Chapter 10: Leaving the Land
The silence after the phone call felt thick and heavy, like the humid air before another storm. Elena stared at the simple silver ring in her muddy palm. It felt cold, alien, a relic from a hidden life her mother had buried as deep as the roots they were digging up. Liam stood frozen a few feet away, his earlier shock replaced by a tense watchfulness. The questions hung unspoken between them, sharp as thorns: *Whose ring? When? Why did you react like that?*
But the lawyer's words echoed louder: *Sole beneficiary. Next week. Chicago.* The dying lavender fields, the spreading rot, the mountain of debt – they all suddenly felt like problems happening to someone else, miles away. Her father, the distant, disapproving figure who'd left when she was ten, was gone. And his death was pulling her back into a world she'd fled.
"I have to go," Elena said, the words scraping her throat. She looked past Liam, towards the farmhouse, the piles of bills, Evans's damning report. "To Chicago. My father… he died. I have to deal with… his estate." Saying it out loud made it real, a fresh wave of numbness washing over the exhaustion and mud.
Liam didn't move for a long moment. His gaze flickered from her face to the ring, then out to the orange-tagged plants waiting for the fire. When he spoke, his voice was carefully flat. "How long?"
"A week? Maybe more. The lawyer said it couldn't be done remotely." She closed her fingers around the ring, its edges pressing into her skin. "I can't… I can't just leave this." She gestured helplessly at the burn pile, the fields, the impossible fight.
"You have to." Liam's voice was quiet, but firm. He finally stepped closer, not looking at the ring in her hand, his focus entirely on her face. "This," he nodded towards the farm, "won't be won or lost in a week. The rot's here. The plants tagged need burning. That's slow, careful work. The healthy fields… they need watching, watering carefully. But the war?" He shook his head slightly. "It's a long one. A week won't change the big picture."
His practicality was a lifeline, pulling her out of the drowning panic. He was right. Leaving felt like abandoning her post, but the battle lines wouldn't shift dramatically in seven days. Not yet.
"But… the removal? The burning? The fungicide… the drip irrigation…" The list felt endless, overwhelming without her there.
"I can handle the burning," Liam said, his voice gaining a steady strength. "Slow and steady. Mark more plants if new symptoms show. Keep the water flowing where it's needed, careful like Evans said. Monitor." He met her eyes, his expression resolute. "I'll hold the line, Elena. I'll keep Wildhaven breathing until you get back."
The simple promise, the utter conviction in his voice, loosened the knot of panic in her chest. She believed him. He knew this land, these plants, this fight, almost as well as her mother had. He'd been part of building the dream; he wouldn't let it collapse easily.
"What about… this?" She opened her hand, revealing the tarnished ring again. The unspoken question hung heavy in the air. *Who?*
Liam's jaw tightened. He looked at the ring, then quickly away, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains. Pain flickered across his face, raw and deep, before he masked it. "That's… Sarah's business," he said roughly. "Buried with her. You don't need that weight now." He took a deliberate step back. "Go pack. Book your flight. I'll finish clearing this load and start the fire."
His dismissal was clear, a wall slamming down around the ring, around whatever history it represented. It hurt, the sudden distance after the shared labor, after his promise to hold the farm. But she had no energy left to push. Her father's death, the trip, the ring's mystery – it was too much.
Wordlessly, Elena closed her hand around the ring again. Its cold metal felt like a secret pressed against her skin. She turned and walked back towards the farmhouse, each step heavy with mud and the burden of leaving.
***
Three days later, Elena stood at the gate of the small regional airport. Montana stretched out behind her – vast skies, hazy mountains, the unseen patch of earth that was Wildhaven Blooms fighting for its life. Ahead lay Chicago – steel, glass, and the cold business of death.
She wore clean clothes bought hastily in town – dark pants, a simple blouse – feeling like an imposter in her own skin. The silver ring was tucked deep in her pocket, a constant, unsettling presence. Her carry-on held only essentials; she intended this trip to be brutally short.
Liam had driven her. The ride had been mostly silent, the easy rhythm of their shared work replaced by awkward tension. He'd updated her tersely: the first batch of infected plants burned cleanly. No new major outbreaks spotted. Old Bessie was holding. He'd marked three more suspicious Hidcote plants. He'd hold the line.
As they stopped at the curb, he got out and pulled her bag from the truck bed. The morning air was cool, smelling of jet fuel and distant pine.
"Call if you need anything," he said, handing her the bag. His voice was neutral, professional. "Or if… things in Chicago take longer."
"I won't let them," Elena said fiercely. "I'll be back as fast as I can." She searched his face, looking for some sign, some crack in the wall he'd built since finding the ring. She saw only the quiet strength, the steadfastness that anchored her here. And the careful distance.
"Just come back ready to fight," he said, meeting her eyes for a brief, intense moment. "The land will be waiting." He didn't say *I* will be waiting, but the implication hung there.
He gave a curt nod, then turned and got back into the truck. He didn't wait for her to go inside. The old blue pickup pulled away, merging into the airport traffic, taking a piece of her resolve with it.
Elena watched it go until it disappeared. The vastness of Montana suddenly felt lonely, the fight impossibly far away. She touched the ring through her pocket, a cold talisman of secrets. Then she squared her shoulders, hefted her bag, and turned towards the terminal doors.
Chicago awaited – a city of ghosts, both old and new. Her father's cold legacy. Her mother's hidden past. And the relentless pull of a lavender field dying under a Montana sun, guarded by a man who held his own secrets close. She walked into the sterile airport air, leaving the scent of earth and fire behind, carrying only the weight of silver and the desperate hope of returning before it was too late. The war was paused, not over. And she was walking away from the front lines.