Chapter 14
RYDER
I’ve been out in the calving pasture since sunrise, riding slow circles through the herds, tagging newborn calves, making sure each one is paired up and nursing before moving on to the next.
The morning has been good with six healthy births, all standing and feeding within the hour.
A day like this makes our cow-calf operation feel like less of a grind and more of a privilege.
To be out in nature, breathing fresh air on land as old as time, in a place that never rushes.
Despite the beauty and peace threaded through the open afternoon, my back aches from crouching.
The sun is heavy on my shoulders, and sweat is soaking through my shirt even in the mild April weather.
And I’ve still got the last herd to process before I call it a day.
I’ve got one hand steadying a bawling calf—this one’s a fighter, kicking and twisting as if he’s auditioning for the rodeo—and the other gripping the tagger when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The vibration cuts through the afternoon sounds of the pasture, mama cows lowing, birds arguing in the trees, and the distant rumble of the river.
The yellow tag needs to go in before this little bull makes a break for it.
The phone buzzes again. Insistent.
Then a third time.
The calf takes advantage of my distraction and lands a hoof square in my thigh.
Pain blooms hot and immediate. I swear, tighten my grip, and finally get the tag through his ear.
He bolts the second I let go, racing back to his mama with his tail high, victorious in his escape.
I straighten up, knees popping in protest.
I yank off my work glove with my teeth and fish the phone from my pocket, squinting at the screen. Harbor Point Elementary.
Shit.
My pulse kicks up as I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Mr. Evans?” A woman’s voice greets me, polite but on edge.
“Speaking.”
“This is Linda from Harbor Point Elementary.” Linda Hamilton, the principal’s secretary. “I’m calling about Rhys.”
My stomach drops. “Is he okay? Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine,” she assures me quickly. “But he was involved in an altercation with another student, and Principal Hughes would like to speak with both parents—” She catches herself. “With you. If you could stop by his office at pickup time.”
An altercation. That’s school-speak for Rhys got into a fight.
Sweet, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Rhys threw hands with another kid. Why? What could’ve happened?
Was he bullied?
The questions thud in my chest like hooves against the ground. Nobody lays a hand on my boy.
“I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Evans. We’ll see you soon.”
As the line goes dead, I’m already moving, scanning the pasture for my horse. She’s grazing twenty yards away, reins trailing in the grass.
I check the time: 2.47. School doesn’t let out for another forty-five minutes. But I’m deep into the south pasture, a good fifteen-minute ride to the stables, pushing it. If I leave now, I’ll barely make it into town in time.
I text Remy that he’ll need to take care of tagging the calves in the Ridge Herd. And Mom, that I’m picking up Rhys today. I shove the phone back in my pocket and finger-whistle for Maple. The mare lifts her head, ears swiveling toward me, then ambles over like we’ve got all day. We don’t.
As I approach, her ears prick backward. She knows something’s up—horses always sense their riders’ mood.
“Come on, girl.” I swing up into the saddle, gathering the reins. “We need to move.” My heels dig into her sides before my weight has even settled.
Maple springs into a canter, then a full gallop when I lean forward and give her more rein. The wind whips past my face as the leather chinks protect my legs from the saddle’s friction as we fly across the pasture.
The barn comes into view, red roof glinting in the afternoon sun. I pull the mare up hard, her hooves skidding in the gravel as we stop outside the stable entrance. I vault off her back, leading her into her stall. She’s breathing heavy, sides heaving. I’m an ass for not cooling her down properly.
With a quick tug, I unbuckle the girth, sliding the saddle off, and hang the bridle on its hook. I should rub her down. Check her hooves. But I can’t give Maple the full grooming she deserves. I settle for running a hand down her neck, giving her a solid pat.
“Good girl,” I murmur, grabbing a carrot from the bin by the door. “Best damn horse on this farm.”
She crunches into it, eyes half-closed in bliss, and I take the thirty seconds to breathe. To let my pulse settle. To remind myself that Rhys is fine. Linda said he’s fine.
But he got into a fight.
And I’m about to find out why.
No time for a shower or a change of clothes.
I run from the stables straight to my truck, fumbling with the keys, cursing when I drop them.
I scrabble in the dirt to retrieve them and throw myself into the driver’s seat.
The engine roars to life, and I tear out of the driveway, hands tight on the wheel, gravel spitting from under the tires.
