And I followed him.
Because… just because.
He stopped in the kitchen, took some meds, then with the box tucked under his arm, he headed out into the dark.
“Lucas? Where are you going?”
“I need to read these.”
I bundled up fast and followed, grabbing the flashlight by the door. Wherever he was going, I was going too. Somewhere between watching the color drain out of his face and picking up my flashlight and going after him into the cold, I stopped being able to pretend this was just about sex, or about two men stuck in the same house with nothing better to do. I didn't have a word for it yet. I didn't want one. I just followed him.
It took me a few seconds to realize he was heading for the guest cabins, and I picked up my pace to stay close as we crossed the bridge, my head full of worst-case scenarios—him slipping, going down hard, disappearing into the dark before I could reach him. He stopped at one of the middle cabins and went inside, holding the door until I followed, then shutting the cold out behind us.
I opened my mouth to ask what the hell he was doing, but he flicked a switch instead. A small generator kicked in somewhere down the hall, its low churn filling the space as light spilled into the next room.
Someone had been using this cabin. A chair pulled out as if it had been used recently. Books stacked on a shelf next to a Broncos mug. Blankets piled on the floor, a small space heater tucked close, fighting the cold.
“This is my Boone,” he said as I stared, and even quirked a smile. “Like he is for you, this is books and silence and my happy space.”
“Okay.”
“I’d offer you the chair, but I can’t sit on the floor right now. I mean, I could, but you’d have to carry me home. You can have the blankets, though,” he said after a second, eyes tracking from the pile on the floor to the sturdy easy chair that looked very similar to one we used to use to prop the door open in the small barn.
I took his free hand and tugged him toward the chair, steadying him when he hissed under his breath. As I passed, I scooped up the blankets, draping them over my arm, then sat and pulled him down with me before he could argue.
He landed half on my lap, box still clutched tight to his chest, as if letting go might break him. I shifted us until he was settled, then wrapped the blankets around his shoulders, around my legs, tucking the edges in close and sliding one corner under the box so it didn’t dig into him.
“Okay?” I asked quietly.
For a beat, he held himself rigid. Then, he nodded onceand curled into me, and for a moment his forehead pressed into my shoulder.
Then, he shifted and eased the box onto his knees. His hands shook when he took the lid off. Inside were envelopes, stacked and bundled, some yellowed, some newer, all of them handled enough to have softened at the edges.
He picked one up, turned it over, then opened the first.
He read silently, not hiding the notes but tilting them so I could see what he was reading.
One envelope after another. Years passing in uneven jumps. News of Lucas growing up. Drama club. First crush. The words were never warm, always neutral. Updates delivered like invoices. News paired with amounts, hardship, and I was guessing, embellished just enough to loosen Walter’s wallet. Each letter circled back to the same refrain:Lucasdidn’t want contact.Lucaswasn’t ready.Lucasremembered what Walter had done to his father.
The story was always the same in every letter. Walter had thrown his son out. Walter had chosen the ranch. Walter should have forgiven his son for borrowing money from the ranch. Walter should have forgiven his son for lying and stealing. Walter was cruel, unmovable, and hateful. And tucked inside that framing, again and again, was the implication that rejection ran in the blood—that if Walter could discard his own child, he would never want the grandson who came after.
“She lied to him.” His voice came out flat, stripped of everything. “Every letter. She kept telling him I didn't want contact, that I remembered what he'd done, that I blamed him, and he believed her because why wouldn't he? She washis son's wife and she was the only line he had.” His hand went still on the box, and when he looked up, his eyes were bright and furious. “My dad let her do it. He probably encouraged it. Keeping Walter away meant keeping control of the story, keeping the money when it came, keeping me from having any other option.” He let out a breath that wasn't quite steady. “He did that. My own father did that.”
He sat with it for a second, jaw tight.
“Did Walter ever talk about me?”
“He often said that one day you’d come here, but he was old-school private, quiet, stubborn; he never talked much at all except for ranch things. I know there was a falling-out between him and your dad, over gambling with ranch money or something. Ruth might know more, being older.”
“That tracks. Dad liked to gamble and drink.” Lucas huffed as he folded the final letter with shaky care and put it back in the box. Then, he leaned onto me again, this time heavier, and pulled out the first of a small bundle of white envelopes with the ranch logo and his name on the front, along with a year.
He sorted them in order and opened the first, clearing his throat, then reading them out loud.
“My dear Lucas,
I know you’ll never read this. I’m not even sure I should be writing it. But I keep thinking about you, and this is the only way I know how to put the words somewhere safe.
If you were here, I’d hold your hand and show you the horses first—the calm ones, not thefools. I’d let you sit high up so you could see the land properly. I’d teach you how to hold the reins, how to listen, and how to trust an animal bigger than yourself. I think you’d be good at it. I think you’d like it.
