Chapter 4 Rhett
RHETT
Ididn’t sleep for shit.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those texts.
Does your dick even work or are you just that much of a pussy?
By 5:30 a.m., I gave up trying and headed outside.
The air is already thick with humidity—that suffocating Arkansas summer heat that makes all of your clothes stick to you before the sun’s even up.
Cicadas are already screaming from the trees, and the sky is starting to lighten from black to a purple hue.
Dad finds me in the barn, fiddling with a bridle that doesn’t need fixing.
“You’re up early,” he says, carrying two cups of coffee. He hands me one, and I take it, even though my stomach’s already churning.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Nervous about today?”
I shoot him a look. “Why would I be nervous?”
Dad ignores my question. “Colt starts today. Figure I should go over what I need from you.”
I take a drink of coffee, burning my tongue. “Yeah.”
“He’s here for vet tech experience—needs hands-on hours for his degree. Aria vouched for him, saying he’s a hard worker when he’s not being a pain in the ass.” Dad leans against the stall door. “I need you to show him the ropes. Keep him busy. Teach him how we do things.”
“Can’t Cash do it?”
“Cash is helping Luke with that downed fence on the north property, and Dawson’s got his hands full with the horses.” Dad’s voice gets that edge that means the conversation’s over. “You’re my right hand, Rhett. You know this place better than anyone, so you’re on Colt duty for the summer.”
Colt duty. Like I’m babysitting.
“Yes, sir.”
Dad claps me on the shoulder. “He’ll be here at six. Just … keep it professional. I know you two had words back in high school, but that was a long time ago.”
If only that was all I had to worry about.
Dad heads back to the house, and I’m left standing in the barn with fifteen minutes until Colt shows up.
Fifteen minutes to get my head right. To push down the anger that’s been simmering since last night.
To figure out how I’m going to look him in the eye and not immediately accuse him of sending those texts.
Because it had to be him. Who else would it be?
I go back to the bridle I don’t need to fix.
I’ve been running through it since three a.m., cycling through the same loop—he sent the texts, he didn’t send the texts, he sent the texts—and I still don’t have an answer that sits right.
If it is him, he’s doing it to fuck with me—to get into my head before he even shows up. Which means walking out there and acting normal is exactly what I should do, because I’m not giving Colton Dawson the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.
If it’s not him…
I set the bridle down.
If it’s not him, then someone else knows something, and that’s a problem I don’t have the first idea how to solve.
So, it’s easier if it’s him. It needs to be him, because the alternative is worse.
I pick the bridle back up.
The thing I keep snagging on is the timing.
I’ve never received texts like that before in my life.
And Colton Dawson shows up in Cedarbrook after five years, walks into the bonfire last night like he never left, talks to me, looks at my girlfriend, and an hour later, my phone lights up with texts from a stranger who seems to know exactly what they saw.
Maybe that’s a coincidence.
Maybe it isn’t.
At exactly six a.m., I hear the rumble of a motorcycle coming up the drive.
I step out of the barn, coffee in hand.
He shakes his hair out and runs a hand through it, not bothering to fix the mess. He’s got tattoos that go from his wrists up both forearms—I can see the dark lines against his skin from here—and he’s wearing a black T-shirt that’s too tight and work boots.
He looks like someone who’s actually going to be useful, which is the last thing I wanted this morning.
“Morning,” he calls out, swinging off the bike and placing his helmet on the seat.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak yet.
He walks over, and I notice he’s got a thermos of his own. “Is your dad around? I want to check in before we get started.”
“He’s in the house. I can show you what needs doing.”
“Cool.” Colt takes a drink, watching me over the rim of his thermos. “You look thrilled to be stuck with me all summer.”
“I’m here to work. You’re here to learn. That’s it.”
“Right. Got it.”
Dad emerges from the house before I can say something I’ll regret. He shakes Colt’s hand, goes through the usual pleasantries, and explains the basics.
“Rhett’s gonna show you the morning routine. You got questions, you ask him. You got problems, you come to me. We clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Colt says.
Dad leaves us to it, and suddenly it’s just me and Colt standing in the humid morning air with a whole day ahead of us.
“So,” Colt says. “Where do we start?”
“Feed. Then we check the cattle in the south pasture and make sure everyone’s looking healthy. After that, there’s fence work in the east section.”
“Lead the way, boss.”
I head to the feed shed, and he follows. The work’s simple enough—mixing feed, loading wheelbarrows, hauling it out to the troughs.
Colt doesn’t talk much while we work, which I appreciate. He just does what I tell him, asking clarifying questions when needed. He’s not useless. I can tell he’s been around ranches before—knows how to lift properly and how to move around cattle without spooking them.
His dad used to work on the ranch with my dad and Uncle Luke, so some of this has to be inherited knowledge.
We’re in the barn, feeding the horses, when he finally breaks the silence.
“Your brother Dawson’s really into this, huh? The horses.”
“Yeah. It’s his thing.”
“That colt he’s raising—Ollie—he’s got good lines. Gonna be a solid barrel racer if Dawson keeps working with him.”
I glance over. “You know horses?”
Colt shrugs. “Grew up around them. My mom’s a traveling vet, remember? Spent half my childhood in barns.”
Right. I’d forgotten that. Or maybe I never really paid attention back in high school.
“You planning to go into large animal vet work?” I ask, because that’s the polite thing to do.
“That’s the plan. Get my degree, work with my mom for a bit, then maybe set up my own practice somewhere.” He leans against the stall door, watching one of Dawson’s mares. “Probably not here, though. Cedarbrook’s not exactly full of opportunities, with most ranches having their own staff.”
