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the ranch. We learned to survive together, the way people do in places where the land doesn’t care about your feelings. Ethan was twelve when I became a widow—a quiet boy with big hands and sad eyes, trying to be strong for me.
“Mom, I can fix the fence,” he’d say, carrying tools heavier than he was.
“No, my love. You are still a child.”
“Not anymore,continue reading …
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