Chapter 42
Forty-Two
SAVE THE RANCH—WHATEVER IT COSTS YOU.
WYATT
The rooster’s first call breaks the dark at four-thirty. I'm already awake, staring at the hand-hewn oak beams of my bedroom ceiling, listening to the cottonwoods scrape against the windows.
Sleep didn't come—not after standing on Kinsley's porch for twenty minutes last night, knocking and calling her name into that silent, dark cottage that felt as empty as I do right now.
The place looked abandoned. Not a light on anywhere, her truck cold like it hadn't moved all day. Either she wasn't there, or she was hiding from me so deep that all my desperate knocking couldn't reach her. Both possibilities settle in my chest like rocks at the bottom of the river.
I swing my legs over the edge of the queen-size bed that replaced my twin when I turned fourteen. The solid walnut frame doesn't make a sound—quality craftsmanship never does.
The hardwood floor's cold against my bare feet as I pull on jeans and grab a clean shirt from the walk-in closet.
I press my hand to that spot in my chest that's been aching since Kinsley said my love didn't matter.
I've taken plenty of hits in the arena, been thrown by bulls; but that one.
.. that one might've broken something I don't know how to fix.
I pad down the hallway, past the gallery of family photos that chronicle five generations of Halloway men and women who fought to keep this land.
Great-great-grandfather Jack stares down from his sepia-toned portrait, the man who walked away from the original Gritstone Ranch to carve out his own piece of heaven with nothing but determination and a stubborn streak that runs in our blood.
He and I have the same set to our jaw that says we'll die before we quit.
But Jack Halloway never had to choose between the woman who completed his soul and the land that coursed through his veins.
I expect to step into a dark kitchen but instead find coffee percolating in the ancient aluminum pot Dad refuses to replace and the low murmur of voices discussing problems too big for this time of day.
Mom and Dad look every bit as haggard as I feel. Dad's graying hair sticks up at odd angles and his dress shirt is wrinkled like he slept in it. The lines around his eyes seem deeper this morning, carved by worry and decisions that shouldn't have to be made.
Mom's not much better. Her light brown hair is mussed and rebellious. She's wearing her bathrobe and slippers. But it's her eyes that get me, red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears she's too proud to let fall.
Dad's reading glasses lie folded beside a stack of legal documents that weren't there yesterday.
Dad looks up when I enter. "Sit down." He points to my usual chair with the kind of gesture that brooks no argument, and I obey without thinking.
Mom rises without a word and grabs me a mug from the cabinet above the sink.
The coffee she pours is strong enough to wake the dead.
She sets the mug in front of me with gentle care, her hand brushing my shoulder for just a moment—a touch that says I love you and we'll get through this and whatever comes next, you're our son all at once.
Then she settles back into her chair across from me, folding her hands in front of her like she's preparing for prayer—or battle.
Dad clears his throat. "You'd better start talking because your mother and I are mighty confused as to why the Martinezes insist you're going to be a father, and you disagree. Either you are or you aren't."
Hearing it laid out plain like that—you're going to be a father—makes it real in a way that all of last night's panic couldn't. My hands wrap around the coffee mug, seeking warmth that I can’t find within myself.
"I don't know if it's mine," I say finally, the admission scraping my throat raw. "And that's the honest truth."
Mom tisks her tongue.
I take a long swallow of coffee, letting the bitter heat steady my nerves before I continue.
"A while back, I messed up my shoulder….
" I blink but the memory is still too hazy to do me any good.
"The doc gave me something for the pain—some kind of heavy-duty pill.
I'd never taken anything stronger than ibuprofen before, but my shoulder was screaming, and I had another ride the next night. "
Dad exhales and shakes his head as if he knows where this is going. He nods, “Go on.”
I draw in a breath. "The best I can piece together is that I took the pain pills around nine o'clock, and the next thing I remember is waking up alone in a hotel room that smelled like perfume.
" The words come out like I'm reporting someone else's disaster.
"Everything between taking that medication and waking up the next morning is just.. . gone. Completely gone."
The kitchen falls silent except for the tick of the grandfather clock.
"But Brittney was there?" Dad asks, his voice carefully controlled.
"That's what she says. Claims she stayed to take care of me, that we... that things happened between us while I was out of it." I force myself to meet their eyes. "But I can't remember any of it. Not one single thing."
"Nothing?" Mom's voice is carefully controlled.
"Bits and pieces. Flashes. I remember seeing her in the sponsorship tent earlier that day." I set down the mug with hands that aren't quite steady. "But that's it."
Mom makes a small sound. "You think she took advantage of the situation?" The question comes out sharp.
