Chapter 20
The road is laid out before me. The sky is wide and endless, a constant soft blue, broken only by the low, drifting clouds casting shadows over the acres of countryside surrounding me. I have been driving for hours, the steady hum of the engine beneath me, and my hand relaxed on the steering wheel.
This time, the road isn’t an escape route. I’m not running. I have a destination, a plan. The sign stands a little crooked on the side of the road, the white letters against a green backdrop, slightly weathered by years of the elements.
WELCOME TO LIVINGSTON, MONTANA
This is home… Not the house I shared with Rosie, or even where I spent my childhood, but this is my roots.
Before Nashville, Rosie, the tours, or the spotlight.
Before life swallowed me whole and spat me back out with calloused fingertips and a whiskey habit that was going to end it all, this was my life.
Dirt roads. Wooden fence posts. The smell of hay, manure, and sun-warmed leather.
Muddied boots and hard days of honest work.
Dr. Patel suggested it a few days ago, right before I left rehab. “If you can’t go back to the life you built with Rosie, go somewhere that reminds you of who you were, the man she’d be proud of and fall in love with.”
At first, I thought it was ridiculous and sentimental, running backward instead of moving forward.
But the longer I sat with it, the more it made sense.
I can’t go back to our house, sitting in rooms filled with her absence, and expect to build something new.
I also can’t drift from city to city anymore, pretending motion equals healing.
So, I made a few calls until I was connected with James Wilson, owner of the Wilson Family Cattle Ranch.
With spring coming, he is short of a ranch hand.
And with a little convincing—and maybe a bit of begging—he agreed to give me a shot.
Well, more correctly, he decided to give Easton Callahan a shot.
The town is a stretch of low buildings along the main road, a quaint diner with a faded red awning, a general store, and a hardware store with dusty windows and a hand-painted sign.
Pickup trucks angle along the curb, like they hand them out upon arrival.
I roll through at a slow pace, taking it all in.
No one knows who I am here, and I’m hoping the slight change in name, clean shave, and large brim of a cowboy hat will keep it that way. The only thing I want to be judged on here is whether I can mend a fence or saddle a horse.
The asphalt eventually gives way to gravel, my tires crunching over it as I turn onto a more narrow road, flanked by open fields that stretch endlessly toward distant mountains.
The land rolls gently for miles, a patchwork of golden grass and darker earth, sprinkled with cattle grazing lazily beneath the late-winter sun.
I make a right and drive beneath an arched wooden sign that looks like it has stood sentry at this entrance nearly as long as this dirt road has existed.
WILSON FAMILY CATTLE RANCH.
The driveway is long and uneven, lined with wooden fences that have seen far better days.
Some of the boards are sun-bleached, while others are warped or cracked and held together by stubborn nails.
To my left, a wide cattle corral sprawls out, metal gates clearly patched and repatched over the years.
To the right, a horse barn. It stands solid but worn, the once-red paint faded and peeling to something closer to rust.
A small bunkhouse sits between the barn and the main home.
It looks small, simple, and functional. The main house is two stories, the wide siding speckled with dirt, and the wraparound porch sagging slightly at the far corner.
This isn’t a polished, picturesque ranch like the ones you see in movies.
This one is real, a family trying to hold on to generations of land with sheer grit and hard work.
After parking near the house, I cut the engine of my Bronco.
The sudden quiet is thick, but not suffocating.
I push open the car door as the wind brushes through the grass, carrying the faint lowing of cattle, the sharp scent of livestock, and the great outdoors.
Before I can fully step from my SUV, the front screen on the house creaks open.
An older man steps out, mid-fifties, maybe pushing sixty.
Ashen strands thread heavily through what looks to have been previously dark hair, blending it with the fully gray, untamed beard covering his face.
A face that has been leathered and worn by the sun and years spent outdoors.
His posture is straight, but there’s a heaviness in the way he carries himself; his lifetime has been leaning on him heavily for a while.
He walks down the porch steps slowly, his boots thudding against the worn wood and then grinding through the gravel. “You Easton?” he calls with a deep voice as rough as sandpaper.
“Yes, sir,” I answer, pushing the car door shut.
He studies me for a long moment. Long enough, I worry that he might place my face and realize who I actually am. “Well, you don’t look like a drunk,” he states, blunt as hell.
I let out an uneasy exhale. “Rehab will do that to you.” When we talked on the phone about this position, I was honest about my situation. Well, at least part of my situation.
One corner of his lips twitches beneath the whiskers of his mustache, nowhere near a smile. “You here to work or hide?”
“Work,” I answer honestly. “Hiding didn’t quite pan out too well for me.”
He grunts, apparently satisfied enough. “Good. We don’t got time for dead weight around here.
” There is zero warmth in his tone, but there isn’t pity, either.
And I didn’t realize how much I needed that until now.
He jerks his chin toward the open land behind him.
“The ranch runs about three thousand acres. Cattle mostly. Some horses. The fences need constant fixing. Calves come whether you’re ready or not.
You keep up, you stay. You don’t, and you’re gone. ”
“Sounds pretty straightforward.”
“It is.”
He turns and walks away from me, and I take a few quick strides to fall into step beside him.
Up close, there are fine lines carved deep around his eyes.
He’s a man worn down by time, weather, and responsibility.
