Chapter 2 The Roughneck
Roy's Call
The Texas sun was beginning its slow descent when Damon Blackwell finally shut down the drilling equipment and stepped away from the rig.
Twelve hours.
Twelve long, brutal hours beneath the relentless summer heat.
His shoulders ached.
His hands were sore.
Oil and dirt clung to his skin despite multiple attempts to wipe it away throughout the day.
It had been one of those shifts that seemed determined to fight him every step of the way.
Equipment failures.
Unexpected delays.
A rookie worker who nearly got himself hurt twice before lunch.
The kind of day that left a man exhausted before evening even arrived.
Damon rolled his neck and listened to the satisfying pop of stiff muscles.
Around him, the rest of the crew began packing up.
The distant hum of machinery mixed with tired conversation as workers prepared to head home.
Most of them looked just as worn out as he felt.
Working the oil fields wasn't glamorous.
It was hard.
Dirty.
Dangerous.
The money was good, but every dollar came with a cost.
Damon had learned that lesson years ago.
He glanced across the site, making sure everything was secure before leaving.
As foreman, the responsibility ultimately landed on him.
If something went wrong, people got hurt.
He never forgot that.
Not anymore.
Not after all the mistakes he'd already made in his life.
His phone buzzed inside his pocket.
Damon frowned.
Almost nobody called him while he was working.
Pulling out the device, he glanced at the screen.
Roy.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
That was unexpected.
He answered immediately.
"What's broken?"
Roy snorted through the speaker.
"Nice to hear from you too."
"If you're calling before dinner, something's broken."
"Nothing's broken."
Damon walked toward his truck.
"Then what's up?"
"I wanted to let you know my nephew arrived."
Damon opened the driver's side door.
"The college kid?"
"That's the one."
Damon vaguely remembered Roy mentioning a nephew several months ago.
Something about an art scholarship.
Community college.
A fresh start.
The details had never seemed particularly important.
"Everything go okay?"
"Long drive, but he made it."
"Good."
Roy was silent for a moment.
The pause immediately made Damon suspicious.
"What?"
"You'll probably run into him eventually."
Damon leaned against the truck.
"Probably."
"His name's Elliot."
"Okay."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Damon sighed.
"Roy."
"What?"
"Spit it out."
The older man cleared his throat.
"Just do me a favor."
There it was.
Damon knew that tone.
Whenever Roy used it, trouble usually followed.
"What kind of favor?"
"Stay away from him."
Damon blinked.
For a second, he wondered if he'd heard correctly.
"Stay away from your nephew?"
"Yeah."
The request caught him completely off guard.
"Why?"
Roy let out a heavy breath.
"Because he's a good kid."
Damon's jaw tightened slightly.
The implication wasn't exactly subtle.
"I see."
"That's not what I meant."
"Sure."
"Damon."
He rubbed a hand across his beard.
After all these years, certain conversations still had the power to irritate him.
Not because Roy meant any harm.
Because the concern was understandable.
People had spent most of his adult life warning others about him.
Some days he barely noticed anymore.
Other days it got under his skin.
Today seemed to be one of those days.
"What exactly are you worried about?" Damon asked.
Roy hesitated.
The answer took longer than it should have.
"Nothing specific."
"That's helpful."
"You know how people around here talk."
Damon laughed without humor.
"Trust me, nobody knows that better than I do."
That much was true.
Willow Ridge loved its stories.
And Damon Blackwell had provided plenty of material over the years.
Some deserved.
Some exaggerated.
Some completely made up.
The problem was that nobody seemed particularly interested in separating truth from rumor.
A mistake became a reputation.
A reputation became a permanent label.
Eventually, people stopped seeing the man and only saw the stories.
Damon had accepted that years ago.
Mostly.
Roy sighed again.
"Elliot's not used to places like this."
"What does that mean?"
"He's sensitive."
Damon frowned.
"Sensitive?"
"Different."
The description didn't help.
Different could mean anything.
Art kid.
Scholarship student.
Small-town outsider.
Whatever.
None of it mattered.
"Relax," Damon said. "I'm not planning to adopt him."
Roy laughed despite himself.
"Just looking out for him."
"I know."
"And I'm looking out for you too."
That caught Damon off guard.
"What?"
Roy's voice softened.
"You've worked hard to get your life together."
Something uncomfortable settled inside his chest.
Because that part was true.
Nobody understood how hard.
People saw the present version of Damon.
The foreman.
