28. BECKETT
BECKETT
My headlights blur into streaks as I push the truck faster down the dark road, gravel spitting under the tires.
My hands grip the wheel so tight my knuckles ache, but I don’t let go.
I can’t. If I slow down, if I stop, I’ll think.
And if I think, I’ll see her face again—pale and furious, her words sharp enough to carve me open.
You ruined my life, Beck.
She was right. God help me, she was right.
The truth of it presses down on me, leaving me breathless.
I’ve been choking since I walked out of Atwood Manor, since she looked at me like I was poison.
Maybe I am. Hell, I’ve poisoned everything I’ve ever touched—my rodeo career, family, and reputation.
And now her. The one good thing I ever had, and I’ve managed to shatter it.
The night air coming in through the cracked window does nothing to clear my head. Wrangler Creek fades in the rearview mirror, but the shame doesn’t stay behind with it. It clings, heavy as tar, crawling under my skin.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel, the horn blaring into the emptiness. “Goddammit!”
I can’t go home. I can’t face Dad’s disappointment, my brother’s questioning, and Ella’s worry. I can’t face Quinn’s brothers either, especially Landon, who trusted me with his sister. No, I need distance—somewhere no one expects me to be strong, or sober, or worth a damn.
Which means there’s only one place left to run: Ryder’s.
My big brother, the family’s black sheep.
He walked away years ago and never looked back, building a life out in the wilderness where no one could tell him what to do.
Everyone calls him trouble, whispers about the shady things he might be mixed up in.
But right now, I’d take Ryder’s rough edges over the suffocating weight of Wrangler Creek.
He won’t judge me. He’ll laugh in my face, maybe, but he won’t expect me to be anything other than the screw-up I’ve always been.
So I keep driving past the county line and the place I call home. The road narrows, the stars stretch wider above me, and still, I can’t outrun the sound of Quinn’s voice in my head.
Her tears. Her fury. And the knowledge that I’ve lost her.
Ryder’s place isn’t easy to find, and that’s by design.
The farther I drive, the rougher the road gets.
Asphalt turns to dirt, and dirt gives way to rutted trails that scrape the undercarriage of my truck.
Branches claw at the paint, and I drive more carefully once I spot the glint of barbed wire strung low through the trees.
Ryder doesn’t do welcome mats. He does warnings.
He’s always been the odd one out, the Morgan who never fit—after me, that is—and he never cared to.
While the rest of us tied ourselves to Iron Stallion, our family name, and responsibilities, Ryder bought himself a damn mountain.
No neighbors, rules, or anyone to answer to.
Just the wilderness and whatever secrets he’s hiding up here.
By the time I reach the gates, it’s midnight, and the headlights sweep across steel and stone.
The thing looks less like a home and more like a fortress—tall walls, reinforced fencing, cameras glinting red in the dark.
Off-grid, sure, but not roughing it. Ryder built himself luxury in isolation, a self-sufficient kingdom no one can touch.
The gates creak open slowly, my gut twists, and for a moment I wonder if I should turn back. But I don’t. I roll forward, and all I can think is if there’s anywhere I can disappear, it’s here.
The truck shudders to a stop in front of the main lodge, and for a moment I just sit here, gripping the wheel. The porch light flicks on, casting a warm glow across the stone steps.
The door swings open before I even step out. Ryder leans against the frame, a shotgun balanced casually in his arms. His beard is thicker than the last time I saw him, his hair wilder, but his eyes—those sharp, knowing Morgan eyes—catch me just the same.
“Well, look who crawled out from civilization,” he bellows. His voice is gravel and smoke.
I swallow hard, forcing a crooked grin I don’t feel. “Miss me?”
He studies me for a beat too long, then props the gun against the wall. “You look like hell.”
“I feel worse,” I mutter.
“Good. Means you’re still breathing.” He jerks his chin toward the inside. “Get in here before the coyotes figure out you’re easy pickings.”
I finally drag myself from the cab, exhaustion in every step. Ryder’s eyes scan me once—sharp but unreadable—and then he gives a small nod. No judgment. No lecture. Just that quiet acceptance only he seems capable of.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I swallow hard and nod. Words don’t come easy right now.
He motions me inside, where the place is all wood and steel and expensive taste dressed up as rugged living. He makes me a plate filled with meat, potatoes, and vegetables—something hearty that I don’t ask for but damn sure need.
“You know where the guest rooms are,” he says, already turning away, giving me space. “Stay as long as you need.”
This is not my first time here, as Ryder has always been my refuge when Wrangler Creek was too much.
That’s Ryder Morgan for you. No questions, no prying. Just a roof, a meal, and silence thick enough to drown in.
The days blur together in this fortress. At first, I tell myself I just need a night to clear my head, maybe two. But one night turns into three, then five, then a full damn week.
I wander this place like a ghost. Ryder’s home is a strange mix of wilderness and luxury—solar panels feeding power into a system slicker than anything we’ve got back in town, filtered spring water running through stone sinks, leather furniture sitting under windows that look out on nothing but endless pine.
It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like a cage I built for myself.
