“But then one day he truly lost his temper. One of my brothers came to the house to check on me. It was the next-oldest of my siblings, Abott. He was only fifteen, but tall. Like Grady is tall.” Celia smiles, faintly.

“Ellis had cameras set up all around inside the house and on the property so he could watch me constantly, even while he was at work. He saw Abott come to the door, and he saw me open the door. Even though I didn’t let him inside and I made him leave immediately, Ellis was already on his way home.

“I saw a rage in him that night that I’d never seen before. He hit me again and again in the face. Then he poured a glass full of bleach. He held it out to me, and he said, ‘Drink.’ I begged and pleaded, but it was like talking to a mannequin. His face was so still and blank. Only his eyes were glittering.

“He grabbed my face and brought the glass to my lips. He was going to force it down my throat.

“I said, ‘Please don’t make me. It will kill the baby.’ That was the only thing that shook him out of it. But it was close—too damned close. I didn’t know if he would listen next time.

“I ran away the next day. I was terrified, of course. I knew he’d kill me if he found out. I never would have had the courage to go, if the baby wasn’t due a month later. I was out of time. And I never would have made it out, if I didn’t have help. As I mentioned, people here will handle things themselves, if it gets bad enough. Despite all Ellis had done to isolate me, I had one friend left . . . ”

She trails off. I’m wildly curious about this part of the story, but after all she’s told me, I know I don’t have the right to push for more.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean for this story to be so long. You’re probably wondering why I even brought it up. But I’m about to get to the point.”

“I want to hear it all,” I assure her.

“I got away,” she repeats. “I had the baby. Not here—over the border in North Carolina, on Cherokee land. It was the only place that felt safe. The only place Ellis couldn’t go.

“My friend who helped me . . . his family took me in. His sisters helped me with the birth, and with the baby. I was afraid that I might not feel everything that I should for the baby after it was born. Because I thought it might remind me too much of Ellis. But from the moment I saw Raylan, I loved him like I’d never loved anything. More than my parents or siblings or my own self.

“I stayed there for six years. My friend . . . became more than a friend to me. We were married. He had always treated Raylan like his own son. After we had two more children . . . it seemed wrong to make unnatural divisions between them. I always meant to tell Raylan the truth. But the truth was so ugly.

“And they adored each other. Even though Raylan wasn’t technically his son, they were more alike than Waya and his own blood children.

“We were so happy; no day seemed like the right day to tear that happiness apart. To put such an ugly burden on Raylan. Especially because Ellis died. So there was no chance of him ever finding us.

I can see tears in the corner of Celia’s eyes. Not tears of sorrow—tears of happiness, remembering that time when she was free again, and married to a man who actually loved her, with three beautiful small children running around.

“I waited too long,” she says. “We got this ranch. We moved here, all together. The children grew up so fast. Time flew away from me.

“Raylan found my old wedding certificate in a box in the attic a week before his 18th birthday. He did the math and realized the truth. He was so, so angry at us. He felt betrayed. I think, though he’s never said this, he felt like he no longer belonged to this ranch or to our family in the same way. We promised him it didn’t matter—that all three of the children would inherit the ranch, as we’d always said.

“I don’t think he believed us. He enlisted right after.

“Waya said it was alright. Raylan would go and see more of the world, his anger would fade, and eventually he’d come back to us.

“But then . . . ” now her tears are certainly tears of sorrow. “Waya was killed in a car crash. He was driving Bo home from a party. Another car ran them off the road—we never knew who. If it was intentional, or drunk driving, or a stupid accident.

“Raylan came home for the funeral. We hoped he would stay. But . . . ”

She breaks off, pressing her fingers into her eyes and taking a moment to compose herself.

“I think the guilt was too much for him. He never had a chance to reconnect with Waya. To tell him . . . that he knew Waya was his father. Regardless of blood. And that he loved him. Waya knew all that, of course. And Raylan knows it, too. But when you don’t get to say the words . . . ”

I understand that.

I often find it hard to say out loud what I actually feel. To tell people what they mean to me.

If Cal or Nessa or my mother or father died, or Uncle Oran, I would have many regrets. Things left unsaid that would eat at me.

Knowing that, you’d think I’d call them right now and let it all be said.

But that’s not so easy, either.

My sympathy for Raylan is intense. For Celia as well.

That’s another thing that’s hard to express. How can I tell her how much I appreciate her sharing this with me? How can I tell her that my heart hurts for her younger self? That I admire that she did manage to leave, and that she kept Raylan safe?

All the words that come to mind seem pithy and weak.

I swallow hard, and say only, “Thank you for telling me that, Celia. I . . . care about Raylan. And you know when you care about someone, you want to understand them.”

That doesn’t seem like quite enough, so I add, “You were so brave to leave. You’re very strong.”

Celia squeezes my shoulder gently.

“I haven’t talked about that in a long time,” she says. “But I wanted you to understand why Raylan coming home again means so much to us. And to him, too, I think. He brought you here for a reason.”

I don’t know exactly how to respond to that, so I just say again, “Thank you.”

Celia smiles. “Go on upstairs,” she says. “You’ve got just enough time to wash up before this pie is done.”

I scale the creaking staircase back up to my room.

The guest room is a beautiful space, like all the rooms in the ranch house: light, airy, and open. The walls and ceiling are white-washed wood, and the floor is dark oak, partly covered by a hand-woven rug. The pretty blue quilt on the bed, against the white walls, makes me feel like I’m inside of a cloud, way up in the sky.

I can see an article of clothing laid out on the bed—a dress. It’s light and summery, pale green with a prairie floral print. It looks too feminine to be something out of Bo’s closet. Surely she’s the one who put it here for me, though.

I take a shower, then try to battle with my hair, which is becoming less cooperative by the day. I usually straighten it with all kinds of expensive salon shampoos and serums, and an arsenal of tools. Here I don’t even have a proper blow dryer. I have to let it air dry while I borrow some of Bo’s makeup.

We don’t share the same coloring, and Bo clearly leans toward the minimalist look, with a swipe of heavy black eyeliner. Still, she’s got enough selection that I can add a little color to my pale face. I use her blush, and her lip gloss.