"I don't know what to think, Mom. All I know is that I've never blacked out like that before. I think she’s lying.”
Dad's hands clench into fists, and for a moment I remember the guy who once punched a horse trader for cheating his neighbor, the same man who taught me that protecting the innocent is worth any cost.
"But you can't prove it," he says quietly.
"No sir, I can't. And now she's claiming the baby's mine, and Senator Martinez is.
.." I stop myself before I can finish that sentence.
The blackmail, the threats, the impossible choice between Kinsley and the ranch—I can't lay that burden on their shoulders.
Not when I already know what they'll say: Save the ranch—whatever it costs you.
"And what?" Mom presses.
"And he's pushing for us to get married. Says it's the honorable thing to do." The half-truth burns my tongue, but it's all I can give them.
Mom leans forward searching my face with the intensity she usually reserves for sick calves and broken fences. "When you were little," she says slowly, "I couldn't give you Benadryl for your allergies. Remember that?"
I nod, confused by the apparent change of subject.
"One children's dose would knock you out for thirty-six hours straight. Dr. Patterson said you had some kind of sensitivity, that your body processed medications differently than most people. You'd sleep so deep we'd have to check on you every few hours to make sure you were still breathing."
I'm not sure that I feel any better knowing that. At least she believes me about being knocked out. I watch Dad putting pieces together in his own mind.
"We'll get a paternity test," Mom says, her words ringing with finality. "Soon as that baby's born, we'll know for certain. I think they can even do them gestationally now."
"And if it's yours," Dad adds, leaning forward with the kind of intensity that used to make me confess to broken windows and stolen cookies before he even asked, "we don't expect you to marry her.
But we do expect you to take care of that child.
A baby didn't ask to be part of this mess, and we are not turning our backs on our grandbaby. "
The words should comfort me, should feel like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Instead, they make the weight in my chest heavier, because they confirm what I already knew—that my parents will do the right thing no matter what it costs them, no matter what it costs our family.
And the right thing, in this case, might cost us everything.
I make a decision in that moment. I won't tell them about Senator Martinez's ultimatum. I don't explain that marriage isn't just about doing right by a child—it's about keeping the land that's been in our blood for five generations.
Stonegate Ranch isn't just everything to them. It's everything to me too.
I didn't know how much until this moment, didn't understand how deeply the land runs in my blood until I faced losing it.
Running off to chase rodeo glory was one thing—the ranch did fine without me, thrived even.
But having it taken away, dismantled piece by piece by bureaucrats and watching my parents crumble with it?
Or worse, watching them sell to the Whitmore's who would gladly step in and take it off their hands?
I can't let that happen.
This kitchen, this table, this house—they're not just built on Halloway land. They're built from it, carved from trees that grew in our soil, constructed with stone quarried from our hills.
The living room beyond the kitchen doorway holds furniture Dad's grandfather made during the Depression.
The stone fireplace was built with rocks collected from the Blue River, every stone chosen and placed by Halloway hands.
The mantle displays photos of Halloway children born in the upstairs bedrooms, Halloway weddings celebrated in the south pasture, Halloway funerals held in the family cemetery on the hill overlooking the river.
This isn't just where we live. This is who we are.
And if I have to sacrifice my chance at happiness with Kinsley to preserve it for future generations, if I have to marry a woman I don't love to protect the legacy my ancestors died to build, then maybe that's just the price of being a Halloway.
It's the simple, brutal truth that some responsibilities run deeper than personal happiness. That blood and soil and heritage create debts that can only be paid in full.
"I'm going to do the right thing," I say, the words coming out steady and sure despite my heart shriveling inside my chest.
Mom's eyebrows rise with something that might be hope or might be fear. "Which is...?"
I stand up. "Marry Brittney."
Mom's face goes white as fresh snow, and Dad's coffee mug hits the table with a crack that makes us all flinch.
"Wyatt—" Mom starts, but I hold up a hand to stop her.
"I've made up my mind." I almost gag on the lies I'm spitting. "It's the responsible thing to do."
Dad pushes back from the table. "Son, you can't build a marriage on responsibility alone. Trust me on that."
"You should talk to Kinsley," Mom adds, her voice thick. "Before you make any permanent decisions, you should tell her what's happening."
I stride to the door and grab my hat off the hat rack. "I'm already on my way."
But as I step out into the pre-dawn darkness, I know the truth that I can't speak aloud.
I'm not going to tell Kinsley about the choice I have to make.
I'm going to tell her goodbye.
As I walk across the yard toward her dark, silent cottage, I wonder if doing the right thing is supposed to feel like dying inside.