Chapter Eighteen Carter
Carter drove them back to the cabin, gravel snapping under the tires. Ethan had been quiet the whole ride, staring out the window like he was trying to hold himself together after the phone call. Carter didn’t push. He figured the kid needed a minute.
But when they rounded the bend and the cabin came into view, Ethan suddenly sat up straighter.
His bright red truck was parked in the dirt like it had never left.
Ethan’s breath caught. “That’s—”
“Yeah,” Carter said. “Looks like they dropped it off.
Before the truck even stopped rolling, Ethan had his seatbelt off. The second Carter put it in Park, Ethan jumped out and jogged across the yard.
Carter climbed out slower, watching him. Ethan yanked open the driver’s door and ducked inside, rummaging around. A second later he came back up with the keys in his hand, face lit up like someone had handed him back a piece of himself.
“They left ’em under the seat,” Ethan said, breathless. “Just like you said.”
Carter nodded. “Good.”
Ethan ran a hand over the hood, like he was checking to make sure it was real. Carter felt something tug in his chest—relief for the kid, sure, but also something warmer he didn’t want to name.
Ethan turned to him. “Can we go get my stuff from the barn?”
“Yeah,” Carter said. “Let’s get it done.”
They drove back to the stables in separate trucks. Ethan’s engine rattled like it needed a tune-up, but he didn’t care. He pulled up fast, hopped out, and headed straight for the barn.
Carter followed him inside. Ethan’s things were piled in the corner—a duffel bag, a stack of folded clothes, a couple of sketchbooks, a box of random junk he’d collected over the years. Not much. Too little for a kid his age.
Ethan grabbed the duffel first. “I can get all this.”
“You can get half,” Carter said. “I’ll take the rest.”
Ethan didn’t argue. They loaded everything into the trucks in a few minutes. The whole time, Ethan kept glancing around the barn like he was making sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind—or maybe making sure he wasn’t coming back.
When they finished, Ethan stood in the doorway for a second, hands shoved in his pockets.
“You good?” Carter asked.
Ethan nodded, but it looked unsteady. “Yeah. Just… weird leaving it.”
Carter understood that more than he wanted to admit. “Come on. Cabin’s waiting.”
They unloaded everything into the cabin’s living room. Ethan dropped his duffel by the couch, then hovered like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to stand.
Carter leaned against the counter. “You can put your stuff in the spare room. Closet’s empty.”
Ethan looked at him, eyes softening. “Thanks. For… all of this.”
Carter shrugged. “You needed a place.”
“That’s not all you did,” Ethan said.
Carter felt that one land. He looked away, pretending to straighten a stack of mail on the counter. “Don’t make it a big thing.”
“It is to me.”
Carter exhaled through his nose. The kid had a way of saying things that hit too close. “Alright. Then you’re welcome.”
Ethan smiled—small, tired, but real—and carried his stuff down the hall.
Carter watched him go, feeling that same mix he’d been fighting for days now. Protective. Proud. And something else he kept shoving back behind a line he wasn’t supposed to cross.
A few minutes later, Ethan came back out, hands shoved in his pockets again.
“So,” Ethan said, “I’m really living here now.”
“Yeah,” Carter said. “You are.”
Ethan nodded slowly. “Feels… good.”
Carter met his eyes. “Good.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The cabin felt too full of something unspoken.
Then Carter cleared his throat. “You hungry? I can make something.”
Ethan’s smile widened. “Yeah. I could eat.”
Carter turned toward the kitchen, grateful for something to do with his hands. “Alright then. Welcome home.”
Ethan’s footsteps followed him, soft and sure.
And Carter tried not to think too hard about how right that sounded.
He pulled the steaks off the grill pan and set them on the counter to rest. The baked potatoes were already split open and steaming, butter melting into the cracks.
He tossed the salad last, crisp lettuce snapping under his hands.
It felt good to cook—simple, steady work that didn’t talk back or hide things from him.
He plated everything and set the dishes on the table. He’d barely taken a step back when someone started pounding on the front door. Not knocking—pounding. The kind of knock that meant trouble.
Ethan appeared behind him like a shadow, eyes wide, shoulders tight.
Carter muttered, “Great,” under his breath and went to answer it.
Officer Rafael Duarte stood on the porch, uniform neat, expression unreadable. Carter’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever came from a cop showing up at dinnertime.
“What do you want?” Carter asked.
“I’m here to issue a complaint against Ethan Evans.”
Carter felt Ethan stiffen behind him. “What complaint?”
“Can we talk inside?”
Carter didn’t like the way the man said it, but he stepped aside anyway. He led him to the living room. Ethan stuck close—too close—like he needed the couch to swallow him whole. Carter sat, and Ethan practically glued himself to his side.
Duarte cleared his throat. “Tomás González filed a complaint against Ethan.”
Carter’s jaw tightened. “For what reason?”
“This afternoon, Ethan threatened Tomás and assaulted him.”
Carter snapped his head toward Ethan. “Is that true?”
“Not the way he tells it,” Ethan said. “I was dressing the horses, and Tomás came in to talk shit. I told him to shut up and one thing led to another. So he’s such a pussy filing a complaint.”
Carter winced. Wrong time for that attitude.
Duarte continued, “He is summoned to appear in court. And just so you know, Mr. Higgins, this has been going on since Ethan stole two motorcycles, crashed and burned them in the middle of the night while he was drunk.”
Carter’s stomach sank. “Is that all?”
“Are you in charge of Ethan?” Duarte asked.
“Yes. He’s staying here.”
“Ethan is still guilty of stealing and damaging the motorcycles. Mr. Evans paid the owners to avoid court and a prison sentence for his son. That’s why Ethan won’t ever learn from his mistakes. His father bails him out of every damn mess he gets into.”
That last line hit Carter wrong. Like a slap. He stood, snatched the summons out of Duarte’s hand, and didn’t bother hiding his glare. Duarte left without another word.
The second the door slammed shut, Carter turned to Ethan, stepping in close enough that Ethan had to tilt his chin up. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about this?”
Ethan’s eyes darted away. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Not a big deal,” Carter repeated, voice low. He felt something hot and frustrated coil in his chest. He’d been trying—really trying—to give the kid a chance, and Ethan kept dropping landmines at his feet.
He walked back to the kitchen, covered the plates, and shoved everything into the fridge. Appetite gone.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Ethan blinked. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to visit Tomás.”
“And?” Ethan’s face drained of color.
“To put an end to this shit. And you’re in big trouble for not telling me about this. Big trouble.”
Ethan swallowed hard. “Are you going to send me back to the barn?”
That hit Carter right in the chest. The kid looked terrified—like he expected to be thrown out the second he messed up. Carter hated that. Hated that someone had taught Ethan to expect abandonment.
He wasn’t giving up on him. Not now. Not after everything.
“Get your boots on,” Carter said, softer than before.