Chapter 15 Exposed #2
Interesting.
Apparently subtlety had finally abandoned everyone.
Several customers looked away.
Others stared openly.
One older rancher shook his head as I passed.
The gesture irritated me immediately.
I stopped walking.
The man froze.
Good.
"You got something to say?"
The question echoed through the store.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
The rancher suddenly found a bag of feed fascinating.
Coward.
I continued walking.
The silence followed me.
Heavy.
Awkward.
Predictable.
The diner wasn't any better.
Neither was the hardware store.
Everywhere I went, the same pattern repeated.
Whispers.
Judgment.
Curiosity.
The whole town had apparently decided my personal life qualified as community property.
Wonderful.
The worst part wasn't the strangers.
It wasn't even the customers.
It was the old friends.
The people who actually knew me.
Or claimed they did.
One of them found me outside the gas station.
Tom Watkins.
I'd known him for nearly twenty years.
We'd worked together.
Drank together.
Helped each other through rough times.
At least I thought we had.
He approached slowly.
Expression serious.
Not a great sign.
"Ryder."
I nodded.
"Tom."
The conversation should've been simple.
Instead, he sighed.
Immediately.
A terrible start.
"People are talking."
I laughed once.
The sound carried no humor.
"You don't say."
Tom rubbed the back of his neck.
Clearly uncomfortable.
Good.
I wasn't feeling particularly comfortable either.
"They're worried."
There it was.
The phrase people always used when they wanted to disguise judgment as concern.
I hated that phrase.
Always had.
"Worried about what?"
Tom hesitated.
The pause answered the question.
The age difference.
The rumors.
The relationship.
All of it.
I folded my arms.
Waiting.
Eventually he continued.
"You know how this looks."
The statement snapped something inside me.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The last bit of patience I'd been protecting finally disappeared.
"No."
My voice remained calm.
Dangerously calm.
"Tell me how it looks."
Tom blinked.
Apparently he'd expected agreement.
Interesting mistake.
I took a step forward.
"Because from where I'm standing, it looks like two adults making their own choices."
Silence.
The gas station suddenly became very quiet.
Several people pretended not to listen.
Failed miserably.
Tom looked uncomfortable.
Good.
Again.
He deserved it.
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
The answer came immediately.
"And I don't care."
The truth settled between us.
Heavy.
Certain.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Tom sighed again.
The sound irritated me all over again.
"You've changed."
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because that might've been the dumbest thing I'd heard all week.
"No."
The smile disappeared.
"I really haven't."
Tom stared.
Maybe for the first time, he understood.
This wasn't confusion.
This wasn't a phase.
This wasn't some temporary mistake.
I knew exactly how I felt.
And I wasn't apologizing for it.
The conversation ended shortly afterward.
Not because we reached understanding.
Because there wasn't any point continuing.
Tom walked away disappointed.
I walked away angry.
Neither of us got what we wanted.
By evening, exhaustion settled heavily into my bones.
Not physical exhaustion.
Something deeper.
The kind created by constant judgment.
Constant criticism.
Constant noise.
I wanted five minutes of peace.
Five whole minutes.
Apparently that was too much to ask.
Because the second I returned to the ranch, I saw a truck parked outside the main house.
A familiar truck.
My stomach immediately tightened.
Oliver's uncle.
Of course.
The universe wasn't finished with me yet.
The man stood near the porch.
Waiting.
The posture alone told me this wasn't a social visit.
I climbed out of my truck.
Closed the door.
Prepared for impact.
He didn't waste time.
I respected that.
At least a little.
"We need to talk."
Direct.
Good.
I preferred direct.
The alternative was worse.
I nodded toward the porch.
A few minutes later, we stood alone.
The evening air felt heavy.
Storm clouds gathered in the distance.
Appropriate.
Neither of us sat down.
Neither of us pretended.
The conversation started exactly where I expected.
"Is it true?"
I met his gaze.
No hesitation.
No excuses.
No lies.
"Yes."
The single word changed everything.
For a moment, the man simply stared at me.
The disappointment hit harder than anger would've.
Then he exhaled slowly.
Like someone trying very hard not to lose control.
"Jesus Christ, Ryder."
I remained silent.
What was there to say?
The man paced once across the porch.
Then back again.
His frustration radiated from every movement.
"He's twenty-one."
"I know how old he is."
The answer came sharper than intended.
His eyes narrowed immediately.
Fair.
Neither of us was having a good evening.
"You were supposed to look after him."
The accusation landed hard.
Because that part mattered.
A lot.
I looked away briefly.
Toward the dark fields.
Toward anything except the guilt trying to surface.
When I finally answered, my voice came rough.
"I did."
The words sounded inadequate.
Even to me.
Oliver's uncle laughed bitterly.
"You call this looking after him?"
The question hung in the air.
Painful.
Complicated.
Honest.
Because deep down, I understood his anger.
If someone had hurt Oliver, I'd be furious too.
The difference was that I wasn't hurting him.
At least not intentionally.
The distinction didn't seem to matter.
The argument continued.
Round and round.
Neither of us giving ground.
Neither of us satisfied.
Eventually, silence settled between us.
Heavy.
Final.
Then Oliver's uncle looked directly at me.
The anger disappeared.
What remained felt worse.
Fear.
Concern.
Love.
The emotions of someone trying desperately to protect family.
When he finally spoke, his voice came quieter.
But far more dangerous.
"Stay away from him."
The words hit like a punch.
The porch seemed to shrink around us.
The night suddenly felt colder.
"I mean it."
Every syllable carried conviction.
"He deserves better than this."
I stared at him.
Unable to answer.
Because for the first time all day, someone had spoken the exact fear I'd been carrying for weeks.
The fear that had followed me since finding Oliver's sketchbook.
The fear that whispered through every quiet moment.
The fear that maybe loving him wasn't enough.
Maybe I wasn't enough.
Oliver's uncle didn't know it.
But he'd found the one wound still capable of bleeding.
And as darkness settled over Blackthorn Ranch, I watched him walk away carrying his anger while I remained standing on the porch alone.
Listening to words I couldn't seem to escape.
Stay away from him.
The worst part was that a small, broken piece of me wondered if he was right.
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