Page 8 of Whispers of Helena
Proverbs 3:24
Fatigue washesover me as I finish cleaning up after dinner. It isn’t the physical labor that drains me, today’s tasks were simple enough. No, it is the weight of first-day jitters, the constant undercurrent of tension clinging to the air in this house. Every glance, every bit of silence, has worn me down bit by bit.
After Silas took Kiran to get him ready for bed, I excused myself, retreating to the quiet sanctuary of my room. This house is oddly still, inhabited by the five of us: Silas, Kiran, Marcel, Eli, and myself. The rest of the ranch hands bunk in a cabin past the stables, their distant laughter and conversation a faint murmur in the cold night air.
Marcel and Eli keep to the first floor, their rooms tucked into a narrow hallway off the main living space. Small and utilitarian, with a shared bathroom. Upstairs, where I’m staying, there arefour other rooms besides mine. Kiran and Silas stay in the ones closest to mine, but the other two are unused from what I’ve noticed. Their doors remained shut, untouched. I can’t help but wonder what stories they hold—old guest rooms, perhaps? Or spaces too heavy with memory to be disturbed?
Earlier, after setting dinner to cook, I had wandered into the two other spaces off the kitchen. One was a sitting room, sparsely furnished with worn leather couches arranged around a low coffee table. In the corner stood an old radio, its polished wood casing gleaming. No television, though. Strange for a home with a young boy. Maybe Silas preferred it that way, keeping Kiran’s world free from distractions. Or perhaps it was just another way this house seemed frozen in time, like the ghosts of its past were still sitting in those leather chairs, waiting for a voice to stir the silence.
The other area was a small office that I had watched Silas, Marcel, and Eli freely use. Accounting ledgers gathered in an organized pile on one side of a large oak desk, whiskey, gin and glasses on the other. A few sunwashed pictures of the property hung on the walls, and a leather chair sat in one corner.
With the men gone and Kiran in bed, a quietude descends. And the quiet here is anything but peaceful. It presses in on you, a living thing, wrapping around your throat, your chest. Every creak of the aged floorboards echo through the silent house, each sound magnified in the darkness. I slip under the heavy quilt on my bed, listening to the low hum of the wind outside. It’s as if the walls of this house are holding their breath, and I wonder how long it will take for them to exhale.
Sleep eludes me,my body tosses and turns against the cool sheets, caught in the in-between of restless dreams and wakefulness. I wish for sleep, but my mind is a traitor, keen and alert.
Then I hear it—Silas’s door creaking open.
I freeze, every muscle tense beneath the weight of the quilt.The familiar jingle of his keys break the stillness, followed by the solid click of his lock.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
His boots hit the wooden floorboards with a calculated rhythm; heavy and unhurried. But then they stop. Right outside my door.
My pulse quickens, pounding in my ears. What is he doing awake, walking the halls, boots on, in the dead of night? And why is he lingering here?
The unease stretches on, thick and suffocating. I hold my breath, the air in my lungs burning. In the quiet, my thoughts spiral:Is he listening? Is he waiting for something?The intensity of his presence on the other side of the door is unbearable.
Please, keep walking.I cling to the quilt like it could protect me from what this moment might bring. After an agonizing pause, the sound of his boots resumes, each step carrying him farther from my room. The floorboards groan beneath his feet as he descends the stairs. I exhale a shaky breath, my body trembling with relief.
Too curious for my own good, I slide from the bed, my bare feet meeting the cold floor. Slowly, I make my way to the window, pushing aside the thin curtain just enough to peer out. The moon casts a pale glow over the ranch, illuminating Silas as he emerges from the barn. His figure is unmistakable: broad shoulders bundled in his heavy coat, a brown leather Stetson low over his face. His hand clutches a thick, tightly coiled rope.
I swallow hard as he makes his way to the stables. Moments later, he emerges on horseback, the rope draped across the saddle horn. His horse moves with a quiet authority, its hooves muffled against the dirt as they set off down a path that disappeared into the shadows of the sprawling land.
Just before he vanishes from sight, Silas tugs the reins, bringing the horse to a stop. He sits still, a dark silhouette against the silver light, and then—slowly—he turns his head.
Straight toward me.
My breath falters, catching in my throat as icy fingers crawl up myspine. His figure remains still in the moonlight, but somehow, I know he sees me. The distance between us dissolves, the fragile pane of glass doing nothing to shield me from the intensity of his stare. The room feels smaller, the air thick and clinging, pressing against my chest. Clutching the edge of the curtain, my heart hammers, as if his eyes have locked onto me, drawing me to him.
I drop the curtain and press my back against the wall, my hands trembling as they clutch my nightgown. Frantic, shallow breaths heave my chest. I scramble back under the covers, pulling them close as though their meager weight could somehow block out the dark and the man who seemed to carry it with him.
Sunrise
Silas
Tugging my hat low,I shield my face from the first light breaking over the horizon. Shadow huffs beneath me, his breath steaming in the chilly morning air. We’ve been out longer than planned, and the dawn finds me at the edge of my world. A spread of rolling meadows and craggy outcroppings that belong more to the wolves and the stars than they ever will to me. But this land and I have an understanding. It keeps my secrets, and I keep its boundaries intact.
Kiran will be stirring soon, probably looking out the window for signs of me. That thought nags at the part of me still attached to some semblance of decency. Guiding Shadow, I urge him toward the stream in the western pasture; its gentle gurgle promises a peaceful respite. I dismount, rope in hand, and crouch down.
The water is frigid, biting against my skin as I rinse the rope clean, scrubbing harder than necessary. My gloves follow, and then my hands, though the stains there aren’t always the kind that wash away. When I’m done, I splash my face, letting the icy shock bring me back to the present. I can’t afford to look tired, even if the weight of the night still clings to my shoulders.
Back at the stables, only Shadow’s soft snorts and the rustling of straw break the silence. I lead him into his stall, undoing thecinch and sliding off the saddle. It’s then that I hear Eli’s measured steps, his silhouette framed by the barn door, coffee mug in hand.
“You look like hell,” he says, his voice flat but not unkind. “Want me to finish up here?”
The scent of his coffee curls toward me, tempting. “I’d appreciate it,” I mutter, setting my gear aside.
Eli nods, setting his mug down and rolling up his sleeves. He doesn’t ask where I’ve been or why the rope was wet. He never does. If he knows, he keeps it to himself, and that’s a kind of loyalty I don’t take lightly. Some nights, I think he’s better off not knowing. Other nights, I’m sure of it.
