Guilt twisted in my gut. I knew my departure would create difficulties, but this dream had been deferred long enough. At twenty-nine, I couldn't keep waiting for the perfect moment that might never come.
“I'll help with the transition however I can,” I offered. “Training sessions, documentation, whatever you need.”
“I appreciate that sincerely. Though your particular gifts, the way you synthesize physical healing with emotional intuition... those cannot be easily transferred.” He stood and walked over to look at my paintings. “Your eye is exquisite, you know. Your gift is truly immense.”
Heat crept up my neck. Compliments about my art always left me feeling exposed, like someone had seen too far inside me. “Thanks, man. That really means a lot, coming from you.”
“I've observed many talented individuals pass through these walls, Dusty. Artists, entrepreneurs, dreamers of every variety. But rarely have I witnessed someone with your particular combination of technical skill and emotional honesty.” He stopped at a painting of two figures twisted together, their bodies making shapes that suggested more than what was there. “This piece especially, the way you've captured both vulnerability and strength in a single moment. It's quite extraordinary.”
“Painted that after a session with a guest who'd lost his partner,” I whispered. “He was learning to open his heart again, to trust that intimacy didn't always lead to loss.”
“And you helped him see that?”
“Helped him remember that his body could hold joy again, even while grieving. The painting came after, like an echo of that breakthrough.”
Ibrahim nodded slowly. “Precisely what I mean. You don't merely see the physical form. You perceive the stories our bodies tell, the emotions we carry in our muscles and bones. It's a rare gift, both as a healer and as an artist.”
“You and Vincent gave me the space to develop that gift. You guys believed in a kid from the middle of nowhere with more enthusiasm than experience.” The memory of my younger self made me smile. “I'm grateful for everything this place has taught me.”
“And we remain deeply grateful to have played some small part in nurturing such a gifted artist.” Ibrahim's voice held genuine affection. “The pieces you've created during your time here—they've become integral to The Ranch's identity. Our guests comment on them constantly.”
“Really?” Surprise colored my voice.
“Oh yes. There's a collector from New York who has requested to purchase the series in the main lodge. And the piece in the restaurant—guests frequently tell us it was the artwork that helped them understand what The Ranch truly offers.”
“Which piece?”
“The one depicting two men in embrace, with the desert sunrise behind them. The way you've rendered their bodies... there's such profound tenderness there, such complete acceptance of desire without shame.” Ibrahim's smile was warm. “It perfectly encapsulates what we've endeavored to create here.A place where people can explore their authentic selves without judgment.”
I remembered that one. Painted it after working with a guy who'd hidden his sexuality for years, terrified of losing everything if anyone knew. The painting just came out of me that night, all the courage and beauty I'd seen in him finally accepting himself.
“This gallery in Marfa… it's merely the beginning for you, Dusty. Your work deserves to be seen by the world.”
The words settled into me, warm and solid. I'd been fighting self-doubt since I was a kid, that voice saying a boy who couldn't read well had nothing to say with paint. But maybe Ibrahim and Vincent saw something I was just starting to believe in.
After Ibrahim left, I went back to the desk and the paperwork. Outside, The Ranch was doing its usual afternoon thing—laughter from the pool, music drifting from the main building. The first real cold snap of fall had hit this week, and some of the guys who usually went around half-naked were grabbing light jackets. I sat there, with everything feeling a little lighter than before. The mortgage still needed my signature, but it didn't seem as scary now. With Ibrahim and Vincent backing me, with The Ranch connections launching my art career, the future felt less like jumping off a cliff and more like an actual plan.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jake.Need to talk business numbers when you get a chance. Got a deal on some more kayaks, maybe offer more rafting tours. Sam wants to know what you think.
I sighed. Jake meant well, but his “deals” usually cut corners I wasn't comfortable with. Took me seven years to save this money: teaching, selling art, working summers with my brothers in the adventure business. No shortcuts. Sam, the middle brother actually running our family outdoor adventure businessout of Terlingua, had it handled, but I'd check in with them tomorrow if I could.
Phones were usually off-limits here for security, but Ibrahim and Vincent had been cool about letting me use the office lately to call my realtor and mortgage people.
I touched the bank statements again. Every number was hours of work, saying no to stuff so I could say yes to this. Not family money, not loans. Just me, doing the work.
I stood and went to the window. Guests were lounging by the pool, talking low and content. A couple headed toward the garden paths, where the private spots were tucked into the landscaping. Everything looked normal, looked right. But something was different today. Maybe knowing I was leaving soon made me notice things more.
My phone buzzed against the desk, pulling me from my thoughts. Vincent's name appeared on the screen along with a message:Sending a guest your way this afternoon. Personal friend with a shoulder injury. Could use that special Dusty touch. Thanks, beautiful.
Vincent's phrasing intrigued me. 'Personal friend' suggested someone outside the usual client roster, and the emphasis on my 'special touch' implied needs that went beyond standard therapeutic massage.
I typed back:Of course. Anything specific I should know?
The response came quick:Just be your amazing self. This one's important to me.
That last line stuck with me as I got the studio ready, adjusting lights and making sure everything was set. Vincent Stone was the sort of guy my mom would call 'a real charmer', which is why he handled clients while Ibrahim ran staff. But Vincent kept his personal life separate from work. For him to ask for my help specifically, saying this guest was important to him.
Whoever this was really needed something.
