It smelled like cornbread.
Not the boxed kind. Not the dry kind. Real cornbread. Skillet-kissed, golden-edged, warm enough to fog up window something in it felt off.
It was missing that sweetness.
Not just sugar—but Susan’s sweetness. The buttery warmth she used to brush across the top, that perfect crackle of crust you could hear when you broke it open. This version? It was trying too hard. Almost good. Almost comforting. But not her.
You were silently glad Colvin never gave Mara the recipe. Some things weren’t meant to be passed down.
Maybe they were trying new things. Together.
Unfortunately.
You were outside, hauling hay bales over your head like they weighed nothing. They did—pounds of scratchy muscle-tugging weight—but your body had known this rhythm since you were tall enough to drag a pitchfork.
And by now, you’d usually be eating.
Back when Mama was alive, the whole house ran like clockwork. Chores. Dinner. Sunset. Laughter in between. Everyone moved with purpose, like parts of a well-loved machine.
But now... Mara had slowed everything down.
She claimed she grew up around the countryside. Said her cousins owned horses, and she once helped with chickens. But it was all visits, not roots. You could tell. Her nails were too clean. Her walk too careful. Her voice too polite. And now she wanted to “settle down.” With your father.
You didn’t speak to her, not really. Not unless you needed something done. Orders, half-muttered. Dismissals, brisk and cold.
Not because you hated her.
But because coping doesn’t come with manners.
You slammed down the last hay bale and leaned against the barn wall, panting. Heat poured off your skin. You shut your eyes, letting the sweat sting your lashes.
From inside, your dad’s voice called out through the window.
“Hey! You need some water?”
You smirked. You couldn’t help it.
“It’s damn near six o’clock, I need some food.”
He laughed, the sound easy and warm.
“It’s still cooking.”
You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath. Two hours on dinner? Mama could’ve fed a family of seven in half the time and made dessert too. You wiped your brow and turned back to the tractor—something to do, something to control.
You twisted under the engine, tightened bolts, muttered curses.
Then you heard it.
A gentle rustle.
You turned your head and saw her—Mara—walking across the dirt path in those soft canvas shoes like she’d never seen gravel before. Her hair was half-tied back, cheeks flushed, a pitcher in one hand, two glasses in the other.
“Hey,” she said softly. “You look pretty thirsty lemonade.”
You didn’t blink.
“I’m allergic.”
Flat. Cold.
She paused,
“Oh... well... I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Then quickly: “Dinner should be ready soon.”
You didn’t answer.
She lingered a moment longer, then walked back inside. You heard the door shut.
Thirty minutes later, you came in—sweaty, sore, and sunbaked. Your boots were coated in dust. You smelled like earth and engine oil. Mara glanced up from the table, then quickly looked down again.
Colvin, though—he was already watching you, eyes narrowing with that proud-dad glint.
“I noticed you playing around with the tractor,” he said as you kicked the dirt from your heels. “Don’t tell me you—”
You shrugged, wiping your forehead with the back of your wrist, grinning.
“Fixed it.”
He let out a bark of laughter, walking over to you.
“Damnit, girl, you’re a genius.” He cupped your face in both hands, shaking his head in awe. “Just like your mother—”
And that’s when he froze.
Because looking at you now—in the sweat, the work clothes, the grease on your hands—you looked like her. Not just in the face, but in the fire. The unbreakable stubbornness. The love tucked under all the sharpness.
Colvin’s eyes flicked toward Mara. His hands dropped from your face gently.
“Mara made dinner,” he said, his voice settling back into something steady. “It’s real good. You should come eat. Once you’re all freshened up.”