Ryder eased his truck to a stop outside the old Hayes barn, the gravel crunching under the tires, the dusky orange light of late afternoon spilling over the ridgeline and onto the weathered boards. The barn had been swept clean, lanterns strung high across its rafters, fresh hay tucked into corners so the air held that soft, sweet scent of earth and grass. For all its rugged bones, the place glowed as though sanctified.
He cut the engine, the silence of the mountains settling in, and turned toward his mama. “This is it, Ma,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, laced with that Tennessee warmth and that clipped New York rhythm he couldn’t ever quite shake.
Celeste reached across the seat, her hand wrapping around his roughened knuckles. “I am so proud of you, Ryder,” she said, her voice l
