Chapter Five
~ Newton ~
After dinner, the house emptied out in stages—cousins first, then Ransom, then Harlow, who ghosted up the stairs with all the stealth a giant could muster. Ma’s slippered feet faded into the back parlor, where she’d nurse her grudge and watch Wheel until the static put her to sleep.
By ten, the old place was as quiet as a coffin, the only noises the low hum of the fridge and the restless ache of the wood settling into night.
I killed the lights in the hall, left the kitchen on dim. There was an open bottle of whiskey in the corner cabinet, and I helped myself to a double, neat.
The glass was cold in my hand, condensation tracing slow arcs down the outside. I took a seat at the end of the table, boots up on the rung, and let the burn slide down my throat and settle somewhere behind my ribs.
For the first time in months, my shoulders unclenched a little.
I sat there, turning the glass in my hands, not thinking about the day, or the way Newt had looked at me over breakfast, or the way his fingers had curled around mine under the table after dinner.
I tried, but my brain had its own agenda. Every detail stuck like shrapnel in my head. The pinked-up skin at the edge of his bruise, the way his tongue kept darting out to check his busted lip, the way he wore my hoodie like a badge or a shroud, I couldn’t tell which.
I poured another, told myself it was for the pain in my knee, not the one behind my sternum. That was the trick, always—find a smaller ache to hide the real one.
The kitchen clock ticked so loud I wanted to shoot it.
Newt was asleep by now, or pretending. He’d found his way to my bed with the same animal sense that got him through dinner—low to the ground, eyes always searching for exits.
I wanted to go up there, push open the door and see him sprawled in my sheets, but I didn’t. I had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like a threat or a plea, and I was tired of both.
The glass was half-empty when I heard the scrape of boots on linoleum behind me. I didn’t look up. Only two people in the world walked like that, and one of them was dead.
Pa came in slow, favoring his right leg, hands shoved deep in his coverall pockets. He didn’t speak until he was halfway to the stove, where he took a ceramic mug down from the hook, poured himself a finger of the good stuff, and drank it like water.
He stood there, studying the window, jaw working side to side like he was grinding the words down to powder before he let them out. The lines on his face were deep tonight. He looked like a man who’d watched too many years vanish and not enough worth remembering.
He didn’t turn, just said, “This a good idea, boy?”
I didn’t answer right away. I let the whiskey numb my tongue, then let it numb the part of my brain that wanted to have this conversation. But it was Pa, and there were rules, and I wasn’t going to break them.
“Probably not,” I said.
He grunted, a sound halfway between approval and disgust.
The old man crossed the kitchen, planted himself against the counter, arms folded tight over his chest. The overhead light caught the silver in his beard, the webwork of scars along his knuckles.
He’d never been a big man, but he took up space just fine.
When he looked at you, he looked through you, like the rest was just camouflage.
“You know what you’re doing?” he said.
I stared at the glass. The answer was no, but I hated admitting ignorance even more than I hated the truth. I shrugged. “I’ve had worse odds.”
He barked a laugh, then went quiet. “You keep that up, you won’t see forty.”
I drained the glass, set it down too hard. “You planning on telling me what my mistakes are or just letting me find out for myself?”
He took a sip, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You were always stubborn. Even as a baby. Your mother used to say you’d die of hunger before you’d let anyone feed you.” He looked away, then back at me. “The Bridger boy’s a mess.”
“He’s tough,” I said, surprised by the edge in my own voice.
Pa swirled his drink, not looking at me. “Boy’s too skittish. Like a spooked colt. You got a plan for that?”
I did, but I doubted he’d want to hear it.
The silence stretched, thick with history.
“He’ll come around,” I said. My voice dropped, the words heavy. “I’ll show him how.”
Pa turned, leaned on the counter so the joints in his elbows locked straight. “You planning to gentle him or just break him in?”
He meant it as a joke, but I felt the heat in my cheeks, the sharp twist low in my belly.
“Not planning to break him,” I said, and it was mostly true.
Pa grunted, but he didn’t look away. The man could see through bone. “Just remember,” he said, “some things you break, you don’t get to fix.”
I thought of Newt, upstairs and probably curled on top of my blankets, wearing nothing but my old hoodie and a pair of borrowed sweats. I thought about the hollow behind his knees, the dip at the base of his spine, the delicate point where his jaw met his throat.
I wanted to touch every inch, claim every scar. I wanted to make him so he couldn’t remember what it was like to be alone, so that the only place he fit was in my bed or under my hands.
My cock was half-hard against my thigh, and the whiskey did nothing to take the edge off. I shrugged, voice flat. “He’s not porcelain, Pa. He’s tougher than he looks.”
