Forgiveness in the Dust

Some things don’t mend loud. They just start holdin’ again, slow and steady.

The morning was cooler than it had been in weeks. Sky still pale, light slipping over the ridge slow, like it wasn’t in a hurry to see what the day would hold.

They’d been fixing fence since dawn—nothing urgent, just one of those sections that’d gone soft with rain and time. A corner post leaning wrong, wire sagging like tired shoulders. Jed had said it needed shoring up. Joel hadn’t argued.

They worked steady, boots wet with dew, breath visible in the shade.

Not much was said. But it didn’t feel like before. The silence had changed shape.

When the last nail was in, Joel stepped back, brushed off his hands, and walked to the truck. He rummaged a second, then came back holding something folded.

Jed squinted. “That my old flannel?”

Joel held it out—clean, sun-dried. “Figured you might want it back.”

Jed took it without a word. Held it a beat longer than he needed to, thumb brushing the worn edge like he was feeling something older than fabric. Then he looked up.

“Thanks,” he said. 

Joel nodded once, started to turn—then paused.

“You still want me here?”

Jed didn’t hesitate. “You wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.”

Joel looked at the ground, then back at Jed. “Alright.”

Jed moved past him toward the barn, but halfway there, he reached back and tapped Joel’s arm lightly with the folded shirt.

“Put that in the house, will you?”

Joel took it. Tucked it under his arm like something that still had weight.

Later, when they were both back inside, Jed poured the coffee. Poured Joel’s too—no need to ask how he took it. He slid the mug across the table like he had a hundred times before.

Joel caught it. Held it a second. “Thanks.”

Jed nodded, still standing. “Good to have you back at the table.”

That was all.

But it was enough to start again.

(Chapter from First Light in the Jed and Joel series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)