The Road Home - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Raven considered arguing, then saw the truth in his eyes. She had carried miles in her bones and dust in her lungs.

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Chapter 1 - The Road Home

The caravan glided into the special lane and the desert opened like a held breath. Raven did not think about how far she was from home. She let the machine do what it was built to do. The guidance strip hummed under the wheels. In the rear bay, Spirit rode in a cushioned stall that moved with the road, steady and soft, the way a hand steadies a skittish colt. The self-drive kept time, the hydro system shaved hours, and the sky slid from gold to violet while the mountain ridge outlines sharpened ahead. Raven turned off the hydro system as she came into the canyon.

She felt the turn for home in her ribs before the sensors flagged it. The lane narrowed. The guidance lights blinked her toward the ranch spur, then let her go. Gravel sang under the tires. Cottonwoods threw shadows long enough to reach the house. The mountains, close now, held the last light like embers of coal.

Ben was waiting beside his truck, hat pushed back, grin easy as ever. “About time you came home,” he called.

Raven stepped out, stretching her legs after the long drive. The canyon opened before her, wide and unhurried, the sandstone walls glowing with the day’s warmth.

That was when she felt it. The faint pressure of air rising from below, a slow exhale through the dry mesquite.

Well, the canyon seemed to sigh, look who finally remembered where she belongs.

Raven smiled, half at Ben, half at the unseen voice that brushed the edge of her thoughts.

Ben lifted a hand, then tipped his chin toward the size of the caravan.

“You brought half of Texas with you.”

Raven cut the motor. “You should see the half I left behind.”

He was smiling, but his eyes had that measuring look he used on both people and weather.

“Where’s Sam?” she asked.

“Sabáka,” Ben said. “Hardware run for the cabin renovations. Timers, valves, a dozen little things the supplier finally got in.”

“I could have done that,” Raven said. “He didn’t need to go.”

Ben glanced at the caravan, then back at her. “And where would you have parked this rig? In the produce aisle?”

Raven pushed the brim of her hat back with a knuckle. “Fair.”

“Raven,” Ben said, easy but clear. “When will you allow other people to do things for you?”

She scuffed the toe of her boot through the dust, drawing a short line, then rubbing it out with her heel. “When they do it the way I would.”

“Then never, except maybe Sam,” he said, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Maybe.” She looked toward the rim. The light shimmered as if amused.

The canyon breathed again, playful this time. You always say maybe. One of these days, try yes.

She laughed, short and soft. The sound broke the travel silence inside her. “I think the canyon agrees with you.” Ignoring Ben’s odd look, she pleaded with her eyes. “Help me get him out. He has been patient long enough.”

They moved to the rear bay. The door folded down with a quiet shwoosh. Spirit’s ears pricked at the night air. He blew once, testing the scent of home, then swung an eye to Raven. She set a hand to the rail and rested the other against his neck. The muscles there felt like a promise.

“Easy,” she said. “We are back.”

Ben unpinned the gate. They walked him into the near pasture, the one that held the softest ground and the widest turn. When the halter slipped free, Spirit stood a heartbeat longer than usual, collecting himself. Then he went. A clean arc. A rack of hooves tearing the earth like paper. His mane caught the last light and then he was only movement. A circle. A second circle. Then a long line down the fence as if he could pull the horizon closer with his stride. The canyon walls caught the sound of his hooves and threw them back, playing with the familiar friend, a rhythm older than memory. Every horse that had ever run this ground left an echo. Spirit added his to the chorus.

Ben leaned on the top rail. “He remembers.”

“He always does,” Raven said.

They watched until Spirit settled to a trot, then a walk, then dropped to roll the road stink from his coat. He rose, shook himself, and came to stand, head high, eyes soft. It looked like relief and something like pride.

The canyon seemed to settle too, as if it had been holding its breath until Spirit returned. The air stilled. The light softened. Even the cottonwoods stopped their rustling for a moment, acknowledging the homecoming.

