Chapter 6: Tamika’s email
The pre-dawn darkness was absolute, a thick blanket over the high plains. Inside the ranch house, only the desk lamp in Brandon’s office burned, a pool of warm light in the vast quiet. He sipped his black coffee, the bitter heat a reliable anchor. Four a.m. was his time. The world held its breath, and he could hear himself think above the coming din of cattle and machinery.
The leather chair groaned as he leaned back, scrolling through the predictable emails: feed invoices, a farrier’s confirmation, a PBR promotional blurb. Then he saw it. His thumb froze on the trackpad.
The sender field read ‘Tamika Jones’. The subject line was a single, gut-punching word: Alysha.
His heart, a steady drum a moment before, did a slow, heavy roll against his ribs. He didn’t recognize the address. He set the mug down carefully, the click too loud in the silent room. He opened it.
Tamika’s email was to the point. It was not aggressive or protective. The opposite.
Brandon,
You don’t know me. My name is Tamika. I’m Alysha’s best friend, have been since third grade. I found your email on your ranch’s website. I also, thanks to the modern miracle of the internet, read your Wikipedia page. A three-gun champion, a PBR champ, running this spread by eighteen? You must be something else. You must be special, to do what you’ve done with the hand you were dealt.
That’s how I know Alysha. She’s special the same way. Not with trophies, but with heart. She’s had to put up with the same toxic BS we all get wired to believe is as good as it gets.
I’m writing because I saw her face today after she talked about you. Really saw it. The light and the ache all mixed up. I don’t know what obstacles you perceive are between you two, or what walls life has put up for you. I just know she’s staring at the same kind from her side.
Here’s what I think. If you can fit time enough to do ‘whatever you did in that motel room’ in the time you had together, then you can find room to be in each other’s lives. However that looks. We make room for what matters.
Don’t overthink it. Don’t let the distance or the noise win.
P.S. I’m not saying Alysha told us what happened. I’m just saying she definitely told us what happened. In clinical detail. We needed oxygen.
Be well,
Tamika
Brandon read it. Then he read it again, his eyes catching on phrases: the hand you were dealt… the same toxic BS… whatever you did in that motel room.
A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face. It felt strange on his features so early in the morning. Clinical detail. He ran a calloused hand over his jaw, the scrape of stubble loud in the quiet room. His eyes drifted to the single framed photo tucked under his ledger, the one of a younger Alysha beaming behind a daycare corkboard.
He’d looked at that picture a thousand times since he was a boy. Now he saw the woman from the motel room superimposed over it—the curve of her smile, the heat in her honey-brown eyes when she looked up from beneath him. The memory was a live wire, and Tamika’s email had just plugged it in. We make room for what matters.
He took another long pull of coffee, the liquid now just warm. Then he set the mug down with a decisive thud and placed his hands on the keyboard. The keys clacked loudly, a staccato rhythm in the sleeping house.
He typed a reply as he sipped his cooling coffee.
Tamika,
I appreciate you reaching out. More than you know. My stomach has been in knots since I left, because I had no idea how to move forwards from something that felt that big.
Alysha is a self-possessed, incredible woman. I would never reduce her or what she’s accomplished for my own selfish desires. Even if all I want is to keep a smile on her face.
He paused, his fingers hovering. The truth of it was a physical pressure behind his ribs. He deleted the last sentence, typed it again. He left it.
I’m glad I put a smile on her face. I’m even gladder to hear it’s still there.
As soon as I send this, I have to make my rounds, then shoot, then ride, then meet with buyers. But as soon as that is done, I will make time to reach out. No matter what. Thank you for reaching out. Your straightforward nature, and your obvious love for Alysha, means a hell of a lot.
Sincerely,
Brandon
He read it over once. It was raw, maybe too direct. But Tamika had been direct. He pictured her at the diner with Alysha and Jess, demanding surgical-level details. He hit ‘send’ before he could overthink it.
The screen blinked. Message sent. A lightness, unexpected and fierce, bloomed in his chest. It wasn’t a solution. It was a lifeline thrown across a canyon he’d thought was uncrossable. He drained the last of his coffee and stood, the leather chair sighing in relief.
Outside his office window, the eastern sky was beginning to bleed a pale gray. The sprawling, sleeping ranch was about to wake. He had a day of concrete tasks ahead, each one demanding his full attention. But for the first time since driving away from the Silver Spur Lodge, the weight of his solitude felt different. It wasn’t emptiness. It was space. Space he now knew, with a certainty that shocked him, he desperately wanted to fill. He grabbed his Stetson from the rack, the familiar creak of the crown a comfort.
He stepped out onto the porch, the cool morning air biting through his shirt. The first bird of the day called, a lone, clear note. He inhaled deeply, the scent of sage and damp earth filling his lungs. His day was a map already drawn: the north pasture, the shooting range, the practice pens, the conference call. But underneath it all, a new current was pulling, relentless and sweet. The work would get done. And then, he would make room.