7. Firelight

A gunshot split the morning.

Sharp. Singular. Close.

It snapped through the trees like a crack of lightning, and in its wake, the camp stirred—doors opening, boots hitting frozen ground, breath fogging the air.

The men gathered near the mess hall, blinking against the pale light. Just past the compost bin, a coyote lay dead in the snow, its mouth still open, eyes glassy with confusion.

Georgie, the cook, stood a few feet back with a rifle still in hand. “Came sniffin’ after scraps,” he said, almost apologetically. “Didn’t expect it to come that close.”

“That’s odd,” Albie muttered, tipping his hat back. “They usually steer clear. Smell of us alone oughta send ‘em running.” He scratched his scalp absently, eyes narrowed.

Sean crouched beside the carcass, poking at its ribs. “Must be a lean winter,” he said. “Desperate kind of behavior.”

Thomas felt a cold tug in his gut.

Not desperate. Lured.

Guilt rose first. Then panic.

He needed to check the site. Make sure nothing else had surfaced. Make sure no one else might stumble on what he left behind.

But that would have to wait for nightfall.

Georgie dragged the coyote off by its hind legs, tossing it into the back of a wagon with a hollow thud that made Thomas wince. The rest of the camp returned to their routines.

The last whistle of the day echoed through the trees, and Thomas rolled his shoulders as Andrew helped guide the saw back to the shed. Around a basin, they rinsed the grime from their hands and faces, steam rising from the water like breath from a dying thing.

Thomas turned toward the horse stalls when he felt a slap on his shoulder and an arm drape around it.

“Not so fast, lad,” Andrew said. “Ye work too hard, Griz—ye’ve got to blow off a bit o’ steam.”

He nodded toward the communal campfire, where a loose circle of loggers, limbers, and foremen passed around an almost comically large amber bottle of cheap whisky.

Andrew kicked over a bucket with his boot and slid it toward Thomas. Then he lowered himself onto a stump and leaned in, just as Albie was mid-story.

“I think it’s part o’ the fun, y’know?” Albie nudged Thomas. “Ladyfolk like a bit of a guessing game. Can’t go outright sayin’, ‘You’re the most beautiful thing I ever saw—let’s go tumble in the hay,’ right?” He grinned. “Gotta lay it on—but not so thick it don’t breathe.”

“What I did,” he continued, “was just… show up. Everywhere Corrinna was, there I’d be. I’d ask, ‘What’re you fixin’ for supper?’ and she’d say, ‘Thinkin’ about the church’s fish fry.’ And I’d go, ‘What a coincidence! I was fixin’ to go, should we walk together?’” He chuckled. “Went on like that. I think she caught on quick—but she let me think I was trickin’ her. Let me chase her a while. Two years of hopeless followin’ her around… then one day she just took my hand.”

“Siobhan called me a creepy horse’s arse the first time we met,” Andrew cut in, grinning like a man still fond of the insult. “But she saw how I was with her sisters—knew I’d make a good da. She’s a saint of a mam. The boys, now—they’re the best pieces of both of us. They’ve got fire in ‘em, but they’re smart, too.”

To everyone’s surprise, Thomas’s voice came soft, almost sheepish.

“What’re their names?”

Andrew brushed a hand over his chest, like he might smooth out the pride swelling there.

“Henry and Doran. Ten and eight.”

“I got four,” Albie added, lifting his chin. “Oldest is Ella, then Maelene, Sue-Anne… and I got one more cookin’.”

Thomas filed the names away quietly, like tucking papers into a drawer. Details. Anchors. Something about hearing them made the campfire burn a little warmer.

Then Andrew gave him a sidelong look.

“What about ye, Griz? You got a lass waitin’ on you somewhere?”

Thomas shook his head, chuckling softly at himself.

“Got close, once. Years back. Little wildflower in a ranch town in Arkansas.”

Albie’s eyes gleamed with unhidden curiosity. “How’d it turn out?”

Thomas exhaled through his nose, the firelight catching on the corner of his smile.

“Well… she’s married. And not to me.”

