Chapter 3
By morning, the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle.
The road beyond my property was blocked by fallen branches. The low crossing had flooded. Nobody was leaving soon.
Mason checked the house from safe positions and called a local contractor he knew. He made it clear he was not a substitute for an inspection.
The kitchen was unusable.
Part of the ceiling lay across the table.
The living room remained dry, but the damaged roof needed attention before another storm.
I stood at the doorway and looked at the chair where Thomas used to drink coffee.
A piece of plaster covered the seat.
I wanted to apologize to him.
For letting the house grow weak.
For pretending the bowl beneath the leak was a repair.
For being unable to keep the place he loved safe.
Wade stood beside me.
“What do you need right now?”
I almost said nothing.
The word had become a habit.
Instead, I said, “I need to sit somewhere I can’t see it.”
He helped me return to the workshop.
The riders had already begun clearing safe sections of the yard. They waited for permission before moving anything near the house.
Jo checked whether I had taken my usual medication.
I had.
She asked whether I had somewhere warm to stay.
“I can sleep in the workshop.”
“For tonight, maybe. We need a better plan.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“I understand. Leaving for a few nights isn’t giving it away.”
I looked toward the final notice.
Wade followed my gaze.
“May I ask about that?”
I nodded.
“It says I’m behind on a loan.”
“Are you?”
“I thought I was making payments.”
He waited.
“I send money through my son-in-law. Nate handles the online things.”
Wade’s expression stayed careful.
“How long?”
“Nearly two years.”
“Do you have statements?”
“In the bedroom.”
Mason said that side of the house could be entered briefly with care while the contractor was on the way. He brought my box of papers from the closet.
I sat at the bench and opened it.
Receipts.
Letters.
Old pension notices.
A photograph of Rachel at graduation.
Thomas’s death certificate.
I disliked seeing a whole life flattened into things a stranger might sort.
Wade asked whether I wanted help reading the notice.
“Yes.”
The loan was secured against my house.
I knew about it. Nate had arranged a small loan for roof repairs and repairs to the heating system.
The roof contractor never came.
Nate said materials had become expensive and the work would be rescheduled.
I had continued sending payments because he told me interest did not wait.
The notice said payments had not been received for five months.
“I sent them,” I whispered.
“To Nate?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have those records?”
“I have the bank slips.”
We found them.
The amounts matched what he had asked for.
They did not prove he paid the lender.
Wade said that carefully.
I appreciated it.
I did not want someone deciding Nate was guilty simply because the house was damaged.
I also could not ignore the numbers.
Jo called the lender with me using the number printed on the notice. I answered the identity questions myself.
The representative confirmed the arrears.
She also mentioned a recent request to change the mailing address.
“What address?” I asked.
She read an address in Colorado.
Nate and Rachel’s house.
I stared at the phone.
“I didn’t request that.”
She noted the dispute and explained what records I could request. I wrote down the information.
My handwriting shook.
After the call, Wade asked whether I wanted to contact Rachel.
“I’ve called.”
“When?”
“Last week. The week before.”
“What happened?”
“Nate said she was busy. He told me he’d pass on the messages.”
Wade did not speak for a moment.
Then he asked, “Do you have her direct number?”
“Yes.”
We called it.
The voicemail answered.
I began with my usual cheerful voice.
Then I stopped pretending.
“Rachel, the kitchen roof came down in the storm. I’m safe. There are people here helping. I need you to call me.”
I ended the message.
For once, I had said what I needed.
The contractor arrived near noon.
He checked the roof and supports. He said repairs were possible, but I should not use the kitchen until they were completed.
Possible.
I held on to that word.
Meanwhile, Wade’s group found a nearby lodge with enough vacancies for the night. Several riders planned to leave once the road reopened. Others wanted to stay and help.
Wade asked whether I would accept a room.
“I can’t pay.”
“The group has an emergency fund. We’ll cover two nights while you decide what comes next.”
I looked at him.
“I don’t want charity.”
“Then call it shelter from the storm. You gave us some first.”
I accepted.
As Jo helped pack my bag, my phone rang.
Rachel.
May you like
Her first words were not about the ceiling.
“Mom, Nate told me you sold the house.”
