Chapter 3 Sketches and Scars
Drawing the Cowboy
By the third day at Blackthorn Ranch, I had discovered two important things.
The first was that my body contained muscles I never knew existed.
The second was that every single one of those muscles hated me.
I woke before my alarm every morning because something hurt.
My shoulders hurt.
My back hurt.
My legs hurt.
Even my hands hurt.
The blisters had become permanent residents.
Getting out of bed felt like a personal challenge issued by the universe.
Unfortunately, ranch life didn't care.
The work continued whether I was ready or not.
Still, despite the soreness and exhaustion, something strange had started happening.
The ranch wasn't feeling quite as foreign anymore.
I was learning names.
Learning routines.
Learning which horses liked attention and which preferred to be left alone.
The workers had mostly stopped staring at me like I was an escaped zoo animal.
Some even spoke to me voluntarily.
Progress.
Small progress.
But progress.
I spent the morning helping clean stalls and refill water troughs. As usual, I worked slower than everyone else.
As usual, I made mistakes.
Though fewer mistakes than before.
That felt like an accomplishment.
By late morning, the sun was already high in the sky.
Heat shimmered across the ranch.
Everyone stopped briefly for a water break before returning to work.
I found a shady spot beside one of the barns and sat down heavily on an overturned feed bucket.
The moment I sat, my entire body sighed in relief.
I pulled out my water bottle and took a long drink.
Nearby, workers moved between buildings.
Horses shifted inside paddocks.
The ranch buzzed with its usual rhythm.
For the first time in days, I wasn't holding a shovel.
Or carrying buckets.
Or embarrassing myself.
I simply sat and breathed.
That was when I saw Ryder.
He stood near one of the corrals with a dark bay horse.
The animal was large and powerful.
The kind of horse that demanded attention.
Yet somehow Ryder drew my eyes first.
He rested one hand against the horse's neck while speaking quietly to it.
The horse immediately settled.
The transformation happened almost instantly.
A few seconds earlier the animal had appeared restless.
Now it stood calmly beside him.
I watched with fascination.
There was something different about Ryder when he worked with horses.
Something softer.
Not soft exactly.
That wasn't the right word.
But calmer.
The hard edges seemed to disappear.
The constant tension left his shoulders.
His movements became patient and steady.
Like he belonged there.
Like the horses trusted him completely.
Maybe they did.
I found myself staring.
Again.
That had become an annoying habit.
The smart thing would have been looking away.
Instead, I reached into my backpack.
My fingers found the familiar edge of my sketchbook.
For a moment I hesitated.
I hadn't done much drawing since arriving.
Between exhaustion and work, there hadn't been time.
But right now the urge felt impossible to ignore.
I opened the sketchbook.
The blank page stared back at me.
A pencil followed.
Then my hand began moving.
Almost automatically.
Years of practice took over.
The world narrowed.
Lines appeared.
Shapes followed.
The broad shoulders came first.
Then the hat.
The angle of his posture.
The horse beside him.
I worked quickly.
Not because I was rushing.
Because I knew the moment wouldn't last.
People moved.
Light changed.
Life refused to sit still.
That's why artists learned to work fast.
The sketch slowly emerged.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
But recognizable.
A small smile appeared before I could stop it.
I'd missed this.
The simple act of drawing.
The feeling of creating something.
Back at college, sketching had always helped me think.
Helped me breathe.
Helped me understand things I couldn't put into words.
Apparently that hadn't changed.
I continued working.
Adding details.
Adjusting shadows.
Refining proportions.
Occasionally I glanced up.
Each time I did, I noticed something new.
The way Ryder tilted his head while listening to the horse.
The easy confidence in his movements.
The quiet authority that surrounded him.
Most people at the ranch respected Ryder.
That much was obvious.
The strange thing was that the horses seemed to respect him too.
Maybe even more.
I wasn't sure how long I sat there.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Maybe longer.
Time always disappeared when I drew.
The world faded into the background.
Everything else stopped mattering.
Which was exactly why I didn't notice someone approaching.
A shadow fell across the page.
I frowned.
The sunlight disappeared.
Without thinking, I shifted slightly to regain it.
The shadow remained.
My stomach dropped.
Slowly, very slowly, I looked up.
Ryder stood directly in front of me.
Oh no.
Every survival instinct I possessed immediately activated.
Unfortunately, it was far too late.
His gaze moved from my face to the sketchbook in my lap.
Then back again.
For one terrible second neither of us spoke.
I considered several options.
None of them seemed promising.
