Chapter 10 Dreams and Doubts
Sketching Forever
The sketchbook was becoming a problem.
A very large problem.
A problem bound in black leather and filled with evidence that would absolutely destroy me if it fell into the wrong hands.
Specifically, Ryder's hands.
I realized this one quiet Sunday afternoon while sitting beneath my favorite tree near Whiskey's paddock.
The horse grazed nearby.
The summer breeze moved through the grass.
The ranch stretched across the horizon like something from a dream.
And I was drawing Ryder again.
For the hundredth time.
Possibly the thousandth.
At this point, I had honestly lost count.
I sat cross-legged in the shade with a pencil between my fingers and stared at the latest sketch.
The subject was embarrassingly obvious.
Ryder standing beside a fence line.
Hat low.
Arms folded.
Watching the sunset.
The details were unfinished, but the image was already recognizable.
Very recognizable.
Painfully recognizable.
I groaned and dropped my head into my hands.
Whiskey lifted his head immediately.
Apparently my suffering had interrupted his afternoon.
"Don't look at me like that."
The horse blinked.
Judgment radiated from him anyway.
I pointed my pencil toward him.
"This is your fault."
Whiskey resumed eating.
A wise decision.
There was no defending me.
I opened the sketchbook again.
The evidence stared back.
Page after page.
Drawing after drawing.
Ryder fixing fences.
Ryder riding horses.
Ryder talking to workers.
Ryder laughing.
Rare enough to deserve documentation.
Ryder standing in rain.
Ryder leaning against barn doors.
Ryder existing.
The ranch appeared throughout the pages too.
The barns.
The fields.
The horses.
The sunsets.
The workers who had somehow become friends.
Everything I had fallen in love with during the summer.
The realization settled softly inside my chest.
I loved this place.
Not just Ryder.
Though he certainly wasn't helping.
The ranch itself had become important.
Important in ways I never expected.
When my uncle first dropped me off at Blackthorn, I had counted the days until freedom.
Now I found myself doing the opposite.
Every morning that passed brought me closer to leaving.
The thought hurt more than it should have.
I stared out across the property.
Workers moved between distant buildings.
Horses grazed peacefully.
The familiar sights filled me with unexpected warmth.
A few months ago, I would have laughed if someone told me I'd enjoy ranch life.
Now I couldn't imagine wanting anything else.
The transformation felt impossible.
Yet here I was.
Sweating through long workdays.
Repairing fences.
Talking to horses.
And somehow happier than I'd been in years.
The reason wasn't difficult to identify.
Ryder sat at the center of nearly every good memory I'd made since arriving.
The thought made me smile.
Then immediately panic.
Because smiling at thoughts of Ryder had become far too common.
Dangerously common.
I flipped to a blank page.
The pencil moved almost automatically.
Years of practice guided the strokes.
Lines emerged.
Shapes followed.
Within minutes another sketch began taking form.
This one wasn't Ryder.
Not directly.
The drawing showed the porch of the ranch house at night.
Two figures sat side by side beneath the stars.
Talking.
Listening.
Existing together.
The image captured a specific memory.
One of my favorites.
The evening we'd discussed Midnight.
The evening Ryder shared part of his story.
I paused.
Studying the sketch.
The feeling behind it mattered more than the details.
Connection.
Trust.
Hope.
All the things I thought I'd lost after Ethan.
Somehow, Blackthorn had given them back.
The realization remained difficult to process.
A few months earlier, I'd arrived convinced my life was falling apart.
Now I was imagining futures.
Real futures.
Possible futures.
Dangerous futures.
Futures that included Blackthorn Ranch.
Futures that included Ryder.
The thought should have frightened me.
Instead, it felt natural.
That was probably the most frightening part of all.
I could picture it so easily.
Finishing school.
Graduating.
Returning.
Sketching on quiet evenings while Ryder complained about paperwork.
Helping around the ranch.
Building something together.
The image arrived uninvited.
Then refused to leave.
I stared at the horizon.
Thinking.
Dreaming.
Hoping.
Maybe too much.
Definitely too much.
Because reality remained complicated.
Summer wasn't permanent.
Neither was certainty.
The future still contained plenty of unknowns.
Questions I couldn't answer.
Questions Ryder probably couldn't answer either.
The thought darkened my mood slightly.
Immediately, Whiskey wandered closer.
The horse lowered his head toward my shoulder.
I laughed softly.
"You're terrible at personal boundaries."
Whiskey ignored the criticism.
Typical.
I scratched his neck.
The simple interaction eased some of the worry.
