Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
WILDER
T he bus smelled like lemon-scented cleaner, which was better than the prison. Wilder sat in the cushioned seat next to the window and watched the world fly past, one arm resting on his backpack. Everything, including the clothes on his back, he’d bought from the prison commissary on his way out the door, and he just barely had enough for the bus ticket when all was said and done.
There were only a handful of people on the bus with him, traveling from one sleepy town in Montana to the next. Roselake was barely a dot on the map, but it was home. Or it used to be. He wasn’t sure what awaited him there now. When he’d left it in handcuffs, the ranch had been in a state of disrepair. The paint on the house was peeling. The front porch was dry-rotted. The barn’s roof was beginning to sag. The picket fence was no longer white, and broken rails littered the whole length.
He’d looked up the ranch in the prison’s library occasionally. There weren’t a lot of pictures, but a handful of articles touted the return of Blackwood Ranch, now a big name in the angus beef industry. Lain had done well for himself, by the sound of it. Wilder was glad.
It was a long ride from the state penitentiary to Roselake’s lone bus station. When the bus rolled to a hissing stop, he stood, shouldering his meager backpack and checking his seat to make sure he left nothing behind. The clothes he’d gone into prison with were long gone, and they wouldn’t have fit even if they’d given them back to him. He was bigger, broader. Still lean, maybe, but not like he’d been as a scrawny teenager.
On his way out of the bus, a middle-aged woman eyed him as he passed, lingering on the tattoo on his neck. It served him well in prison. Things would likely be very different outside of it.
Exhaust fumes hit him as he stepped out onto the pavement. No one else got off, and he waited until the bus rolled away to start walking. Across the street, a field stretched toward the horizon. Mountains rose up in the distance, hazy and blue. He’d grown up staring at the view, and seeing it now made him feel both eighteen again and far older than his years.
He could never go back and be that kid again. He wasn’t sure he’d even want to.
It was ten miles from the bus stop to the ranch. On the phone with Lain, it hadn’t occurred to him to ask for a ride. It felt like enough charity that Lain was giving him a job. He could walk ten miles. Hell, he’d been cooped up in prison for so long, maybe the fresh air would do him good.
The town itself was a little livelier than he remembered. There were restaurants and stores he didn’t remember being there. Roselake had thrived in his absence. He’d try not to take it personally.
As he left the city proper, the road stretched out before him. A barbed wire fence ran alongside it, and a herd of black cattle grazed in the tall grass beyond. Wilder wondered if they were Blackwood cattle. A few of them raised their heads to watch him pass, jaws moving back and forth as they chewed.
Out here, anything was possible. He could walk off into one of the fields and disappear forever, parole responsibilities be damned. His brother never had to see him. His parole officer wouldn’t know how to find him. He could go somewhere new, with a new name and make a new life for himself. There would be no need to face the ghosts of his past if he disappeared into the horizon.
But he wouldn’t. He might not have much, but he had this. His history, and his pride. He’d see this through, and if it was a disaster, then at least he’d know. At least he’d have a clear conscience. He’d always tried to do right by his brother, and he had no regrets about the choices he’d made.
The moment he reached the old property, it hit him again how different things were now. A rustic wooden sign hung over the main gate, declaring it Blackwood Ranch in carefully carved script. He stared at it and the big metal gate for a long moment. Neither had been there the last time he was here. Beyond it, the house was no longer dilapidated and failing. It stood tall and proud, with sharp white siding and black shutters, haloed in the golden light of the evening. A flag waved gently in the breeze on the front porch. Multiple buildings stood around the house that hadn’t been there before. The old barn had been restored and painted to match the house. A much larger barn, larger than the house, stood on the right, connected to a paddock and round pen for working horses. Another building on the left reminded Wilder of a small motel. There were multiple doors facing the same direction, each with an identical window beside it. Each door even had its own porch light.
He’d kept the memories of that night locked away firmly for eight long years, and now, faced with the place where his whole life came crashing down around his ears, they rushed back with a vengeance.
His hands were sticky with blood, and the handcuffs were too tight around his wrists as the police led him from the house. The night beyond the chaotic bubble of the house was quiet. It seemed surreal that the rest of the world wasn’t quaking with the night’s events along with him.