“Come on,” Ben said. “We can park your ship without taking down the barn.”

They backed the caravan to where the morning shade of the equipment shed would hang over it in the morning and chocked the wheels. Somewhere an owl called. A coyote answered from the farther wash. Lights blinked on in the house, detecting their movement, then one went out, then another. The ranch found its rhythm again. So did Raven.

“How did it go?” Ben asked as they crossed back to the fence.

“At Lone Star?” she said. “Better than they hoped, and not at all simple.”

“That sounds right.”

“Spirit covered a mare they bred for muscle and another they bred for heart,” Raven said. “We will see which truth holds. Maybe both. The vet thinks the timing took, at least for one. I will go back to check, but they can manage the wait. Unlike McNab, apparently. He left three messages while I was on the road.”

Ben nodded, anxious to hear more. “He did. We’ll get to that later. What about the work at Lone Star?”

Raven rested her forearms on the rail and watched Spirit nose a patch of salt grass. “They asked me for three things. To steady the yearlings. To soften a mare that pinned her ears every time a saddle showed. And to ride with them on a roundup they have tried and failed three times. The herd they lost kept breaking the line and taking the hills.”

“The same hills you always look for,” Ben said. “Like our canyon.”

Raven’s mouth turned. “The hills that teach patience. I told their crew we would change one thing first. Not the tack. Not the route. The air. No shouting. No snapping lines. They thought I was foolish until the second day, when we moved without a single strike or bite.”

Ben did not look at her, but she saw the way his jaw eased. “You had them breathe.”

“I had them see,” Raven said. “The colts pushed because the men pushed. The mare flinched because they flinched. We put ourselves as quiet in the middle and let it spread. I showed them hands that ask instead of hands that demand. Horses will work for either for a while. Only one holds. Once they could see, then they could breathe.”

The rail was warm under her wrists, then cooling. She could feel the engine’s hum still in her bones, then felt it starting to fade. She told him about the final day. About climbing to the upper ridge at first light. About easing the line wide so the lead mare could choose a path instead of being driven into one. About the way the herd, at last, turned for home on their own. While she spoke, Ben’s gaze did not change, but his face did. The years stepped back from his eyes. He knew that feeling. The rare day when the work became simple because everyone let it be.

When she finished, he let the quiet stand. It stretched between them like a lasso let loose on the ground. He cleared his throat. “You look like you did when you were forty. Full of wind. A little dangerous.”

She snorted. “I was never dangerous. Only stubborn.”

“Stubborn is only dangerous if you are wrong,” Ben said. “You were not wrong.”

The gate creaked as a night breeze lifted it and set it back. Spirit flicked an ear and settled one hind leg. The canyon took a breath, like it was going to speak again but, then rested.

“I heard from McNab,” Ben said.

Raven kept her eyes on the horse. “You did? I texted him I’d call when I got back.”

“Yesterday,” he said. “While you were still on the road. He asked if you were back, then asked if I would pass a message if you were not.”

“Impatient man. What message?”

“He wants you out to the ranch,” Ben said. “Soon. He says he is ready to talk. It surprised me. His program sits as far from yours as Sabáka sits from the ocean.”

“It does,” Raven said. “And he has never liked my questions.”

“He has not liked that a woman asks them,” Ben said. “Do not pretend he is only stubborn about methods.”

Raven smiled with no humor in it. “You’re not wrong.”

Ben pulled a straw from the bale that served as a perch and twisted it between his fingers. “He sounded careful. Not soft. Not proud either. Careful. As if he finally saw the edge he has been working beside.”

“The edge is closer when you pretend it is not there,” Raven said.

“That is what I thought,” Ben said.

They stood again in a comfortable hush. The kind that only arrives after miles and years. A porch light came on at the ranchhouse, and this time stayed on.

“Every truth has an echo,” the canyon whispered. “Be sure you’re ready to hear yours.”

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

Ben tipped his head, listening. “Wind through the rocks?”

“Maybe.” She looked toward the rim. The light shimmered as if amused.

