Chapter 11 Carson
ELEVEN
CARSON
After dropping Lennon off at work, I head out to the ranch to get some work of my own in.
The morning sun is just breaking over the mountains when Devlin and I head out to check the fence line on the north pasture. The air is crisp, causing our breath to come out in a puff of white smoke. My horse moves beneath me like we’re one and the same.
“Sleep well?” Devlin asks, casting a sidelong glance my way.
I can’t help the smile that crosses my face. “Better than I have in weeks.”
“I noticed you weren’t on the couch this morning when I came by to grab tools I had to bring over here today.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just brotherly interest.
“I slept in my room,” I say, keeping my eyes on the fence line ahead. “Lennon…she helped.”
Devlin is quiet for a moment, and I can feel him choosing his words carefully. “That’s good, man. Real good.”
We ride in silence for a while, checking posts and making note of which sections need repair. I could do this shit in my sleep, but it’s always the kind of work that’s prevented me from going crazy. But I can feel Devlin building up to something. His silence means he’s got something on his mind.
“You want to talk about it?” he finally asks. “About what happened with Noah?”
My hands tighten on the reins, an automatic response to hearing that name. “Not particularly.”
“Carson—”
“I’m fine, Dev.” I pull my horse to a stop, examining a post that’s listing badly to one side. “I’m handling it.”
“Are you?” He stops beside me, his expression serious. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve been sleeping on your couch for weeks, and that’s never been you. That doesn’t sound like handling it to me.”
His words piss me the fuck off. “What do you want me to say? That I’m scared? That some nights I wake up in a cold sweat, feeling like the walls are closing in? That I can’t be in small spaces without feeling like I’m suffocating?”
“Yeah,” Devlin says quietly. “Actually, that’s exactly what I want you to say. Because pretending you’re fine isn’t helping anyone, least of all you.”
I dismount, digging the heels of my boots into the dirt. The action takes some of the heat from my anger. Devlin follows suit, giving me space while still staying close enough to talk.
“It’s okay to be struggling with your mental health after something like that,” he continues, his voice gentle. “It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
“I know that.” I pull out my pocket knife, digging at the soft wood around the base of the post. “Logically, I know that. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.”
“Talk to me.” Devlin crouches beside me. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I’m quiet for a long moment. This is my older brother. He’s always been the person I look up to, and confessing to him about how I’m really feeling makes me wonder if he’ll think less of me. On the other hand, if I can’t talk to him, who can I talk to?
“I feel like I’m broken,” I finally admit, the words coming out rough and strained. “Like Noah took something from me that I can’t get back. My confidence, my sense of safety…hell, even my ability to sleep in my own damn bed.”
“But you slept there last night,” Devlin points out.
“Because of Lennon.” I sit back on my heels, looking up at him. “She made me feel safe enough to try. And when the panic started, when I felt like the walls were closing in, she just…talked me through it. Made me think about other things until the fear passed.”
“That’s good, Carson. That’s real progress.”
“Is it?” I shake my head. “Or am I just trading one crutch for another? What happens when this is over and she goes back to her own life? When I don’t have her there to help me sleep?”
“Then you’ll figure it out.” Devlin claps his hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you’ll be ready by then. Or maybe you’ll talk to someone professional about it. But you don’t have to have all the answers right now.”
I pull out a stake, marking the post for replacement, then stand and dust off my jeans. “I need to be strong for her, Dev. She’s dealing with her own shit, dangerous shit, and she needs someone she can count on. Not some broken cowboy who can’t even sleep in his own bed.”
“You are strong,” Devlin says, gripping my shoulder tighter. “Asking for help and accepting support takes more strength than suffering in silence. And from what Atlee says, Lennon is not looking for some perfect hero. She’s looking for someone who understands what it’s like to struggle.”
I think about last night, about the way Lennon had opened up about her own trauma, her own coping mechanisms. The way she’d trusted me with her pain, and how that trust had made it easier for me to share mine.
“Maybe you’re right,” I concede.
“I usually am,” Devlin says with a grin, and just like that, the tension breaks.
We continue along the fence line, marking damaged sections and recording how many new posts we’ll need on our phones. We go on until I know I have to leave to pick up Lennon, and we head back to the barn.
“Thanks,” I say as we’re unsaddling the horses. “For pushing me to talk about it.”
“Anytime.” Devlin pats my horse’s neck. “That’s what family is for.”
And after I leave to head out to get Lennon, I realize he’s right.