That familiar voice started whispering again. The one that convinced me I wasn't cut out for this. Maybe Jake's betrayal was just confirmation of what I'd always suspected, that some people are meant to dream, other people are meant to make those dreams work. I'd always been better at the dreaming part.
“I'll work through it,” I said.
“Of course. But you need not do it alone.” Ibrahim studied me with those dark eyes. “Consider that healing others might prove easier when you are not holding so much pain yourself, Dustin.”
I nodded, but before I could deflect further, his expression shifted to something more immediate.
“How much does Mr. Morales know about your situation?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “He knows there are family business complications. Nothing specific.”
“You've been avoiding him since you returned from the cabin.” Not a question.
Fuck. Of course he'd noticed. Nothing happened at The Ranch without Ibrahim cataloging the emotional undercurrents, especially when it involved his staff avoiding clients who were technically paying for their time.
“He's leaving tomorrow morning,” I said. Not really an answer to his unspoken question.
“It would be logical to tell him the truth,” Ibrahim said. “He deserves honesty about why you've been distant, at minimum.”
I nodded. Ibrahim was right. I couldn't keep avoiding Cord, especially not on his last night here.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'll talk to him.”
Ibrahim was quiet, his expression softening slightly. When he spoke again, his voice carried unexpected gentleness. “Be careful, Dustin. You're dealing with considerable emotional stress, and complicated farewells have a tendency to compound existing difficulties.”
I nodded and walked away before he could dig any deeper into territory I wasn't ready to explore. Ibrahim meant well, but I needed to handle my immediate problems before diving into therapy about family trauma and broken trust.
Back in the conference room Vincent had offered me for privacy, I sat at the glass table and stared at my phone. The contact list showed names of artists I'd been courting for months. Marisol Rosas was first, the painter whose desert landscapes captured something essential about West Texas that galleries in Santa Fe could never quite understand.
The phone rang twice before her warm voice answered. “Dusty! Perfect timing. I was just finishing up a piece that would be perfect for the gallery.”
Straight to the heart. Like ripping off a bandage.
“Marisol, I need to tell you something.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “There's been a family emergency. I have to cancel the gallery project.”
Silence stretched between us long enough that I wondered if the call had dropped. Then: “Cancel? But we were so close to finalizing everything.”
“I know. I'm sorry. There was a financial situation with my family, and I lost the funding for the building.” The words tasted bitter. “I can't afford to open the gallery at all now.”
“Dios mío. Dusty, are you okay? Is someone hurt?”
Her concern for me when I was crushing her opportunity made everything worse. “Everyone's physically fine. It's just money problems. Bad decisions by people I trusted.”
“Oh,mijo. I'm so sorry.” A pause. “Is there any way to postpone instead of cancel? Maybe find other funding?”
I'd already run those calculations a hundred times since Sam's call. “I’m so sorry, there aren’t any other options right now.”
Another silence, shorter this time. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of someone who'd had dreams deferred before. “These things happen, Dusty. Art finds a way. Maybe this isn't the right time, but there will be other chances.”
“I hope so.” I didn't believe it, but hope seemed like something I owed her.
Six more calls followed the same pattern. Nico, whose bronze sculptures deserved museum recognition. Sydney, the photographer who captured ranch life with an intimacy that made you homesick for places you'd never been. Artists who'd been excited about showing their work, who'd started imagining what it might mean for their careers.
Each conversation was like dismantling something I'd built by hand. Nico's quiet “Oh” when I told him. Sydney asking if there was anything she could do to help when she was the one losing an opportunity. Artists who'd started imagining futures that now had to be folded back up and put away.
I took a five-minute break between calls four and five, stepping out onto the conference room balcony to breathe desert air that didn't taste like disappointment. The Ranch spread out below me—guests lounging by the pool, staff moving withpurposeful efficiency, the whole operation humming along like a well-oiled machine. Vincent and Ibrahim had built something lasting here.
Maybe that was enough to aspire to right now.