Pa sipped, then gave me a long, level stare. “You’re tougher than you look, too,” he said. “Don’t mean you got nothing that can’t break.”
I let the words sink in. Then I looked him dead in the eye. “I know what I’m doing.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile buried in the beard. “You always did,” he said. He finished his drink and set the cup down, then straightened his back and limped to the hall, boots barely making a sound.
At the doorway, he paused. “One more thing,” he said. “The Bridger boy? He’s not just your mess to clean up. You bring him into this house, he’s a McKenzie now. Means you take the good with the bad. Means you fight for him.” He didn’t say what else it meant, but I knew.
“I will,” I said.
Pa considered that, then nodded, just once. “You think the Bridgers will let this go?”
“They don’t get a say.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
I pictured Luther’s face, the sneer, the way his jaw flexed when he talked about the family name like it was a badge. I pictured the father, the suits, the way he called Newt “son” like it was an insult.
“They beat him,” I said, the words sudden and ugly in my mouth. “Been happening for years.” I looked up, met Pa’s eyes. “I aim to stop it.”
Pa’s gaze sharpened. “With what? You going to shoot the whole town?”
“If I have to,” I said. And I meant it. I’d seen enough violence to know what I was capable of, what lines I could cross and never look back.
He stared at me, weighing the threat and the promise inside it. “That’s not the McKenzie way.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands steepled so they wouldn’t shake. “Things change. People don’t.” I swallowed hard, let the next part hurt coming out. “He’s mine now. I’m not letting anyone take him back.”
Pa took a long, slow drink. “He know that?”
I remembered the way Newt looked at me, the way he let me touch him, the way he tried to hide how much he liked it. I thought about his skin under my hands, the pulse in his throat, the smell of him in my clothes. My cock stirred against my jeans, and I let the feeling linger, sharp and hungry.
“He’ll figure it out,” I said.
We sat there a while, the silence softening around us. I felt the weight of the land outside, the way the dark pressed against the windows, the way the wind carried the smell of earth and wood-smoke. I’d grown up with that, the sense of being rooted to something, even when you wanted to run.
I wondered if Newt had ever felt it. I wondered if he ever would.
After a long time, Pa straightened, set the cup down and rolled his shoulders. The motion cracked the vertebrae in his neck, loud as a rifle shot. “You take care of him, you take care of yourself,” he said. “That’s the deal. You fuck it up, and I’ll take care of both of you.”
He didn’t say it like a threat. He said it like an order.
“Understood,” I said.
He nodded, and for the first time that night, I saw the flicker of approval behind his eyes. It was gone before I could hold onto it.
He left the kitchen as quietly as he’d come, boots whispering across the floor. I watched him go, then poured myself another, smaller this time.
I sat there, looking out at the fields, the night stitched together by the thin red pulse of the barn’s security light. I thought about war and home, and how maybe they weren’t so different after all. You picked a side, and then you fought like hell to keep it.
I thought about Newt, sleeping upstairs, skin still carrying the warmth of my hands. I thought about Luther, and the next time he’d show his face in this town.
I thought about blood and bruises and the ugly calculus of what I was willing to do, how far I’d go. For the first time in years, the math made sense.
I finished the whiskey and set the glass upside-down on the table. The McKenzie land was mine to defend, same as it had always been, but this time, I had something worth the fight.
I was going to win.
I sat there a minute, thinking about blood and tribe and the kind of loyalty that got men killed or made them legends. I thought about Newt—his blue eyes, his fragile wrists, and the way he let me in even when he was scared to death.
I finished the whiskey, rinsed the glass in the sink, then flicked the kitchen light off with my elbow. At the bottom of the stairs, I paused, listening. The house was still, save for the faint squeak of mattress springs and the sigh of wind in the eaves.
I took the steps two at a time.
The door to my room was cracked. I pushed it open, slow, and let the dim light spill across the floor.
Newt lay on his side, knees pulled up, one hand tucked under his cheek.
He was lost in the hoodie, the fabric twisted around his hips.
The scar at the base of his skull was just visible above the collar, a pale line against the dark.
I watched him breathe, watched his chest rise and fall, slow and steady now. It would be easy to touch him, to wake him up and claim what I wanted. It would be even easier to close the door, crawl into bed, and let him stay small and safe for one more night.
I stood there a long time, torn between both, the war inside my head hotter than any I’d ever fought overseas.
In the end, I went to the dresser, pulled out a blanket, and tossed it over him. He didn’t wake, just snuggled deeper, a faint smile on his mouth.
Tomorrow, I’d teach him everything. Show him how a McKenzie protected what was his. Tonight, I’d let him sleep. But even in the dark, even in the quiet, I could feel him there, under my roof, in my sheets, under my skin.
He was mine now.
And I wasn’t planning on letting go.