Animals had a way of doing that.
Eventually the afternoon drifted toward evening.
The sky turned gold.
Then orange.
Then pink.
I continued sketching.
Page after page.
Memory after memory.
The ranch.
The people.
The moments that mattered.
Time disappeared the way it always did when I drew.
One hour became two.
Then three.
The next thing I knew, the dinner bell echoed across the property.
I jumped.
The sudden sound startled both me and Whiskey.
"Seriously?"
The horse looked equally offended.
I quickly gathered my supplies.
Pencils.
Erasers.
Water bottle.
Everything went into my backpack.
Or at least I thought everything did.
My attention remained focused elsewhere.
Specifically on the approaching reality that I was late for dinner.
Again.
Ryder would absolutely notice.
The man somehow noticed everything.
I hurried toward the main buildings.
The evening air felt cooler now.
The ranch glowed beneath the setting sun.
Beautiful.
Familiar.
Home.
The thought arrived so naturally that I barely questioned it.
Dinner passed in a blur.
Conversations.
Laughter.
Stories from the day's work.
The usual rhythm of Blackthorn life.
Several times I caught Ryder looking at me.
Several times I looked away first.
The game had become familiar.
Comfortable.
Dangerous.
Afterward, everyone scattered.
Some returned home.
Others lingered.
The ranch slowly settled into nighttime quiet.
I spent the rest of the evening helping with a few final chores before finally heading back toward the bunkhouse.
Exhaustion settled heavily into my bones.
The good kind.
The kind earned through honest work.
I pushed open the bunkhouse door.
Dropped my backpack beside the bed.
And immediately froze.
Something felt wrong.
A familiar feeling.
A terrible feeling.
The kind every artist experiences eventually.
Panic.
My eyes widened.
I grabbed the backpack.
Opened it.
Looked inside.
Nothing.
No sketchbook.
No black leather cover.
No drawings.
No evidence.
No chance of survival.
My stomach dropped all the way to my boots.
"Oh no."
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Whiskey's paddock.
The tree.
I must have left it there.
The realization hit like a freight train.
Outside.
On the ranch.
Where anyone could find it.
Anyone.
Including ranch hands.
Including visitors.
Including—
My heart stopped.
Ryder.
The image appeared instantly.
Ryder opening the sketchbook.
Ryder turning pages.
Ryder discovering approximately six hundred drawings of himself.
My soul attempted to leave my body.
Without another thought, I bolted toward the door.
The ranch stretched dark and quiet beneath the stars.
The forgotten sketchbook waited somewhere beyond the barns.
And for the first time since arriving at Blackthorn Ranch, I found myself praying for a miracle.
Because if Ryder Cole found that sketchbook before I did, there was a very real chance I would never emotionally recover.
Too Good for Me
I found the sketchbook by accident.
At least that's what I told myself later.
The truth was that I'd noticed it almost immediately.
A black leather notebook sitting beneath the large oak tree near Whiskey's paddock wasn't exactly difficult to spot.
The ranch had mostly gone quiet for the evening.
The workers were finished.
The horses were settled.
The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving behind only fading streaks of orange and purple across the sky.
I was making one final walk around the property before heading inside when I saw it.
At first, I assumed it belonged to one of the ranch hands.
Then I got closer.
And recognized it.
Oliver's sketchbook.
I stopped beside the tree.
For a moment, I simply stared down at it.
The smart thing would've been leaving it alone.
Taking it back to the bunkhouse.
Handing it over without opening it.
Simple.
Respectful.
The problem was that I already knew what lived inside those pages.
At least partially.
I'd seen enough sketches to understand how talented Oliver was.
Curiosity got the better of me.
A dangerous habit lately.
One that seemed directly connected to a certain twenty-one-year-old artist.
I picked up the sketchbook.
The cover felt worn from use.
Loved.
A tool rather than an accessory.
The kind of thing carried everywhere.
For several seconds, I debated.
Then I opened it.
The first page immediately stole my attention.
A detailed sketch of Blackthorn Ranch stretched across the paper.
The main house.
The barns.
The corrals.
Every line carried care.
Every shadow carried intention.
I turned another page.
Then another.
And another.
The ranch unfolded before me.
Not the ranch as it existed.
The ranch as Oliver saw it.
That difference mattered.
Somehow, he found beauty in things I'd stopped noticing years ago.
Weathered fences.
Old barns.
Dusty roads.
Sunlight across empty fields.
Ordinary things transformed into something meaningful.
Something worth preserving.
I kept turning pages.
The horses appeared next.
Whiskey featured heavily.