Running was unlikely to succeed.
The man could probably catch me without breaking a sweat.
Pretending ignorance wasn't much better.
The evidence sat directly in front of him.
Eventually Ryder crossed his arms.
"What are you doing?"
Excellent question.
I wished I had a good answer.
"Taking a break?"
One dark eyebrow lifted.
I immediately regretted speaking.
His eyes dropped to the sketchbook again.
"Looks like more than that."
Heat flooded my face.
Wonderful.
Now I was blushing.
Like a teenager caught writing embarrassing diary entries.
I quickly closed the sketchbook.
Unfortunately, that only made everything worse.
Ryder noticed.
Of course he noticed.
The man's attention to detail was genuinely irritating.
"What'd you hide it for?"
"I didn't."
"You literally just hid it."
I stared at the ground.
This was a disaster.
A complete disaster.
Most artists developed strange relationships with their work.
Showing finished pieces was difficult enough.
Showing unfinished sketches felt like handing someone your thoughts.
Especially when the subject happened to be standing right in front of you.
"Oliver."
My name sounded different in Ryder's voice.
Deeper.
Rougher.
Dangerously patient.
I looked up.
Big mistake.
The man was staring directly at me.
Waiting.
The worst part was that he didn't seem angry.
Confused, maybe.
Curious.
Definitely suspicious.
But not angry.
That somehow made me more nervous.
"It's nothing," I muttered.
"Then show me."
Absolutely not.
My grip tightened around the sketchbook.
Ryder noticed that too.
Of course he did.
The silence stretched.
A warm breeze moved through the ranch.
Somewhere nearby a horse snorted softly.
Neither of us moved.
Eventually Ryder sighed.
The sound carried the exhausted patience of a man dealing with someone particularly stubborn.
"You're making this weird."
My jaw dropped.
"I am?"
"Yes."
A pause.
Then he pointed toward the sketchbook.
"If it's nothing, show me."
The logic was unfortunately solid.
I hated that.
My face grew even warmer.
Which shouldn't have been possible.
"You don't have to see it."
"Now I definitely want to."
Fantastic.
Exactly what every artist wanted to hear.
I glanced toward the barn.
Toward the corrals.
Toward literally anywhere else.
There was no escape.
Ryder stepped closer.
Not threateningly.
Just enough to make it clear he wasn't letting the subject go.
The sunlight caught the edge of his tattoos.
The scent of leather and fresh air clung to him.
For some reason that made me even more aware of how ridiculous this situation was.
A grown man.
A sketchbook.
A conversation that felt far more intense than it should.
"What is it?" he asked.
I swallowed.
The answer was obvious.
The problem was that saying it aloud felt embarrassing.
Because the truth sounded ridiculous.
I had spent part of my break drawing Ryder Cole.
Not a horse.
Not the ranch.
Not the landscape.
The cowboy.
The cowboy himself.
And now the cowboy wanted proof.
My heart beat faster.
Which made absolutely no sense.
Ryder crossed his arms again.
Waiting.
Patient.
Unmoving.
The man clearly intended to stand there all day if necessary.
I looked down at the sketchbook one final time.
Then back up.
His expression hadn't changed.
Still curious.
Still stubborn.
Maybe even amused.
A terrible feeling settled in my stomach.
I already knew how this was going to end.
There was no escaping it.
No distraction.
No excuse.
Ryder Cole wasn't going anywhere.
And judging by the determined look in his eyes, neither was the conversation.
"Let me see the sketchbook, Oliver."
The demand wasn't loud.
It wasn't harsh.
But it left absolutely no room for argument.
And suddenly I realized my break had become significantly more complicated.
The Boy Who Notices
I wasn't expecting to be impressed.
That was probably the simplest way to describe it.
When Oliver finally handed over the sketchbook, he looked like a man surrendering classified government documents. His entire face was red. His shoulders were tense. He avoided eye contact as though the pages contained evidence of a serious crime.
The reaction alone made me curious.
I took the sketchbook from his hands.
The kid immediately looked ready to die.
For a second, I almost handed it back without looking.
Almost.
Then I glanced down at the page.
And stopped.
The ranch disappeared.
The noise disappeared.
Even Oliver's obvious embarrassment faded into the background.
For a moment, all I saw was the drawing.
It was me.
Or at least it was supposed to be.
Standing beside one of the horses.
One hand resting against the animal's neck.
Hat low over my face.
Body angled slightly toward the horse.
The sketch wasn't finished.
A few details were still rough.
Some lines remained unfinished.