Chapter Ten #2
I didn’t know what to say. For so long, I’d believed that the only thing the family wanted from me was compliance, a body double to stand in for the real heirs. I’d never thought Barrett might actually give a shit, even in his own buttoned-down way.
“You could have called,” I managed.
“I tried,” he said. “The number was out of service.”
Macon broke the tension, his voice a low rumble. “We can set up a secure line if you want. No tracking, no call logs.”
Barrett’s lips twitched. “You teach your security team that, or do they teach you?”
Macon’s mouth twitched back. “I was Navy.”
Barrett absorbed that, then gave a single nod. “I figured you were special forces. Carter never dated anyone who wasn’t a challenge.”
I almost choked on my tea.
Marge arrived with a notepad, poised for the order. Barrett didn’t miss a beat. “Two breakfast specials, both with rye toast, one with sausage, one with bacon. Omelet for him,”—a flick of the pen at me—“no cheese, extra peppers. And another round of coffee.”
She jotted it down, not even pretending to care about the rest of us, then vanished again.
When she left, Macon leaned in, voice pitched for our booth alone. “You said you wanted to talk about the properties.”
Barrett’s attention snapped to him, then back to me. “Yeah. The vacation houses. You liquidated the assets and funneled them into a shell. That’s why Dad’s losing it.”
I swallowed. “I needed cash flow. For the buyout.”
Barrett waited. He had all the time in the world.
I glanced at Macon, then back to my brother. “I bought the Hargrove property. The whole thing. It’s in my name now.”
Barrett’s eyebrow shot up. “You bought a failed ranch?”
I bristled, but before I could fire back, Macon said, “It’s not failed. It was just run by an asshole who didn’t know ranching from a hole in his head. Carter’s going to fix that.”
Barrett digested that, then nodded. “It’s smart. Rural land is one of the few things Dad can’t touch without a court order. And if you hold it for five years, the trust can’t call it back.”
I felt a weird surge of pride. “I did my homework,” I said, and Barrett smiled, just a little.
He sipped his coffee, then set the mug down with exaggerated care. “What’s your plan, Carter? For the property. For yourself.”
I hesitated. For months, the only plan was survive, stay out of sight, and don’t let the family machine grind me into paste. But sitting here, with Macon’s hand steady on my thigh and my brother watching me like the answer actually mattered, I let myself imagine it out loud.
“I want to build something,” I said. “Something that’s mine.
I want to run goats. Maybe sheep, too, but mostly goats.
There’s a big market for milk and cheese, and I’ve already started working with the extension office for grant programs. I want to make it sustainable.
Get off grid, if possible. And I want—” The words clogged up, stuck in my throat.
I powered through. “I want to raise a family there. With him. And with the baby.”
Barrett listened, head cocked, expression softening by degrees. “That’s ambitious.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
He looked at Macon, and the two of them had a brief, silent exchange. Macon nodded, once, and that seemed to seal something between them.
Barrett leaned back. “Dad’s going to hate all of this.”
I shrugged. “He’s hated me for years. I’m used to it.”
Barrett shook his head, not quite denying it. “He’s not going to stop. If anything, this will just double down his resolve.”
I felt Macon’s hand move, fingers brushing my wrist. “Let him try,” Macon said, not even a trace of bravado—just cold fact.
Barrett looked at both of us. “You have a plan for when he comes up here again?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I hadn’t thought past this, past the town and the baby and the day-to-day rhythm of making it work.
But Macon had.
“We’ll be ready,” Macon said. “And if you want, we can keep you updated. Just in case.”
Barrett considered this, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He reached into his suit jacket, produced a card, and slid it across the table to me. “This is my private number. If you need anything—legal advice, a contact, anything—call. Don’t go dark again, all right?”
I took the card, holding it between thumb and forefinger. The weight of it felt like a promise, a lifeline I hadn’t known I’d been missing.
He turned to leave, then paused. “And Carter?”
“Yeah?”
Barrett’s face cracked a real smile. “You look good. Happier than I’ve seen you in years.”
He left without another word, the diner door banging behind him. I watched him cross the lot, then get in his car.
Macon then squeezed my hand. “You okay?”
I looked at the card in my hand, then at him. “Yeah,” I said, and for the first time, I meant it.