He glanced over his shoulder as the police pushed him into the backseat of the squad car. Lain was standing on the front porch, silhouetted in the light spilling from the open door. The phone was still clutched in his trembling hands, and tears tracked down his bruised face. Wilder had seen him cry many times over the years because of their father. Wilder had never been the cause of it, though. A sick knot settled in his gut at the sight. Was he as bad as their father after all? Worse? Their father never killed a man.
He opened his mouth to speak, to call out something that might help dry Lain’s tears, but the cop slammed the door shut before he could.
“No, wait.” His voice was ragged with emotion. He needed to say goodbye to his brother. He needed to explain. He pressed up against the door, and Lain turned away. “Lain, wait. Please!”
Lain couldn’t hear him.
The cops sat down in the front seats, and the engine rumbled to life. Wilder turned to look out the rear window as the car trundled down the long driveway. The ranch didn’t look like much these days with its crooked front porch and collapsing barn, but it was theirs . It was all they had. How long would it be before he could see it again? What would Lain do now that he was alone? What would Wilder do?
Shaking off the barbed memory, he unlatched the gate and slipped through it, pulling it shut behind him. The driveway was no longer a dirt track but smooth, black pavement. His prison-issued canvas sneakers weren’t ideal for long walks, and his feet ached, but the pain was an afterthought as he took in the new ranch. In the paddock nearby, a horse snorted. The familiar scents hit him, hay and animal fur and leather, a visceral reminder of everything he’d lost. Even before that final night, before he’d changed everything, Dad had steadily lost everything they owned because of his drinking. The horses, the cattle, the equipment. He sold it all off to keep the property and buy his liquor. They would’ve lost the ranch eventually, too, but somehow Lain had found a way to turn it around.
He slowed to a stop in the circular drive, uncertain where to go. Was Lain in the house? Should he knock?
It was decided for him when the front door opened. He sucked in a breath at the sight of his brother standing on the front porch, just like he did that final night. Lain looked like he’d seen a ghost, his face slack with shock. Wilder wondered what his brother saw.
His commissary sweats and T-shirt were as basic as they came. His face was stubbled, his dark hair faded on the sides, shorter altogether than Lain’s. Tattooed and lean, Wilder probably looked every inch the ex-con he was. Would Lain regret letting him come here? Would seeing him bring all those tangled emotions back to the surface and cause him to change his mind? Wilder had no idea where he would go if Lain decided he didn’t want him here. He probably didn’t even have enough money for a hotel room for the night.
“Lain,” he rasped, risking a step closer to the porch. He was still on the blacktop, and there was a line of carefully laid flagstones between him and the porch steps.
Lain’s throat bobbed. “Wilder. You look…” He frowned, and it was just as well. Wilder wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what Lain thought about how he looked. Lain looked good . His jeans were crisp and clean. His pearl snap-button shirt was smooth and bright, a cream and blue pattern that seemed to bring out the blue of his eyes. He was freshly shaven, his hair smoothed back, more put-together than Wilder had ever felt in his life .
Maybe he really didn’t belong here anymore. It might’ve been home a long time ago, but he wasn’t that kid anymore. Neither of them were, and Lain had obviously grown up and moved on, built a life for himself right here on the wreckage of the past, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
Lain’s eyes wandered up and down Wilder, taking him in, and then drifted behind him, down the driveway, and his brow furrowed. “How’d you get here?”
“I… walked,” he said haltingly.
“From the bus stop? That’s like…” He stopped, shaking his head.
Wilder shrugged, not wanting to say how many actual miles it was. “It’s fine. The fresh air was nice.”
“You could’ve called me. I could’ve come and picked you up, or at least sent someone.”
Wilder lifted one shoulder. “It’s really fine. I’m here now, and nobody had to go out of their way.”
“Well, uh.” Lain tucked his hands in his pockets, then nodded toward the barn beside the house. “I’ve got some paperwork for you to sign. Do you want to go ahead and get that out of the way? Then I can show you where you’ll be staying.”
“Yeah, course.”
