“I don’t mind.”
He stands at the top of the porch steps and watches me go. Neither of us say anything, both just glad everyone made it through the night. I walk, head down, until I hit the path worn by cattle that cuts over to my ranch. Then, I glance up and have to take a beat to soak in the sun breaking over the hills. Sovereign Mountain is a shadowy rise in the distance.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen Westin and Sovereign. Well, a couple of weeks, but for a tight knit community in the middle ofnowhere, that can feel like a long time. Maybe Della and I will have them over for Sunday dinner at some point soon, when the dust settles.
I shoot a text over to Deacon. He sends one right back, saying he’s already in his truck, heading to South Platte, and he can meet me at my house.
I walk back alone, soaking in the silence.
His truck is already in the drive when I move through the dewy grass. It’s touched with the first hint of crisp fall. We’ve got a lot of work to do before winter hits. It’s the never ending cycle of living out here, intertwined with the elements. There’s a certain ability to bend with the turning of seasons, a grace that weathers the strongest storm. After every brutal season comes a mild one. It feels a bit like what I found with Della—a constant forgiveness again and again for all the scars we carried.
My boots crunch on the gravel. Deacon rolls his window down.
“Congrats,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, taking my hat off and pulling open the passenger side.
“Get in, old man. Let’s get moving.” He jerks his head.
I slide in, and he’s pulling out, heading up the long drive that leads to the back pastures. I’ve got the horses in the barn up there in anticipation of needing to move the cattle. I glance behind us and realize Gage is in the back, flipping through his phone.
“Hey,” I say. “I got a bone to pick with you.”
He glances up, freezing.
“Jesus, the fuck did you do now?” Deacon says, running a hand over his face.
I sit back, looking ahead. “You know he was going out with Julie-Mae?”
“I did not,” says Deacon. “When did that happen?”
“It’s not,” says Gage. “We just went out a few times for coffee. We’re not a thing.”
“Oh, so you’re just messing around, huh?”
“No, sir.”
“Better not be.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what?”
He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing for him to explain what he thinks he’s doing. Deacon doesn’t intervene. He just waits, thumb tapping on the wheel. That’s his way of raising his sons; he’s gentle, but he’s pretty firm about his expectations, and he doesn’t shield them from confrontation.
“I was just hoping to go out with her,” Gage says finally.
“And then what?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“You like her?” Deacon interjects.
Silence. I glance in the rearview to find him looking out the window. God, he really looks like Deacon, just without all the ink on his neck and head. But I know that’s a matter of time. It’s already covering one arm and fast creeping up his neck. It’s not the ink or the attitude he inherited from his father that bothers me. It’s that I was young once, and I know how confusing life is, how easy it is to get hurt.
I was hurt so badly. All I want for my kids is that they don’t feel the same.
“Yeah, I do,” Gage says finally.
