go. “Sorry—knee-jerk. Clara lost her husband a year and a half ago. She’s managing the farm, the kids, and now a company trying to take her water rights. It’s too much for one person.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s tough being a single mother.”

“She’s holding up, though,” I say, the pride in my voice genuine. “She’s remarkable. I just hope I don’t let her down.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll do your best.”

I lean into him. “She needs better than my best.”

He kisses my hair. “You’re a card-carrying do-gooder,” he says, light and teasing, releasing the weight of the moment the way he does—with the ease of someone practiced at clearing air.

“Hmm. Compliment or insult?”

He turns my chin, and I look into his blue eyes. “You’ll do everything you can for her. And if it doesn’t go your way, that’s not on you. You need to hold on to that.”

Something in his tone catches me off guard. Before I can sit with it, he pulls me toward the makeshift dance floor. “Come on, Counselor—let’s digest some of that barbecue we’ve been gorging on.”