Chapter 7 Blackthorn Nights #2
Normally we'd head home immediately.
Instead, I found myself delaying.
Neither of us seemed eager to leave.
The stars had completely taken over the sky now.
The night stretched endlessly around us.
The kind of night that made a man feel small beneath it.
Oliver sat on the tailgate of the truck.
I leaned against the side.
The silence felt different than usual.
Heavier.
Thoughtful.
The conversation about Ethan had opened old wounds.
I understood that feeling.
God, I understood it.
"You know he was wrong."
The words left my mouth before I thought about them.
Oliver glanced over.
For a second he looked surprised.
Then tired.
"About what?"
"About you."
His gaze dropped toward the dirt.
That alone told me everything.
The kid still believed some of it.
Not all.
But enough.
I swore quietly under my breath.
Oliver laughed weakly.
"What?"
I shook my head.
"Nothing."
"It wasn't nothing."
"No."
The answer came out sharper than intended.
I took a breath.
Forced myself to calm down.
The last thing Oliver needed was me losing my temper.
Not at him.
At a ghost.
"You spend enough time around people," I said, "and you start recognizing patterns."
Oliver listened quietly.
"Ethan sounds like the kind of guy who made himself feel bigger by making someone else feel smaller."
The words hung between us.
Simple.
Direct.
Honest.
Oliver looked away.
Again.
That bothered me.
Because it looked familiar.
Like he'd heard similar conversations before and never fully believed them.
"You don't know him."
"No."
I crossed my arms.
"But I know people."
A long pause followed.
The breeze moved through the fields.
Somewhere in the distance, a coyote called.
The sound echoed across the darkness.
Then faded.
"I should've seen it sooner," Oliver said quietly.
There it was.
The guilt.
The self-blame.
I hated hearing it.
"Happens."
His laugh sounded bitter.
"Not to smart people."
The statement hit a nerve.
Fast.
I looked at him.
Really looked at him.
The kid sat beneath a sky full of stars carrying blame that never belonged to him.
For some reason, that made my chest hurt.
"Smart people get hurt too."
Oliver didn't answer.
"Doesn't make them stupid."
Still nothing.
The silence stretched.
I recognized the expression on his face.
The distant look.
The one people wore when they disappeared into old memories.
I knew it because I'd worn it myself.
For years.
After rodeo.
After everything that followed.
The difference was that I knew how dangerous that road could become.
A man could spend his entire life replaying old mistakes.
Eventually he forgot how to move forward.
The thought unsettled me.
More than it should have.
Maybe because I didn't want that happening to Oliver.
Maybe because I was getting too attached.
The second possibility seemed more likely.
And considerably more dangerous.
The drive back to the ranch started quietly.
The roads were dark.
The truck headlights cut through the night.
Fields rolled past outside the windows.
Normally I preferred silence.
Tonight it felt different.
Oliver stared out the passenger-side window.
Lost in thought.
The farther we drove, the quieter he became.
At first I assumed he was tired.
Then I noticed the signs.
Small things.
His breathing.
The way his hands clenched together.
The tension in his shoulders.
A familiar unease settled inside me.
I'd seen anxiety attacks before.
Not often.
Enough.
"Oliver."
No response.
His attention remained fixed outside.
"Oliver."
This time he blinked.
Looked over.
The movement felt delayed.
Like he was struggling to focus.
"You okay?"
The answer came too quickly.
"Yeah."
A lie.
An obvious one.
His breathing had become shallow.
Fast.
The color drained slightly from his face.
Hell.
The kid was spiraling.
Probably replaying everything we'd discussed.
The memories.
The hurt.
The self-doubt.
I knew how easily old wounds could drag a person backward.
"Look at me."
Oliver tried.
His focus slipped again.
"I can't—"
"You can."
The words came firm.
Steady.
Not harsh.
His eyes found mine.
Good.
"Take a breath."
The truck continued moving through the darkness.
Oliver inhaled.
Too fast.
I shook my head.
"Slower."
His hands trembled slightly.
The sight punched something ugly inside my chest.
Nobody should look that scared.
Especially not over memories.
"That's it," I said quietly.
"Keep breathing."
The next few minutes passed slowly.
One breath at a time.
One moment at a time.
Eventually the panic began loosening its grip.
Not completely.
Enough.
By the time we reached the ranch, Oliver looked exhausted.
Emotionally drained.
The kind of tired sleep couldn't fix.
I parked near the bunkhouse.
The engine died.
Silence filled the cab.
Neither of us moved.
For a second, I considered letting him go.
Telling him goodnight.
Walking away.
The smart option.
Instead, Oliver laughed softly.
A broken sound.
"I hate that."
The confession came so quietly I almost missed it.
"What?"
"The panic attacks."
My jaw tightened.
Damn it.
The kid said it like he was ashamed.
Like it was another personal failure.
I turned toward him.
"Nothing to be ashamed of."
His smile held no real humor.
"Easy for you to say."
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Because it wasn't easy.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
Oliver looked down.
His shoulders slumped.
For the first time all evening, he looked every bit of twenty-one.
Young.
Tired.
Trying too hard to carry things alone.
Before I could stop myself, I reached over.
My hand settled against the back of his neck.
A simple gesture.
Nothing more.
Yet the second I touched him, something shifted.
Oliver froze.
So did I.
The contact should've ended there.
Instead, it didn't.
A moment later, Oliver leaned forward.
Instinct took over.
I pulled him into a brief embrace.
Just enough.
Just long enough.
The kind of comfort I'd offer anyone who needed it.
At least that's what I told myself.
The reality felt more complicated.
Oliver relaxed slowly.
The tension leaving his body one piece at a time.
I could feel his heartbeat.
The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The simple fact that he trusted me enough to let go.
That trust hit harder than expected.
Minutes seemed to pass.
Maybe seconds.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us spoke.
The night wrapped around the truck.
Quiet.
Still.
Dangerous.
Eventually I realized I was holding him longer than necessary.
Much longer.
The realization should've made me pull away immediately.
Instead, I found myself reluctant to let go.
Which was exactly the problem.
Because Oliver fit there too easily.
Because protecting him felt too natural.
Because somewhere along the way, concern had become something else.
Something I didn't want to examine too closely.
Finally, Oliver pulled back.
Slowly.
His eyes met mine.
The moment stretched.
Heavy with things neither of us said.
Then he offered a small smile.
"Told you ranch life was supposed to toughen me up."
The joke was weak.
Terrible, actually.
I snorted anyway.
Some of the sadness left his eyes.
Not all.
Enough.
As Oliver climbed out of the truck and headed toward the bunkhouse, I remained behind the wheel.
Watching him go.
Thinking about the panic attack.
The conversation.
The way he'd relaxed in my arms.
None of it felt simple anymore.
And that was a problem.
A very big problem.
Because the longer Oliver Hayes stayed at Blackthorn Ranch, the harder it became to remember all the reasons I should be keeping my distance.
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