Most mornings I sit on the back deck with coffee Ryder leaves out, staring at the ridge line until the sun burns holes in my eyes. At night, we eat dinner in silence. He doesn’t press me, doesn’t pry. Just lets me sit there, rotting in my own thoughts.
And those thoughts—they never stop circling back to her. My Quinn.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the disappointment in hers.
I hear her laugh, the one I’ll never deserve again.
She had dreams bigger than anyone in Wrangler Creek, bigger than me, and what did I do?
Dragged her down into my mess. Knocked her up.
Ruined everything she worked for. Just like I ruin everything I touch.
I call Ella once, just to check in. I tell myself it’s casual, but my voice shakes the whole time.
She tells me Quinn’s doing fine—better than fine, actually.
Planning the fundraiser, keeping busy. I should feel relieved.
Instead, I feel even worse, like she’s already learning how to live without me.
At night, when Ryder disappears into whatever business he runs behind locked doors, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, sick with guilt. The silence presses down, thick and suffocating, and I wonder if this is all I’m good for—running, hiding, leaving Quinn to clean up the wreckage I leave behind.
On the seventh night, it all comes crashing down on me, and I’m unable to sit in the silence anymore.
Ryder’s at the kitchen island, nursing a drink, flipping through something on his tablet as if the outside world doesn’t even exist. I hover in the doorway too long before I force myself to cross the room.
He doesn’t look up. Just gestures at the stool across from him. “Beer’s in the fridge.”
I grab one—he has non-alcoholic for me, for obvious reasons. My hand shakes as I crack it open. The fizz stings my nose, and for once, I can’t swallow it down. The words are stuck in my throat, choking me. I slam the bottle onto the counter harder than I mean to.
Ryder’s eyes lift, calm and unreadable. He waits. Always waiting.
“I fucked up,” I finally rasp, my voice raw.
“Quinn—she had everything lined up. She was going to change Wrangler Creek, and I had to go ahead and ruin it. I knocked her up like some careless son of a bitch. Now she’s stuck with a baby we didn’t plan for and me.
I know—same old story. Me dragging people down, wrecking every good thing I touch. ”
The room goes quiet, the kind of quiet that weighs heavy. My chest tightens, heat rising up my neck, shame burning through me until I can’t hold his gaze.
“I don’t know how to be what she needs,” I say, softer now. “Hell, I don’t even know how to be a man worth staying for. I look at her and all I see is what I’ve stolen.” I run a hand through my hair, shaking. “I don’t know how to fix this, Ry. I don’t know how not to fail her.”
Ryder doesn’t move for a long moment. Just sits there, steady, like a man carved from the same stone this mountain’s made of. Then he sets his glass down with a soft thud and leans forward, elbows on the counter.
“You done feeling sorry for yourself?” His voice is calm, but it cuts sharper than a knife.
I flinch, because I don’t have an answer.
Ryder shakes his head, almost amused. “You think you’re the first man to screw up? The first Morgan to make a mess outta something good? Get in line, little brother. But running?” He leans in closer, eyes narrowing. “Running just proves you don’t give a damn enough to fight for what matters.”
The words slam into me harder than a fist.
Ryder jabs a finger at me across the counter.
“You think hiding up here makes you a better man? Makes you noble? All it does is prove you’re a coward.
And that shit—“ he taps the wood for emphasis—”doesn’t work anymore.
Not when you’ve got a kid on the way. Not when someone’s depending on you to be more than a reckless cowboy with a guilty conscience. ”
His words hang there, heavy, echoing in the hollow space inside me.
“You wanna stop being a coward and be the man she needs?” Ryder’s voice drops lower, more dangerous. “Then prove it. Show up. Be there. Fight for her, fight for that baby. Or walk away for good, but don’t sit here pretending you’re the victim. That choice? That’s on you.”
I sit there, the silence stretching, Ryder’s words echoing in my skull. Coward. Broken. Running. Each one sticks like a burr under my skin, impossible to shake off.
For a second, all I want to do is argue, to shove it back in his face. But the truth is, he’s right. Every damn word of it.
Running hasn’t made anything easier. It hasn’t fixed a thing. All it’s done is hollow me out, leave me watching from the sidelines while Quinn keeps moving forward without me. And the worst part? She doesn’t need me. Not like this. Not weak, not hiding.
I stare at my hands—rough and scarred, the same hands that’ve built fences, broken horses, held her soft against me. Hands that now shake because I’m too scared to use them for what matters.
If I keep this up, I’ll lose her. I’ll lose everything. And that kid—my kid—will grow up knowing their father turned tail and ran when things got hard.
The thought curdles my stomach. That’s not the man I want to be. That’s not the story I want told about me. When I lift my head, Ryder’s watching me, unreadable but steady.
“You’re right,” I say, the words raw but real. “Running’s killing me more than staying ever could. I can’t—I won’t—let her face this without me.”
For the first time all week, something shifts in my chest. Not relief, not forgiveness. Just resolve. A flicker of the man I need to be, the one I swore I’d never stop trying to become. Quinn deserves that man. My kid deserves that man. And thanks to Ryder, I believe that I can be him.