I blow through two yellow lights, take the turn onto Main Street too fast, and break six other traffic laws. Thank goodness Ruth Bingham isn’t running radar today.
I slow down before I get pulled over and screech into the school parking lot at 3.
28. I park in a visitor space and walk the corridors against the flood of students rushing to get out.
Every kid and teacher I pass gape at me as I stride down the hall looking like I rode in straight from the Wild West. Dusty, sweaty, wearing leather chinks over my work jeans, and with what I’m sure is a half-crazed expression on my face.
I should’ve at least left the chinks in the truck. Well, too late for that now.
The principal’s office hasn’t moved since I was a kid—and a regular visitor. It is at the front of the building, with glass walls giving a clear view of the waiting area. I shove through the door, and Linda glances up from her desk.
“Mr. Evans.” She stands, smoothing her cardigan. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Principal Hughes is expecting you.” She gestures toward the half-open door behind her. “Go right in.”
I nod, throat too tight for words, and cross to the door. I knock once and open it fully, looking for my son. Rhys is sitting on one of the chairs facing the principal’s desk, feet swinging because they don’t reach the floor. His face swivels toward me, and my stomach clenches.
He’s got a split lip.
“Dad!”
I want to scoop him up, check him over for other injuries, and then I want to find the little shit who did this to him and kick his ass.
But the kid sitting next to him already has a black eye. A real shiner, purple and swollen, the kind that’ll last a week. So Rhys gave as good as he got. Maybe better.
A savage pride flares in my chest, swift and fierce, before guilt chases it down. I shouldn’t be proud. I should be… what? Disappointed? Angry?
But I’m not. I’m relieved my kid can defend himself.
Principal Hughes is seated at his desk, hands folded, expression neutral. He’s in his fifties with silver hair and thin lips that seem to shrink more each year.
To his left, Ellie Patterson is standing, looking weary. She must be the black-eyed kid’s teacher since he’s not in Rhys’s class.
And to the right—
Faye.
She’s stationed near the window, arms crossed, wearing her teacher uniform of a pencil skirt, soft cardigan, hair in that low knot I’ve fantasized about undoing.
Her expression is serious, but when our eyes meet, heat gathers in her irises, the honey deepening to gold.
Her gaze skims over me in a way that’s 100 percent not professional. Is she checking me out?
Her stare drags down my legs, taking in the chinks, the dust on my jeans, then back up to the work shirt that’s faded and worn thin at the seams.
She wets her lips in a quick, unconscious gesture that—fuck, not now.
When she glances up again, I raise my eyebrows in a silent question: How much trouble is he in?
She gives me the tiniest nod. A reassurance.
I greet the room with a tense, “Good afternoon.”
Principal Hughes replies on behalf of the adults and thanks me for coming, just as the door opens again behind me. I step aside as two more people file in. Ford and Julie Beeman. Julie takes one look at her son’s black eye and gasps.
“Jordan! Oh my gosh, what happened?”
The kid swats her off as Ford hisses, “Stop fussing, Julie.”
“Now that everyone has arrived,” Principal Hughes says, his voice carrying an edge of authority that makes even the adults straighten to attention, “we can discuss what happened.”
He launches into a lecture about Harbor Point’s zero-tolerance policy on violence, how fighting is never acceptable, and how we need to model better conflict resolution for our children.
Yeah, okay. But I want to know who started it and why.
“I hope proper punishments will be given for such acts,” Julie Beeman cuts in, shooting a venomous look at my son. “This is assault.”
“He started it!” Rhys bursts out.
“That’s not true!” Jordan fires back, his voice high and indignant. “He wouldn’t let me use the swing!”
“Because I was using the swing,” Rhys protests. “You can’t take it when someone else is on it.”
“You’d been on it forever—”
“I was on it for five minutes.” Rhys’s voice cracks, frustration bubbling up. “And you shoved me off and said—”
He stops. His mouth snaps shut, and he looks down at his hands.
“Said what, Rhys?” Faye’s voice cuts in, encouraging.
My son doesn’t answer.
Apprehension coils behind my ribs. Whatever the kid told him was bad enough that Rhys doesn’t want to repeat it.
“Rhys,” Hughes prompts gently. “What did Jordan say?”