We left the diner and walked into the sunlight, two men and a future that suddenly felt possible.
It wasn’t until we were halfway to the truck that I realized I still had Barrett’s business card in my hand.
It was heavier than I expected, thick as a casino chip, and when I looked at it closer I saw the name of his personal attorney embossed in gunmetal foil across the front.
There was a number on the back, and in neat, all-caps pen: “JUST IN CASE.”
I turned it over once, then again, like maybe if I stared long enough it would turn into an apology, or a map, or a ticket to some parallel universe where brothers hugged at Christmas and nobody ever had to run away to find out if they mattered.
Macon’s hand was warm and steady at the small of my back. He kept a step behind me, close enough to catch me if I staggered. Neither of us said a word. The sunlight had burned through the cloud cover and made everything outside sharp, almost painful.
Barrett was already waiting at his car, standing with one hand on the roof and the other in his pocket. He watched us come up, sunglasses back on, like he needed the extra barrier between us and whatever emotions were still leaking out.
He looked at me, then at Macon, then back at me again. “I’ll keep Dad occupied,” he said, voice low. “Give you a head start. Just let me know if you need anything. Seriously.”
I nodded, still not trusting myself to speak. There was a prickle at the corners of my eyes, the kind that warned me to either make a joke or bolt for the nearest fire exit.
Then Barrett did something I wasn’t prepared for: he leaned in and gave me a hug.
Not a real one—more like the kind you see in airport arrivals, quick and tight and over before it could be misinterpreted.
He patted my shoulder, then stepped back fast, like maybe he was allergic to displays of affection.
“Take care, Carter,” he said, and before I could ruin it by saying something stupid, he got in his car and drove away. The Mercedes glided out of the lot, the taillights flashing once as he hit the road.
I watched until the car disappeared behind the bank building, then let myself breathe.
We made it to Macon’s truck without incident. The inside was still warm from the sun, and the faint scent of coffee clung to the upholstery. I got in, shut the door, and stared at the card in my hand.
For a few seconds, everything in me went very, very still.
Then it was like the inside of my chest had been hollowed out and filled with something raw and weightless. My hands started to shake, and I pressed my palms flat to my knees, willing it to stop.
It didn’t.
Macon slid into the driver’s seat and waited, engine idling, like he already knew this was coming. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to force my hand off the self-destruct button. He just sat there, the quiet presence of him filling up all the corners I didn’t know I still had.
I tried to hold it together. Made it almost a full minute before the first tear cut loose, hot and embarrassing. I wiped it away fast, but another took its place, and then another, until the inside of the cab blurred out and all I could do was cover my face and let it happen.
Macon reached across and laid a hand on the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles just below my hairline. He didn’t try to talk me down or tell me it was going to be okay. He just stayed there, the anchor point in a world that kept wanting to unspool.
I cried for longer than I’d ever admit. Not the kind of crying that leaves you hollow, but the kind that makes room for something else to come in. When it was over, I leaned back in the seat and let my head thump against the headrest.
“Sorry,” I said, voice croaky and small. “I don’t usually—”
He shook his head, thumb still on my skin. “Don’t apologize. Not to me.”
I wiped my face with the heel of my palm. “I thought he was coming to haul me back. Or blackmail me. Or something. But he just—” The words choked off, and I swallowed hard. “He just wanted to make sure I was okay.”
Macon squeezed the back of my neck, then let his hand drift down to the line of my shoulder. “You matter more than you think. You always have.”
I laughed, wet and half hysterical. “Tell that to the rest of the family.”
He shrugged. “Fuck ‘em.”
That did it. I started to laugh for real, the kind that left me breathless and weirdly light. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel invisible. I felt seen—not just by Macon, but by someone who’d known me since birth and decided I was worth the trouble anyway.
It was terrifying, and wonderful.
We sat there in the truck, windows fogged and hearts still pounding, until the world outside slowed down enough to make sense again.
Then Macon put the truck in gear, looked over at me, and said, “You ready to go home?”
I nodded, and he drove us out of the lot and back toward the ranch, the card still clutched in my hand. For the first time, it didn’t feel like a lifeline. It felt like a beginning.
And for once, I was ready for whatever came next.