Page 17 of Whispers of Helena
A Horse
Helena
Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing instant in prayer;
Romans 12:12
Last night,when I saw Silas pull Shadow around and head back to the stables, a wave of relief swept through me. In the weeks I’ve been here, he’s ridden out into the night six times. Two of those times, he returned carrying the stench of death. Blood on his boots, his jeans, and that cursed rope he always takes with him. He told me he hunts wolves, but I know deep down he rides off for something else. While I do believe there are wolves out on the pastures, I’ve never seen a rancher who uses a rope to take care of the problem.
He thinks I don’t notice. He’s caught me watching him leave, his silhouette framed in the glow of the lights on the barn. But he doesn’t know I watch him come back, the burden of whatever he’s done bowing his shoulders. It’s as if the darkness out there clings to him, following him home like a shadow too stubborn to fade.
Last night, I prayed harder than I ever have. Not aloud, but in the quiet recesses of my mind, where the words rang out like a church bell.
Turn back, Silas.
Let it go, Silas.
Whatever you’re hunting, could be hunting you too, Silas.
And it worked for the very first time last night. When I heard him climb the stairs and his door shut, I finally let sleep claim me.
I woke up early this morning with a clear mind and made breakfast. The kitchen was filled with the smell of coffee and pancakes, the kind of meal that lifts the men’s spirits after long nights. They file in, piling their plates high.
Kiran shuffles down last, his little boots heavy on the stairs. His hair stuck up in wild tufts, his eyes still clouded with sleep.
“Morning, Ms. Helena,” he mumbles, rubbing his face.
I smile, smoothing a hand over his head, trying to calm the mess. “Good morning, Kiran. Did you sleep well?”
“Okay, I guess.” He hesitates, his small hand gripping the edge of the counter. “I woke up, though. Couldn’t go back to sleep.”
I crouch down, peering into his eyes. “Why, sweetheart? Did you have a bad dream?”
He shakes his head, his brow furrowing. “No…I heard a voice.”
The room seems to tilt, the clatter of plates fading into the background. “A voice?” I keep my tone light, though my pulse quickens. “What kind of voice?”
His eyes peer into mine, earnest and unblinking. “Someone was saying pa’s name. Over and over.”
My stomach twists. The echo of my prayers from the night before seemed to ripple in the morning air. I had directed it to Silas, but the boy heard it as well. I force a calm smile, though my thoughts spin wildly. “Have you heard it before?”
“Only once,” he whispers, glancing toward the stairs.
I reach out, gently taking his chin in my hand. “Listen to me, Kiran. You don’t need to be afraid of that voice, okay? But if youever feel like you need me, no matter what, you come knock on my door. Day or night.”
His frown softens, a tentative smile forming. “Okay, Ms. Helena.”
I stand, patting his back. “Good. Now, go make yourself a plate. And remember, easy on the syrup this time.”
He grins, hurrying toward the spread, while heat spreads through my chest. Kiran heard me.
After clearingthe breakfast dishes and setting a pot of soup to simmer on the stove, I decided to hunt down Kiran. The spring warmth had finally settled in, so I grabbed my flannel and headed for the barn. I rarely venture to the outbuildings; my world usually revolves around the house. But today, something about the crisp air and the quiet pull of nostalgia drew me out.
The barn door stands ajar, so I step inside, breathing deeply. The rich, earthy scent of hay, feed, and dust fill my lungs, stirring a bittersweet longing. It reminds me of another life. Early mornings spent riding out to check the herd, stolen twilight moments under a canopy of stars, bodies entwined in the shadows. A simpler, sweeter time, now distant and half-forgotten.
“Kiran?” I call, shaking off the memories.
“Up here, Ms. Helena!” His voice echoes from the loft, cheerful as ever. I glance up and spot him waving, his face peeking out from behind a stack of hay bales. Marcel stands beside him, leaning casually against the railing.