The men roared with laughter—loud, easy, and familiar. A shared joke. A shared ache.

They’d all tried to love someone, once. Most had failed. It was part of being human.

Thomas had always known that, but tonight he understood it in a different way—because he could see it.

These men, rough and raw, had each tried to thread a needle they’d missed. And now they carried those stories like old injuries. Not bleeding anymore. Just sore when the weather changed.

At some point, everything that had happened to them—love, loss, longing—was whittled down to a tale by the fire. These were the pieces they chose to keep. The ones that outlasted shame or pride.

The ones they’d let live after them.

By the time the fire had settled into soft embers, only Andrew and Thomas remained. The night twitched and rustled around them—branches shifting, small lives scuttling under snow—but between them, there was a hush that didn’t need to be filled.

Andrew stood and stretched. “We oughtta turn in, lad. Mornin’ll be here ‘fore we know it.”

Thomas nodded. “You go on ahead. I’m right behind.”

He waved him off with a soft motion of the hand.

Andrew tucked his gloves under one arm and turned toward the cabin.

“Night then,” he said, patting Thomas’s shoulder as he passed.

The air was peculiar. Too thin. Too still. Cold—but not dry.

Sleet hovered in the atmosphere, waiting to fall. Ice crust tangled the roots, and Honey’s hooves cracked through the brush like breaking glass.

“Slow, girl,” Thomas murmured, guiding her by the lantern light.

Two sets out. One set in. He followed the trail with muscle memory, not thought.

Then the incline steepened, and the snow broke beneath them, disturbed.

Three sets of coyote tracks spiraled around the kill site—one much smaller than the others. They’d found the meal. The snow showed the chaos: drag marks in different directions, furrows edged in brown-black blood.

He dismounted and crouched, holding the lantern low. Bits of dark mass poked from the brush, just barely identifiable.

Half of an ulna. A splintered rib. A length of entrails slung like a rotten garland over a low branch.

At the edge of the trail, something rounded jutted from the frost and dead leaves.

He stared at it a long moment before reaching out. Braced his fingers against the earth and pried it loose.

Bud’s boot. Kicked off in the struggle—violent enough that Thomas hadn’t even noticed.

He buried it deep in the bottom of the saddlebag, already planning where to burn it. Or sink it. Or bury it far from any path humans might walk.

The lump in his throat rose to an ache. And the dark veil of night was already beginning to fade—giving way to a grey, slushy morning.

Sleet fell like shards, stinging his cheeks as he trudged against the wind, up the hill that fed the river.

Honey picked up her pace once he slid from the saddle, eager for the stall’s warmth. Thomas frowned at the thought. Sleeping rough must’ve been just as miserable for her. She deserved better.

Being a creature with such a deep, knowing soul meant Thomas sometimes confused his exhaustion with something more dangerous: the splintering of his spirit.

A sign that the charade of being a good man was finally cracking.

Over their breakfast, the shift was evident 

“Griz, you feelin’ alright?”

Albie’s voice was soft. No usual grin.

Thomas shrugged. Nodded toward his tin cup, hiding beneath the brim of his hat.

But Albie didn’t let it go. He reached forward and flicked the bill up just enough to see Thomas’s face. “You didn’t sleep again last night, did you?”

Thomas just shook his head.

“I’ll talk to the boss, see if we can cut an early day,” Albie said gently. “I get it. Some nights, you can’t turn it off. I lie awake thinkin’ about the babies. About these men.”

Thomas’s voice rasped low. “You worry?”

“’Course I worry,” Albie chuckled, though it was dry. “What d’ya think—you’re the only one with problems?”

The day ended early, as Albie had promised. The snow was growing too thick for safe work. Everyone in camp embraced the reprieve. 

Thomas didn’t wash up, or change his clothes. He set his weight down onto his cot, kicking his boots off when he was already laying on his back. He turned over, and fell asleep. The sun was still up, men filing in and out of the cabin, talking to each other. Shuffling boots and clinking glasses passed over him like a breeze over water. 

Finally, he slept.