Rhys’s hands curl into fists on his lap. When he speaks, his voice is small. “He said I’m a crybaby, and that’s why my mom abandoned me.”
The admission is a fist to the stomach.
Everything in me goes still. Cold. My chest seizes with hurt and white-hot protectiveness.
It roars up so fast I have to lock my jaw to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
I’m furious at Abigail for leaving, for creating this damage just by being absent.
Furious at this kid for weaponizing my son’s pain.
And furious at myself for not knowing how to fix it, for not having the right words to explain to Rhys why his mother walked away.
Because how do you tell a seven-year-old that it wasn’t his fault?
How do you make your kid see that he’s enough—more than enough—when the person who should’ve loved him most decided he wasn’t worth staying for?
“And then Rhys told me I was stupid and couldn’t tell my ass from my mouth,” Jordan adds quickly.
I wince.
Yeah, that’s on me.
I’ve said the same sentence to Remy more than once. When he’s done something idiotic like forgetting to latch the pasture gate or leaving the tractor lights on overnight. Rhys must’ve heard it and filed it away.
“He hit me first!” Rhys insists, turning in his chair to glare at Jordan. “Uncle Remy says that if someone hits you first, you’re allowed to punch back. It’s called self-defense.”
Sweet mercy—
I’m going to kill Remy.
Or at least have words with my brother about what is appropriate to teach a seven-year-old.
But also… the primitive part of my brain, the part that doesn’t care about modern parenting or proper conflict resolution, is proud. My son stood up for himself. Defended himself against a kid who said cruel things and threw the first punch.
I catch Faye watching me, and I know she sees the pride I’m trying to hide. And she’s not impressed.
“Is that what happened?” Julie says, stunned. “That’s not—Jordan wouldn’t—”
“Mrs. Beeman,” Principal Hughes interrupts, “Jordan has already admitted to starting the physical part of the altercation.”
Julie sputters, face going red. “Jordie would never—he’s not a violent child—”
“I’m not saying he is,” Hughes cuts in, still calm. “But the facts are evident. Jordan instigated both verbally and physically.”
The principal looks at Rhys now, and his expression softens a fraction. “That said, Rhys, self-defense applies when your life is in danger. It’s not a free-for-all to respond to violence with more violence.”
Rhys deflates a little, shoulders sagging.
Hughes shifts his attention to me and the Beemans. “I’ve decided not to suspend either boy. Both will apologize to each other, and they’ll attend a special two-hour workshop on non-violent conflict resolution next week.”
I speak up, voice scraping with disbelief that they’re being treated like they share the blame. “Shouldn’t the school also have a workshop about not insulting other kids’ families?”
Principal Hughes’s gaze flicks to Faye, and I get the distinct impression that she already suggested this and was shot down. The muscle in her jaw tightens, confirming my suspicion.
“Miss Rose has expressed similar concerns,” Hughes admits reluctantly. “She’ll be working with our counselor on an empathy and inclusion program.”
Of course she has. Because Faye actually gives a damn about these kids, unlike administrators who just want to check boxes and avoid lawsuits.
“Now,” Hughes says, turning to the boys, “it’s time for your apologies.”
Rhys looks at me, his eyes saying This is bullshit, Dad. And it is. He shouldn’t have to apologize for defending himself. But that’s not how the world works.
“Go ahead, buddy,” I coax.
Rhys turns to Jordan, his little jaw set with stubborn Evans pride. “I’m sorry I punched you. And called you an ass.”
“Jordan?” Hughes prompts.
Jordan mumbles something unintelligible.
“Louder, please,” Hughes chides.
“Sorry I punched you,” Jordan mumbles.
“And?” The principal huffs, exasperated.
Jordan’s face flushes red. “And I’m sorry for calling you a crybaby and saying your mom abandoned you.”
Each word is another knife to the chest. My hands clench into fists, and I have to make a conscious effort to relax them. Rhys shouldn’t have to hear those words once, let alone twice.
Rhys keeps quiet; he nods, staring at his lap.
“Good,” Hughes says. “You’ll both stay here with me while your parents speak with your teachers about next steps.”
Julie and Ford Beeman sweep out first with Jordan’s teacher. And I follow Faye out of the principal’s office.
She closes his door behind us, then turns to face me, arms crossed, expression stern.
Uh-oh. I know that look.
I’m about to get reamed.
Or, as Remy would call it, spanked.