Not noticing, Ben asked, “Will you go?”

“Yes,” Raven said. “In the morning.”

“Do you want me there?”

Raven weighed the question, then shook her head. “Not first. He can think I arrive with my own mind. If the ground shifts, I will call.”

Ben tipped his head. “What will you say to him?”

“The truth,” she said. “That what he is doing works until it fails. That he has been lucky more than he has been right. That he can keep what he loves if he changes how he asks for it.”

Ben let out a breath. “You always did prefer the short road to a hard conversation.”

“I am learning the long road,” Raven said. “I will take coffee.”

They both smiled. He straightened from the rail and gave a low whistle toward the pasture. Spirit flicked an ear again, then lowered his head. The big horse had made his inventory too. All was accounted for.

“Come on,” Ben said. “There is stew on the stove. Sam left a note that said he would be back late. If the supplier fails him again I will build him a timer from a tin can and a rock.”

“He will use it, then improve it,” Raven said.

“He will,” Ben said. “And he will claim he was never gone.”

They walked toward the house. Gravel shifted under their steps. Raven touched the caravan as they passed, palm to metal, the way she would touch a good animal after a day that asked more than most. Thank you, she thought, and it felt right to think it.

On the porch she paused and looked back. The pasture lay in a wash of pale light. Spirit stood near the fence, head turned toward the house. He knew the pattern. Leave. Return. Begin again.

In the kitchen, steam rose from the pot in thin ribbons. The first spoonful straight from the pot tasted like thyme and a day that had decided not to be difficult. Ben set two bowls on the table, then sat and watched her take another bite.

“McNab will press,” he said. “He always does.”

“I know,” Raven said.

“Press back,” Ben said.

“I will,” she said. “With questions.”

He grunted approval. They ate without talk for a while. The clock near the door ticked in a steady way that made the room feel secure. When the bowls were empty, Ben rinsed them and set them to dry. Raven stood by the window and watched a long cloud pull itself thin over the ridge.

“Sleep,” Ben said. “You drove half a country.”

“I let the machine do it,” Raven said.

“Letting is still work,” he said.

She hung her hat on the peg by the door. The room seemed to put its shoulders down. Outside, the yard settled again. The caravan sat like a quiet ship at anchor on a still sea. Spirit rested a hind leg and dreamed whatever horses dream when they remember both open country and a hand on their neck.

The canyon watched.

Raven took one last look at the night, then turned back toward the table where Ben was drying the bowls.

“I’ll leave at first light,” she said.

Ben shook his head. “Not tomorrow. Give it two days. Rest your horse. Rest yourself. McNab will still be there.”

Raven considered arguing, then saw the truth in his eyes. She had carried miles in her bones and dust in her lungs. Spirit too. Two days would not change McNab, but it might change her.

“All right,” she said.

She stepped toward the hallway. The house was quiet, the walls holding the faint creak of wood, the smell of stew, the weight of memory. In the silence, something old stirred, something she had carried far longer than this day’s journey.

She closed her bedroom door softly behind her, leaving the night and Ben in the kitchen. He would leave for home soon and Sam would be back.

Two days. She thought she would spend them resting.

Outside, the canyon cooled into the night. Stone released the day’s heat in long, slow exhales. Darkness gathered in the washes and climbed the cliff faces, patient and inevitable. The land seemed to wait, listening, almost expectant.

Raven paused by the window, drawn to that waiting hush. The air shifted, carrying a faint vibration, more felt than heard. It was as if the canyon itself leaned closer.

Then the voice came, low, deliberate, shaped from wind and memory.

“You took your time returning,” it said, not unkindly. “The land remembers who listens… and who forgets.”

The stillness deepened, a heartbeat between breaths.

“One voice has come home,” the canyon murmured. “But another is still lost.”

This is part of my world of the Women of the Canyon. Fiction meant to stir something that’s already waiting in you. Subscribe to see your life reflected in the mirror. All fiction is free.