But Yanni heard, and though no one at the ranch treated her differently, the knowledge sank into her like sand after rain slow, heavy, inescapable, she began rising earlier, working later, slipping from conversation like smoke. Alden noticed. He always did. One evening, he found her mending June's dress by lamplight, the thread trembling between her fingers. "You haven't eaten," he said quietly.
"I'm not hungry. You used to hum when you sewed. I've forgotten the song." He hesitated, searching for words that didn't exist. Then only said, "You don't have to carry what isn't yours."
Yanni looked up, her voice barely a whisper. "It's always mine, even when it isn't." Outside, the horizon glowed with another kind of heat, not sunlight, but the gathering anger of men who needed something to blame. Two days later, they came, a band of riders from town, five or six of them, dust trailing behind like smoke. They halted at the ranch gate, spitting and grinning.
One called out, "Ror! You keeping a pet snake in your house these days?" Alden stepped onto the porch, hat tilted low, shotgun resting in the crook of his arm. Behind him, Kai Nantan and Eli stood silent. A wall of calm readiness.
The leader, a broad man with a sunburnt face, spat in the dirt. "Word is you're harboring that Apache witch from Silverton. Thought we'd warn you before something bad happens." Alden's voice was flat, steady. "Bad's already here.
I see it standing in front of me." Laughter rippled through the group, but no one moved forward. His stillness was heavier than their noise. "In this valley," Alden went on, "there's only two things worth keeping: sun and fairness. If you didn't bring either, you can ride back with the dust that carried you here."
The words fell like stones. The men shifted in their saddles, muttering, "Finally." The leader turned his horse, "Suit yourself, ro." But when she curses your house, "Don't come crying to town." They rode off, leaving a cloud that hung in the air long after they were gone.
When the dust settled, Yanni stood at the doorway, eyes wide, breath caught in her chest. Alden didn't look back at her, just walked past, his hands shaking only after the door had closed. That night, she sat on the porch, the smell of sage and smoke thick around her, tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, not from fear, but from something sharper. For the first time, someone had stood in front of her instead of behind her back. Then came the fire.
The sky that evening was the color of tarnished copper. Heat lightning flickered beyond the ridges, silent and distant until it wasn't. A single strike, a dry crack splitting the horizon, and the world lit up. The bolt struck near the stables, turning brittle grass into flame faster than breath. May screamed first.
Eli ran for the pump. Alden sprinted toward the barn where the horses screamed against their stalls. The air filled with sparks, wind, and terror. And somewhere in that chaos came a smaller scream. June's.