On the third evening, the terrain rose into foothills, pine trees thickening, air thinning. They passed beneath a rough timber archway burned with words: BLACK MESA. Nell expected a mansion, some grand house built from the kind of money Silas had thrown onto a saloon floor. Instead, she saw something honest. Barns built for function, corrals full of magnificent horses, fences running long as a promise across the land.
The main house was timber and stone, sturdy but half-somber, like it had been built by a man who stopped caring halfway through.
Silas pulled the wagon to a halt. Ranch hands paused in their work to stare, rough men with quiet eyes. None of them hooted. None of them leered. They just watched with weary curiosity, as if they’d seen too much to be surprised by new ghosts.
Silas jumped down. “Get down,” he ordered. The sisters climbed out, legs stiff, the wind here fierce enough to feel alive.
Silas barked, “Hank!”
An older man with a limp and a white beard hobbled over from the stables. “Boss,” he greeted, eyes narrowing as he took in the girls.
Silas nodded like he’d bought a shipment of lumber. “These are the Rusk girls. They live here now.”
Hank’s jaw slackened. “Live here?” His gaze flicked toward the main house, toward the east side that looked darker than the rest.
“Boss… that ain’t—” Silas cut him off. “East wing. Get the stove running. It hasn’t been used in years.”
Hank whispered, horrified, “You haven’t opened that wing since… since she passed.”
Silas’s face tightened, grief flashing like a blade’s edge. “Do it,” he snapped.
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