Chapter Three
Carter rode toward the green barn without expecting much.
Most barns on the property were old, drafty, and full of tools nobody used anymore.
This one wasn’t any different—paint peeling, roof patched in places, the big sliding door hanging just a little crooked.
Sunlight hit the metal latch and flashed in his eyes as he pulled up on the motorcycle.
He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet settled heavily around him. A few birds scattered from the roof. The place looked forgotten, like someone had shoved it to the edge of the ranch and hoped no one would notice.
He knocked once.
Ethan opened the barn door as if he owned the place, even though the kid clearly didn’t own a damn thing in there.
He didn’t stand still—he leaned one shoulder against the frame, hip kicked out just enough to look careless, like he’d practiced that posture in a mirror once and decided it worked for him.
The morning light hit him from behind, outlining him in a way that made Carter’s breath catch before he could stop it.
The acrid smell of smoke from the cigarette dangling from Ethan’s fingers did nothing to ease the tension.
He held it loosely, two fingers hooked around it with a kind of lazy confidence, like he’d been smoking since he was twelve and no one had ever told him no.
Smoke curled around his face, drifting past the sharp line of his jaw, and Carter had to look away for half a second just to get his bearings.
The kid didn’t have to try to take up space—he just did. Not loud. Not showy. Just… there. Solid. Magnetic.
Ethan stepped into full view, and Carter’s breath snagged before he could school it. Blond hair, sharp features, medium height, lean but cut—like every muscle on him had a purpose. But it was the eyes that stopped Carter cold.
Bright, electric blue.
Too direct.
Too knowing.
Ethan didn’t blink when their gazes met. Didn’t look away. Just held it—chin tipped up a fraction, like he was testing him, seeing what kind of man Carter was, seeing if he’d flinch.
Something in that look hit Carter harder than he liked. Not soft, not sentimental—just a clean, sudden jolt right to the center of his chest. A pull he didn’t have a name for.
Not here.
Not now.
But Ethan’s eyes said something he couldn’t ignore, something that reached past all the armor he’d spent years building. And for one unsteady second, Carter felt himself lean toward it. Toward him.
He forced his shoulders back, steadying himself, but the truth lingered anyway: that kid’s gaze had gotten under his skin in a single heartbeat.
Ethan shifted his weight, and the movement was smooth, almost graceful.
Slim and athletic, the kind of build that came from being naturally active rather than disciplined.
His shirt clung to him in places Carter tried not to notice.
The kid knew he looked good—Carter could see it in the way he stood, the way he let silence stretch like he was comfortable being watched.
Carter wasn’t used to being the one doing the watching. He cleared his throat, trying to shake it off. Trying to remember why he was here. Trying not to stare at the curve of Ethan’s lips as he exhaled smoke.
Carter reached forward, plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth, and threw it onto the dirt outside. “No smoking in here.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Boss Carter to you,” he said, keeping his tone even. “From now until your debt’s paid off, you’re under my authority.”
Ethan rolled his eyes, but he stepped back. “Come in.”
Carter walked inside, and the smell of dust, old hay, and motor oil hit him. Tools hung on nails, some rusted, some new. A couple of empty stalls sat along the far wall, swept clean but still smelling like horses.
Then there was the room.
A plywood box sat shoved into the corner like an afterthought. No insulation. No window. Just a cot pushed against the wall, a metal locker with a dented door, and a single bulb dangling from a cord that swayed every time the wind slipped through the cracks.
Carter stepped closer, boots scuffing against the dirt floor. The mattress dipped under his fingers when he pressed it—thin enough that he could probably fold it in half with little effort. A blanket lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, twisted as if someone had thrown it there in frustration.
The bulb flickered overhead, casting a weak yellow glow that didn’t reach the corners. Shadows pooled under the cot. The entire space felt too still, as if even sound didn’t want to settle here.
Carter just stood there, jaw tight, letting the cool air settle into his bones while the truth of the place spoke for itself. He didn’t need to call it punishment. The room already had.
“Put on a pair of boots,” Carter said. “You’re coming with me.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”
“Blue Star Diner.”
“I’m starving,” Ethan muttered, turning toward the little room.
Carter followed him, and the closer he got, the worse it looked.
Clothes piled in a corner. A cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
A duffel bag, half-unzipped with shirts spilling out.
The whole place shouted “temporary,” as if Ethan hadn’t let himself settle in because he didn’t want to admit he was stuck here.
“Do you have a bathroom with a shower in here?” Carter asked.
“It’s at the back of the barn,” Ethan said, lacing his boots.
Carter walked over to check it out. The bathroom was newly installed—shower stall, toilet, sink—but everything else looked thrown together. Old towels with holes. A bar of soap worn down to a sliver. A single light bulb flickered when he stepped inside.
It looked like Mr. Evans had planned this long before Ethan failed out of college. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse. Carter didn’t like that. Not one bit. He stepped back into the main barn, where Ethan was waiting, arms crossed, chin lifted as if he were daring Carter to judge him.
Carter saw a kid who’d been shoved into a corner and told to figure it out alone. But he wasn’t really a kid. He was twenty-one years old.
“Let’s go,” Carter said.
They walked out to the motorcycle. Carter handed him the extra helmet he had taken from the cabin.
Ethan stared at it. “Seriously?”
“Put it on,” Carter said. “I’m not scraping you off the road.”
Ethan rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Carter put on the other helmet.
Carter started the engine, the motorcycle rumbling under them as they pulled away from the barn.
Ethan slid his hands onto the back of Carter’s jacket carefully at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold on.