The paperwork was in the barn? He followed sedately as Lain hopped off the front porch and led him to the restored building. It was easily the smallest barn on the property now, and when Lain opened the door, he realized the inside had been completely redone, too. The sagging loft they used to hide in had been rebuilt. There were big windows on the wall above it, letting warm evening light in. The walls were decorated with old memorabilia from the ranch. The tin ‘Blackwood Ranch’ sign Dad used to have staked beside the mailbox. Their first BB guns. The old American flag that used to hang on the porch, now slightly tattered on the edges and bleached by the sun.
One of the old storage rooms had been expanded, and now it was an office. The room smelled faintly of sawdust and wood polish. Lain sat down behind the big metal desk and gestured for Wilder to sit. He did slowly, lowering himself into one of the chairs and setting his bag in the other. Lain’s eyes studied the bag for a moment before he turned away, lifting a file folder from one of the drawers and opening it.
“This is your employment agreement, including your wages. You’ll get health insurance and dental. Cards for those will come in the mail.”
Wilder signed his name to page after page. Liability agreements, tax information, safety information. When he looked up, he realized Lain was staring at his hands. The tattoos on his left knuckles, the five dots on the webbing between his right forefinger and thumb. All things that had given him his place in prison and set him apart outside of it.
Lain cleared his throat. “I’ve got a copy of your parole paperwork here. I assume you have that, too?”
“Mm-hm.” Wilder sat back, discomfited. He’d expected… something more than this. Lain was treating him like any other employee.
“Then you know you have to call once a week and go in for a visit once a month?—”
“For the first three months, yes,” Wilder said, “and then we’ll reevaluate. They told me.”
Lain nodded absently. “Good, good. The foreman, Cash Arden, will be your supervisor. He’s a good man, and he’s been in the business a long time. If you have any concerns, you can go to him. It’s very important that all the hands can work well together. They spend a lot of long hours together during the day, working the cattle and the land. As long as you keep your head down and do your part, everything will be fine. But if you slack off, get violent, cause any problems, Cash has been given leave to let you go. And if that happens, you’ll be on your own.”
Don’t step out of line , Wilder heard, or you’re out of here . Maybe it was a fair warning. He’d just hoped for a little more grace than that. Lain had never known him to be violent, but he supposed all bets were off after that night. And he’d certainly been violent in the years since. He had to be if he wanted to survive.
“Fair enough,” he said gruffly. Lain obviously didn’t want him here, so he’d keep his head down and do the work, as he said. And the minute his parole was up, he could disappear from the perfect life Lain had built and make his own way.
Lain was silent a moment, watching him with an unreadable expression. Wilder had mastered shielding his emotions in prison, but it was with a prickly exterior, meant to warn people away. He didn’t want to use that here, and it left him floundering, desperately trying to cobble a blank facade over his thoughts and feelings.
“Come on,” Lain finally said, standing. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“My room?” Wilder repeated, snagging his backpack and following Lain out of the barn.
“Yeah. This is the bunkhouse,” he said, gesturing to the building with all the doors.
“This is… Oh.”
Lain glanced back at him. “You expected something else?”
“Communal space, I guess.” Most bunkhouses were more utilitarian than this, with everyone sleeping in the same space.
“There’s some of that.” He gestured to the door on the left end. “That’s the living and kitchen area. It’s communal. You’ve got a small fridge in your room and your own bathroom, but meals are shared in the communal room. A lot of the guys hang out there in their off hours, but I thought it was important to let everybody have their own space to retreat to at the end of the day.”
Yes, Lain and Wilder both knew all about retreating to a quiet space. They used to have hiding spots all over the property to go to when Dad’s outbursts were at their worst.
The third door down from the communal room was Wilder’s. Lain unlocked it and gestured for him to step inside. The floor was laminate wood. A full-sized bed sat on the left wall with a bedside table, which had a silver key on top. On the right wall, there was a wardrobe, a dresser with a mirror, and a mini fridge. Across the room, there was a window and a door that hung open, revealing the dark bathroom within. Under the window was a small table with two chairs. It reminded him very much of a motel room.
“You might recognize some of the other hands,” Lain said, calling Wilder’s attention back to him. He was leaning in the doorway. “Roselake’s a small town, you know how it is.”
