Firefly Nights

CHAPTER 4

Being an Odell feels like carrying something too heavy for one pair of shoulders. They talk about Tex Odell like he's still out there riding bulls, or Mama, Evelyn Odell, who baked pies as if she could bottle up all the sweetness in life and serve it warm. But that story, the one they passed around at rodeos and ranch gatherings, isn't mine. Not anymore.

These days, it's Windwalker Cattle Co. that gets whispered about. And when they talk about the Odell name now, it's with a kind of hesitation, like they're waiting to see how long we can keep the pieces from falling apart. It's not the same weight Daddy carried on his shoulders, not the same mantle Mama wore with a smile. It's heavier, quieter—a slow unraveling beneath the surface.

The land here... it's wild in a way that gets under your skin. Fifteen hundred acres of untamed Wyoming, stretching out beneath a sky so wide it threatens to swallow you whole if you stare too long. Some days, I swear I can feel this place breathe, in time with the winds that roll down from the Absaroka Range. Other days, it feels brittle, like the ground could crack beneath my boots if I make one wrong move. Maybe that's the truth of it—Windwalker, the Odell name, the land itself—are all things held together by threads, fraying just a little more with each passing season.

I watch the sun sink lower, casting bruised purples and dusky golds across the pastures, and for just a moment, everything looks like it used to—untouched, almost perfect, like time had stopped and the land was holding its breath. But if you looked closer, you'd see the truth. The fences are sagging, the barns groan under the weight of too many winters, and the fields—well, they've grown stubborn, yielding half of what they used to. Time hasn't been kind. No matter how hard I try to hold on, it feels like the land is slipping further away, like everything here is slowly unraveling in my hands. There's a weight to that realization, a kind of pressure that wraps around your chest.

The farmhouse hasn't changed much over the years. It stands there, stubborn as ever, perched on its little half-acre plot, dwarfed by the endless stretch of range that unfolds beyond it. The edges of the porch are worn, the paint chipped from years of weather and wind, but it's still standing, watching silently over a life that's long gone, like it's the last witness to something none of us can get back.

I used to think this house was untouchable. It was where every moment felt larger than life—where the air itself buzzed with laughter, and the walls seemed to hold everything together, as if they were stitched with the lives lived inside them. There were three bedrooms—two upstairs and one down. Tex and Mama had claimed the downstairs room, planting themselves there as if laying down roots that would last forever. It wasn't just a room; it was the center of everything. Late-night gatherings, stolen glances, whispered secrets—it all happened there, as if the heartbeat of this house pulsed strongest within those walls.

Laney and I would sit at the top of the stairs, knees tucked under us, peeking through the banister like we were watching something sacred. We thought we were so clever, hiding out of sight, but Daddy always knew. His eyes would flick up just long enough to catch us, a smile tugging at his lips, and then he'd go right back to pulling Mama close, wrapping his arms around her like she was the only thing that anchored him. They would sway together, bodies moving in perfect rhythm, like they had spent their whole lives dancing through the highs and lows, never missing a beat. Even then, I knew what I was seeing was rare—something real and unbreakable. The kind of love that didn't just fill the room, but overflowed, spilling into every corner of this place, until it felt too big for the house to contain.