The hardworking roughneck.
The quiet man who mostly kept to himself.
They didn't see everything that came before.
The juvenile detention center.
The fights.
The arrests.
The biker crowd he'd fallen in with when he was young and angry and stupid.
Years spent making one bad decision after another.
Years spent convincing himself none of it mattered.
Until it nearly destroyed him.
Not everyone got second chances.
Damon knew that better than most.
He had been lucky.
Luckier than he deserved.
The fact that people still remembered those mistakes wasn't exactly surprising.
"I'll survive meeting your nephew," Damon said.
Roy laughed.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
A truck engine started nearby.
Workers began pulling out of the lot.
The workday was officially ending.
Damon glanced toward the horizon.
Orange sunlight painted the sky.
Another day finished.
Another day earned.
"So what's he like?" he asked.
The question escaped before he could stop it.
Roy immediately noticed.
"I thought you weren't interested."
"I'm making conversation."
"Sure you are."
Damon rolled his eyes.
"What does he study?"
"Art."
"You said that already."
"Because that's basically his entire personality."
The affection in Roy's voice was obvious.
Damon found himself smiling despite himself.
"He that bad?"
"He carries sketchbooks everywhere."
"Could be worse."
"He draws constantly."
"Still not seeing the problem."
"He'll probably try to draw you."
Damon barked out a laugh.
"Not likely."
"No?"
"People generally avoid drawing things that ugly."
"You're an idiot."
"That's been established."
Roy chuckled.
For a moment, the conversation felt normal again.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
They had known each other for nearly twenty years.
Long enough that silences never felt awkward.
Long enough that neither man needed to explain himself.
Eventually Roy spoke again.
"Just keep your distance."
There it was.
Back to the warning.
Damon stared across the oil field.
The request shouldn't have bothered him.
In truth, it made perfect sense.
Roy loved his nephew.
Naturally he wanted to protect him.
And if Damon were being honest, he probably wasn't the ideal welcome committee for a twenty-one-year-old college student.
His life wasn't exactly inspiring.
Most of his days involved hard labor, long hours, and trying not to think too much about the past.
Not exactly exciting.
Not exactly respectable.
Not exactly the kind of man people imagined when they thought about bright futures.
Maybe Roy was right.
Maybe some distance was for the best.
"Fine," Damon finally said.
"Fine?"
"I'll stay away from him."
Relief immediately entered Roy's voice.
"Thank you."
"Happy now?"
"A little."
"Good."
The conversation shifted to other topics after that.
Work.
Town gossip.
Football season.
The usual things.
Eventually they hung up.
Damon tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and climbed into his truck.
The engine roared to life.
Normally, that would have been the end of it.
A simple conversation.
A simple request.
Nothing worth thinking about.
Yet as he pulled out of the oil field and started toward town, he found himself remembering pieces of what Roy had said.
Art student.
Scholarship kid.
Different.
Sensitive.
The descriptions didn't mean much.
Still, curiosity lingered.
Not attraction.
Not interest.
Just curiosity.
The harmless kind people felt when hearing about someone new.
Especially in a town where everybody already knew everybody else.
A stranger stood out.
That was all.
The truck rolled down the highway.
Golden sunlight stretched across the landscape.
Damon drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.
Art student.
The phrase sounded almost ridiculous against the backdrop of Willow Ridge.
He couldn't imagine voluntarily spending hours painting pictures.
Then again, most artists probably couldn't imagine spending twelve hours working an oil rig.
Different worlds.
Different lives.
Roy's nephew would likely finish school, move somewhere bigger, and forget Willow Ridge ever existed.
That was probably for the best.
People with futures shouldn't get stuck in places like this.
The thought arrived unexpectedly.
And with it came a strange image.
A faceless young man carrying sketchbooks.
A college kid chasing dreams.
Someone completely unlike Damon Blackwell.
The image lingered longer than it should have.
Long enough that he found himself wondering what Roy's nephew actually looked like.
Long enough that he caught himself hoping they wouldn't cross paths too soon.
Long enough to realize that despite agreeing to stay away from the kid, he was suddenly a little curious about him.
Broken Light
By the time Damon pulled into Willow Ridge, darkness had begun settling over the town.
The sky still held traces of orange and purple near the horizon, but the day was fading fast. Porch lights flickered on across neighborhoods. Families gathered around dinner tables. The streets became quieter as people settled in for the evening.
Normally, Damon appreciated this part of the day.