“Sure, yeah.” He peeled the straps of his backpack off and laid it on the foot of the bed. The black fabric looked out of place against the colorful quilt.
“Do you have any other clothes? You’ll need work clothes, jeans, boots. Probably a hat.”
“No, nothing. Spare shirt, socks, and boxers in the bag. The paperwork they gave me when they released me. I saw a few stores in town. I can buy some stuff with my first check.”
Lain shook his head. “You can’t work horses and cattle in slip-ons and sweatpants.”
Wilder waved a useless hand. He didn’t know what else to say. It wasn’t like they gave him a wad of cash when they opened the cage and ushered him out.
Lain stroked his jaw in thought. “I’ll let Cash know. He can take you into town in the morning and get you whatever you need. We’ll take it out of your paychecks in two or three increments. That way you’re still earning and not spending it all before you get it.”
“Don’t go to any trouble,” Wilder said. “I can make do.”
“I’d do the same for anyone else who came to work for me.”
Wilder looked away. Right. They were just boss and employee now. They stopped being brothers the moment Dad’s heart stopped. “All right, then.”
The silence extended between them. “You’ve probably had a long day. Are you hungry? Thirsty? There’s always food over in the kitchen.”
His stomach felt like it was eating itself, but the thought of food made him feel even worse. “No. Thirsty, maybe.”
Lain pointed at the fridge. “Mary-Beth stocked your fridge with some things already. She wasn’t sure what you liked, so she put a little of everything in there.”
Wilder wasn’t sure what he liked, either. All they’d served in the prison were milk, shitty coffee, and water. He drifted over and tugged the sleek black door open. Every shelf was lined with drinks. Coffee drinks, energy drinks, sodas, water, and juice.
“Wow,” he remarked. “You mean Mary-Beth, your girlfriend from way back when?” He pulled out a water and nudged the door shut.
“Yeah. She’s… my wife now.”
Wilder’s hand clenched a little too hard, and water spilled down his fingers. “Shit, fuck.”
“Uh, towels and linens are in the wardrobe there.”
Wilder opened the wardrobe door on silent hinges and grabbed a hand towel from the neat stack waiting within. They were all far softer and fluffier than he was used to.
“You’re married?” he asked. “That’s… congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’m a real lucky guy. She was there for me when—” He broke off suddenly, ducking his head.
Wilder nodded, dimly recalling his brother sneaking off to see a girl. They’d started dating when they were seventeen, but for understandable reasons, he’d never brought her home to meet the family.
“I leaned on her pretty hard,” Lain said softly. “I don’t think I’d be here without her.”
Bitter words crowded up Wilder’s throat. There were so many things he wanted to say. Angry things, spiteful things, broken and sharp-edged things. He’d tried to free them, tried to save them, and instead he’d cast himself into Purgatory. At least Lain had someone.
“We’ve got a little girl,” Lain went on, his voice rough. “She’s seven.”
Seven . Goddamn, Lain had been busy. How long was Wilder gone before Lain ran into his girl’s arms and started a new family?
“And we’re expecting again. She’s due in a few months.”
“That’s—that’s great.” He cleared his throat. It didn’t feel great. The chasm between them was even wider than he thought, and Wilder felt more adrift than ever. Once upon a time, they only had each other. Now he had no one.
“Breakfast is at six. One of the hands does most of the cooking. I’ll let Cash know to meet you after. He’ll have a list of everything you need. There are toiletries in the bathroom, but if any of that doesn’t work for you, let him know and we can replace whatever you don’t like.”
Wilder nodded. Navigating this conversation was exhausting, and he was ready to say goodnight.
As though sensing his waning energy, Lain inclined his head. “Night, then. See you tomorrow.” There was an upward lilt to the phrase, like he was unaccustomed to saying it.
Unaccustomed to saying it to Wilder , certainly. He hadn’t visited once in eight years. Wilder was surprised he’d answered the goddamn phone when he called. But here he was, a ranch hand on the land he once called home. It was no longer home, just a stopping point on the way to whatever lay in his murky future.
At least the bed was nicer.