Dust and Sunrise

by Esther Campbell

The first light of dawn spilled over the Wyoming plains, brushing the tops of the sagebrush in gold. Sam McAllister was already up, coffee in hand, leaning on the railing of the old porch his grandfather built with nothing but sweat and stubbornness. He watched the sky shift from lavender to fire—another day was waking up at the McAllister Ranch.

 Sam’s boots hit the ground with a familiar thud as he made his way to the barn. Inside, the horses stirred. Bandit, his paint gelding, tossed his head and nickered low.

 “Morning, old boy,” Sam said, rubbing Bandit's nose. He saddled up and rode out to check on the herd, the grass crunching under hoof, the air sharp and clean.

 Ranch life wasn’t easy. It wasn’t flashy or fast. But it was honest. Every day was a test of grit—from mending barbed wire fences in hundred-degree heat to pulling calves out in blizzards. And Sam wouldn’t trade it for anything.

 By midmorning, his sister Cassie arrived with her two kids in tow. She brought biscuits wrapped in a towel and news from town. The kids ran wild, chasing chickens and helping scatter feed.

 Later, while fixing a busted water line in the back pasture, Sam spotted a hawk circling high overhead. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, and thought about how this place had been in the family for four generations. His great-grandfather had carved it out of nothing. Now it was his turn to hold it together.

 That evening, after the chores were done and the sun dipped low behind the cottonwoods, the family sat out on the porch again. Cassie played an old tune on the guitar while the kids roasted marshmallows over a firepit Sam built from river stones.

 Life wasn’t perfect. But here—where the dust clung to your boots and the stars went on forever—it felt real.

 And that was enough.