I’d been sitting on the floor with my back against a wall in the non-fiction section of the library, the borrowed phone in my hand, battery low, fingers numb from the cold and from holding myself together too tightly. My back hurt fromthe beating I’d gotten from some other street kids who thought it would be cool to abuse me and, then, throw me down some stairs. The pain was bad, but the humiliation was worse.
I’d found a dollar in the gutter and used it to buy enough computer time to get the number for Snow Creek Ranch—and I remember staring at it for a long time before begging the librarian to use the phone. I was desperate, and she’d taken pity on me, given me the handset, and smiled. The phone had only rung twice before it was picked up.
“Snow Creek,” a man answered.
“This is… I’m…”
“Spit it out!”
“It’s me, Lucas,” I said, and my voice cracked immediately. I hadn’t planned for that. I tried again.
Silence. Long enough that I thought the call had dropped.
I filled it without meaning to. I told him I was broke. That my savings had lasted five days. That I had nowhere to go. That I was sleeping rough and just needed time, work, anything. It all came out tangled and fast—the fight with my dad, coming out, choosing to be honest instead of safe. I heard my father’s voice in my head as I spoke:no one will want you like this.
When the voice on the other end finally came, it was flat.
“Fuck, it’s an infection,” it said; then, there was a laugh, derisive. “We don’t want any more queers here,” he said. “You come anywhere near me or this ranch, and I’ll put you down myself.” He added a whole load of other slurs, and then, the line went dead.
An icy gust of wind circled me, pulling me back from wallowing in memories, needling through my coat, and I stepped back from the grave, my boots sinking into deeper snow. That was it. I was done here. I had nothing left to say, no last words that mattered, no messages waiting to rise from the frozen ground. If there was any grief in me at all, it wasn’t for him—it was for myself, for the boy who had made that call believing blood might mean safety.
Jesse was wrong.
I turned away and walked back toward Gunner. “Thank you,” I said, the words thin but sincere. He nodded once and waited while I climbed on behind him. When the ATV moved, it was slower this time, steadier, as if the quiet cowboy decided I was fragile now, or maybe just human, and worth handling with a little care.
I didn’t need care. I needed to complete my six months, sell this place, and do all kinds of good with the money that came to me.
That was all.
Chapter 16
Jesse
Dad’s was one of four apartments carved out of what had once been a single-family home, his on the ground floor, so he didn’t have to manage stairs. He was lucky I’d gotten him this place, an expense I could write off, but not for much longer if Lucas pulled me up on it. Nearly every cent I took from Snow Creek as my meagre salary went back to paying the costs here. I knew he’d been looking at the accounts, but he hadn’t gotten anywhere near specific enough to look at small details, too busy cataloging what he could sell.
I let myself in with my key, and where he’d usually be watching TV, tuned to one of those channels that never stopped being angry, it was quiet. I stood there for a second, listening for movement, for anger, for anything sharp enough to brace for. Nothing came.
He was asleep in his chair, sprawled this way and that. He was a big man, even now—broad shoulders, heavy hands, built to take up space and make people think twice. Beforethe accident, before he’d stopped being foreman, that size had come with real strength. Now it was dulled, edges worn down, his body weakened even if his temper hadn’t softened one bit.
Mouth slightly open. Hands loose in his lap. His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm, telling me he was likely medicated. The bitter figure who’d once filled every room with noise and temper was reduced to this decaying thing that refused to die. Guilt poked at me, but guilt was complicated and meant maybe I loved him, but I didn’t feel love. I checked for it, out of habit. Nothing.
Still, I didn’t feel hate either.
What I felt was responsibility. A dull weight that never shifted.
I made sure the back door was locked. Checked the fridge. Threw out milk that had gone sour. Left a note by the kettle reminding him to eat something in the morning. The kind of things I did when I couldn’t fix the bigger damage, but still knew what neglect looked like.
I heard him stir behind me.
“Get the hell out of my house, Hoyt!” he snarled, voice thick.
“It’s Jesse,” I said.
Spit gathered at the corner of his mouth as the words forced their way out.
“You killed my Molly!” he yelled, then slipped into talking about me as if I wasn’t there. “Jesse did.”
My chest burned. “Mama had pre-eclampsia,” I reminded him. “You can’t put that on your son.”