“Could be worse places.”
“You’re right, but could be better ones, too.”
We finish with the horses and head out to check the cattle. The sun’s full up now, beating down without mercy. By the time we reach the south pasture, my shirt’s soaked through and I can feel sweat running down my spine.
Colt stripped down to a tank top at some point, and I’m trying real hard not to notice the ink covering his arms—the way his shoulders move as he climbs the fence to get a better look at the herd.
“How many heads are you running?” he asks.
“About two hundred. Mix of Angus and Hereford.”
“They look good. Healthy.”
We watch the cattle for a bit, making sure there’s no limping—no signs of illness. It’s peaceful out here. Just the sound of the herd, the buzz of insects, the distant call of a hawk.
Then Colt has to go and ruin it.
“So…your girl coming by today?”
I tense immediately. “Why?”
“Just asking. Trying to make conversation.” He glances at me. “Is that a problem?”
“Molly’s got her own thing going on.”
“Right. Teaching?”
“Elementary school. She’s off for summer.”
“That’s cool. Must be nice having a girlfriend who gets summers off—more time together.”
There’s nothing in his tone that suggests he’s fishing, but I’m waiting for the dig—the comment about last night, about how I couldn’t even take her inside.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I freeze, every muscle in my body going rigid.
Colt notices. “You good? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Fine.” I pull out my phone, half expecting another message from that unknown number.
It’s Molly.
Molly:
Good morning! Hope you have a great first day with your new coworker. Can’t wait to see you later this week
The relief is immediate, followed by guilt. She’s being sweet and supportive—everything a girlfriend should be.
And I’m out here, paranoid about anonymous texts and hyperaware of Colton Dawson’s shoulders.
“Everything okay?” Colt asks.
“Yeah. Just Molly checking in.”
“She seems nice. Real sweet thing you’ve got.”
“She is.”
“You’re lucky.”
I look at him, searching for sarcasm, but it isn’t there today.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I am.”
By noon, we’re both drenched in sweat. Colt pulled his hair back with a rubber band he had around his wrist, and there’s dirt smudged on his face. He looks—
I stop that thought before it finishes.
“Water break?” he suggests.
“Yeah.”
We head to where I parked my truck, and I pull out the cooler I brought. I grab a water and sandwich for myself, and toss one to him as well.
We sit in the truck bed, feet dangling, eating in silence.
“You gonna be pissed at me all summer, waiting for a fight, or we gonna talk about it?” Colt finally asks.
I nearly choke on my sandwich. “Talk about what?”
He takes a drink of water. “The bonfire—when I said you looked good. Did I make you uncomfortable?”
“I told you last night, I’m straight. So whatever game you’re playing—”
“Jesus Christ, Thornwood.” He cuts me off, and now he sounds frustrated. “Not everything is about you being straight. I was just trying to apologize if I made shit weird.”
That throws me. “Apologize?”
“Yeah.” He sets down his water bottle and turns to face me. “I’m not here to fuck with you, Rhett. I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here, but I need this job—need the experience for my degree. That’s it.”
“Right. Whatever.” The sarcasm comes out sharper than I intended.
“What the hell is your problem, man?” Colt’s jaw tightens. “I’m trying to clear the air here.”
“My problem is I don’t like you, and now you’re working on my family’s ranch all summer.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
Colt stares at me for a long moment, then shakes his head.
“You know what? Fuck the apology and fuck you. You want to be pissed at me all summer? Go ahead. But I’m still gonna do my job, and you’re still gonna have to put up with me.
I won’t be forced out again because you have a bad attitude.
So maybe pull your head out of your ass and deal with it. ”
He hops down from the truck bed and walks back toward the fence line.
I sit there, heart pounding, feeling like an asshole but unable to take it back.
Because admitting he might be genuine means admitting I might be wrong about him sending those texts.
And if it’s not him, then I have no idea who the fuck it is.
I grab my tools and follow him back to work.
The silence between us now is cold—hostile. He doesn’t ask me questions anymore, just watches what I do and figures it out himself.
Which is what I wanted, right?
So why does it feel like I just fucked something up?
We work through the afternoon, the heat getting worse as the day drags on. My shirt’s so soaked it’s sticking to me, and I can feel the sun cooking the back of my neck, despite my hat.
I’m bent over, bracing a post while Colt hammers it into place without a word, when my phone buzzes again.
“You want to get that?” Colt asks, his tone flat now. Not concerned, just asking.
“No. It’s fine.”
But it keeps buzzing—insistent.
“Might be important,” he says without looking at me.
I pull out my phone, see “Unknown Number“ on the screen, and my blood turns to ice as I read the text message.
Unknown Number:
You’re looking really fucking hot today, Rhett. All sweaty and worked up. Keep bending over like that.
My head snaps up. I scan the treeline, the road, and the fence line of the neighbor’s property—anywhere someone could be watching.
“Rhett?” Colt finally looks up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shove my phone in my pocket.
He goes back to hammering. “None of my damn business anyway.”
“Do you see anyone? Out by the road? In the trees?”
That makes him stop. “What?”
“Just…look around. Tell me if you see anyone watching.”
Colt straightens up and scans the area. “No. There’s nobody out here but us.” He pauses. “Why? What’s going on?”
Someone’s watching us—has to be. But there’s no one for miles.
“Forget it.”
“Is someone bothering you? Because if someone’s fucking with you—”
“I said forget it.”
He picks up the hammer again. “Fine. Not my problem.”
And just like that, the wall’s back up between us.
Just how I want it to be.