When the bike picked up speed, Ethan’s grip tightened.
Something that made Carter glance at him in the mirror.
They rode in silence, the wind whipping past them and the road stretching out in long, dusty lines.
The ranch faded behind them, giving way to open fields and the distant shimmer of town.
Ethan stayed close, his chest pressed lightly to Carter’s back, his grip settling into something that felt almost…
trusting. Carter didn’t know what to do with that.
The closer they got to town, the more Ethan straightened, loosening his hold as if he didn’t want to be caught needing anyone. Carter felt the shift immediately as if Ethan were putting his armor back on before they even stopped.
Blue Star Diner sat at the edge of town, all blue chrome and enormous windows that caught the morning sun.
Carter pulled into the lot and parked the bike.
Ethan slid off behind him, stretching as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in days, trying to look casual, even though his eyes darted around, taking everything in.
Carter held the door open. Ethan walked through as if he wasn’t sure he deserved to.
And that, more than anything, told Carter that this breakfast was going to matter.
Inside, the place smelled like bacon, coffee, and fresh cinnamon sweets—comforting in a way Carter would never admit out loud.
They took a booth near the window. Ethan slumped onto his side, arms crossed, eyes flicking around as if he were checking for exits.
Andrew came over to the table with a friendly smile, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I’m Andrew,” he said. “Co-owner of the Blue Star. Good to see a new face around here.” He nodded at Ethan, who didn’t bother responding.
Carter offered his hand. “Carter Higgins. New boss over at Willow Creek Ranch.”
Andrew’s eyebrows lifted. “Yeah, I heard Mr. Evans hired someone.”
“Mr. Evans wants to retire.”
“Good for him. What can I get you two today?” Andrew asked, pulling out his notepad.
Before Ethan could open his mouth to complain or ask for something ridiculous, Carter said, “Two breakfast specials and coffees.”
Andrew jotted it down and headed for the kitchen.
Ethan didn’t thank him. Didn’t even look at him. Just stared out the window like the world outside was easier to deal with than the one sitting across from him. Carter didn’t take it personally. He figured silence was the kid’s armor.
“Give me your phone,” Carter instructed Ethan.
“What for?”
“So you can call me.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I told you to.”
Ethan pulled his phone out of his pocket and slid it across the table.
Carter input his number and took a picture of himself to add it to contacts. He also added the tracker but hid the icon. Then he sent himself a message, so he’d have Ethan’s number. “When I send a message, answer it within five minutes, or there will be consequences.”
Ethan rolled his eyes again without speaking.
Carter leaned back in the booth. “No one ignores my orders.”
Ethan didn’t flinch. He just lifted his gaze, slow and unimpressed. “What are you gonna do if I do?”
Carter kept his voice even. He’d dealt with wild, defiant colts like this—skittish, proud, ready to bolt at the slightest pressure. “I’ll double your work hours and give you shit jobs.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Did my father pay you to be cruel to me?”
Carter felt the lie before he said it. “No.” He cleared his throat. “I’m here to get you through the debt you owe your father.”
Ethan’s eyes flashed with anger, hurt, something deeper he tried to bury under attitude. “I hate him.”
The words came out sharp, but the way Ethan’s fingers curled around the edge of the table told Carter the truth: the kid didn’t hate him. He hated what the man had done to him.
Carter leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Why? Tell me why.”
Ethan scoffed, but it sounded more like a defense than a dismissal. “Why should I tell you anything? You work for him, so anything I say will go right back to him.”
Carter didn’t push. He just watched him—watched the way Ethan’s shoulders stayed tight, the way he kept his eyes on the table instead of meeting Carter’s. The kid was braced for impact, as if he expected every question to be a trap.
Plates arrived with eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast. Carter thanked the server, but Ethan acknowledged with only a tilted head.
Carter took a sip of his coffee, watching the young man over the rim of the mug, letting the silence stretch and giving Ethan room to breathe. This would not be easy.
Ethan ate as if he hadn’t seen proper food in days—fast, focused, shoulders hunched like he expected someone to snatch the plate away. Carter didn’t comment. He just let him eat, sipping his coffee and watching the way Ethan’s guard stayed welded in place even with a mouth full of bacon.
When Ethan slowed down, Carter leaned an elbow on the table. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said. “Just enough so I know what I’m working with.”
Ethan stabbed at a piece of toast. “I’m not a project.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Carter let that sit. He’d learned a long time ago that silence could be more honest than any speech.
After a moment, he tried again. “Your father said you disappear sometimes. Wander off.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “So what? I like air.”
“Nothing wrong with air,” Carter said. “Just wondering what you’re running from.”
Ethan froze, barely but enough for Carter to catch it. His fork hovered over the plate. His eyes flicked to the window, then back down.
“I’m not running,” Ethan muttered.
“Okay.”
“I’m not.” Ethan spoke louder.
“I said okay.”
Ethan pushed his plate away, appetite seemingly gone. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
Ethan’s voice cracked—just a hair. “Why do you even care?”
Carter said, “Because someone should.”
Ethan’s breath hitched, barely audible, but Carter heard it. Ethan blinked fast, as if he were trying to clear something before it showed.
He covered it with his lousy attitude. “You don’t even know me.”
“Not yet.”
Ethan swallowed hard. “You’re not supposed to… care.”
“Too late,” Carter said, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m in this now.”
Ethan looked away, out the window like he was fighting something back. “I don’t… I don’t know how to talk about that stuff.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Carter said. “Not today.”
Ethan nodded once, small and shaky. And Carter saw it. And it hit him harder than he expected.