His hands are scarred, knuckles swollen slightly, and his nails are permanently rimmed with dirt that never quite washes off.
“This here is the main house,” he announces unnecessarily as we pass it. “Since Mary passed, it’s just me and my kids here.”
His statement is flat, almost informal, but the context resonates. “I’m sorry,” I gently offer my condolences.
“Thank you.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks and keeps walking toward the barn.
“It was a long time ago.” He gestures at the corrals, storage sheets, and water troughs.
“All the regular hands are family. My sons Deacon and Knox, and my daughter, Teagan. A couple of their cousins come to help during branding season, but for the most part, the bunkhouse will be all yours. It ain’t fancy. ”
“I’m not looking for fancy, just a place to rest my head.”
“I’m takin’ you at your word, son. I know you’ve been around horses, but you ever worked cattle before?”
“Yes, sir. Not in a long time, but I grew up around it.”
He narrows his eyes slightly, gauging whether or not I’m overselling myself. “I ain’t runnin’ a charity. I don’t care what you did a long time ago; I care what you do inside these gates. Understood?”
“Understood.”
There is a long stretch of silence between us, and I almost think he’s waiting for me to change my mind and go running for anything other than this life.
He gives a nod and shouts, “Knox!” His deep, gravelly voice carries easily across the pasture, and a figure emerges from the far side of the barn.
Knox is young, broad-shouldered, with blond hair fanning from beneath his backward ballcap.
There is a cocky ease to the way he walks, like he knows beyond a doubt that he’s exactly where he belongs.
Knox walks toward us, wiping his hands on a rag as he looks over me with open curiosity. “This him?”
“This is him,” James exhales his confirmation. “Show him the bunkhouse. Get him settled. He starts tomorrow at five.”
“Five,” Knox repeats, grinning slightly. “Hope you’re a morning person.”
“I’ll adapt.”
James gives me one last assessing look before turning back toward the house. “Dinner’s at six. Don’t be late. And don’t be bringin’ shit on your boots.”
Knox gestures for me to follow him, cutting across the yard toward the smaller single-story home settled on the side of this part of the property. When we’re about halfway to the bunkhouse, a sharp, high-pitched squeal echoes through the air.
My head snaps toward the paddock to see a horse rearing up, its muscles taut and powerful as its front hooves slice through the air.
In the saddle, a young blonde woman struggles to maintain her hold.
Her body is pitched toward the horse, and her feet dig into the stirrups as she pulls the reins tight for leverage.
For a moment, it appears that she’s going to get control, but the horse jerks hard, and she loses it.
She falls hard, hitting the dirt with a thud that rattles through my own bones as the horse’s hooves slam to the ground inches from where she landed.
I move on instinct, taking a step to race toward her, only to find myself pulled back by Knox’s hand clamping around my arm. “Hold up.”
My eyes still locked on the paddock, I exclaim, “What if she’s hurt?”
“Teagan?” He laughs. “I’m pretty sure she learned to ride before she learned to walk. And hell, she’s taken falls way harder than that one.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“She’s fine,” he insists without an ounce of worry behind his eyes.
I’m about to argue further when she rolls to her knees and pushes herself to her feet.
She dusts off her jeans with sharp, irritated movement.
Blonde hair escapes its tie and whips across her face as she storms toward the horse with a firmly set jaw.
“See?” Knox muses, releasing my arm. “It’s the horse you should be worried about.”
Teagan grabs the reins and pulls them tight, clearly muttering something to the horse.
I can’t make out the words from here, but I can only assume from the look on her face that they aren’t sweet.
The horse tosses its head with a snort, and it pulls the reins firmly before she plants her boot in the stirrup and swings herself into the saddle in one smooth, practiced motion.
No hesitation or fear. Just pure grit. I exhale slowly, suddenly aware how fast my pulse is racing. “She always like that?”
“No.” Knox chuckles. “Worse. She’s stubborn as hell. Momma used to say she’s got more fight than sense.”
Dirt streaks along her side, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. As if to prove his point, Teagan urges the horse forward again, guiding it into a tight circle and working to reestablish control.
“C’mon.” Knox nudges me forward toward the bunkhouse.
The wooden steps lead to a narrow porch, barely big enough to hold the two of us.
Knox pushes the door open and gestures for me to step inside.
It’s simple. A few twin beds, mismatched dressers, and a tiny kitchenette that looks out over the open fields.
He points to the back of the room. “Closet’s on the left.
Bathroom’s on the right. Otherwise, this is it. ”
“It’s perfect,” I reply, honestly.
He leans against the doorframe, his head tilted slightly, studying me with the same intensity as his father. “Dad says you’re here to work, but I get the feeling that ain’t the whole story.”
I meet his gaze before answering, “It’s enough of it.”
“Fair.”
The rhythmic thud of hooves carries from outside. Through the window, I catch Teagan guiding the horse through another pass, her blonde locks flying in the air behind her.
“Unpack. Dinner is at six.” Knox pushes off the jamb. “And don’t mind Teagan. She tends to be nicer to the horses than the ranch hands.”
I drop my duffel on the bed nearest the door when he disappears out the door. After unzipping it, I pull out the photo of Rosie and place it on the small dresser beside the bed. With a slow exhale, I mutter, “I’m trying, dreamer.”