I turn, leaning my lower half against the vanity. My dad appears in the doorway. He takes in my face, his eyes roaming over the rest of my body. I know he can't see through my clothes, but at this moment I think it's possible his eyes are capable of such things.
"What the fuck happened to you?" he asks.
"Like you fucking care," I mutter, walking past him and down the hall. I've kept my filter in place for so long, and I'm just about done.
"Don't walk away from me, boy. Not in my own goddamn house."
That, I can give him. I'd never let someone walk away from me in my house either.
I stop, pivoting slowly. A hard, harsh look twists my dad's lips, and he adjusts his stance. I feel it bubbling to the surface, the years of discontent with one another, the hurt feelings that morphed into anger and resentment.
How fitting that we're finally having this standoff right in the heart of the homestead.
"You ever going to say what stays stuck up there in that head of yours, or do we all get to watch you stomp around and guess at why you distance yourself from this family?"
Laughter, short, derisive, and disbelieving, trickles from my throat. A sound that so clearly indicates how incorrect I believe his interpretation to be. "For a man who prides himself on taking responsibility in life, you sure do pick and choose just what it is you're responsible for."
"Speak your mind, Son. I don't have all goddamn day to do this dance with you. Either say your piece or get the fuck over whatever it is."
I'm the same size as my dad, but his presence is commanding, even overbearing, making him seem bigger. My first instinct is to cower, to skulk away and cover my wounds the way I have for years. But then I picture Jo, and think of the man I'm trying to become, and suddenly I almost feel bad for him. "It must be hell not to like your own child."
The only movement in his face is the tightening of the skin around his eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"
I shake my head. "You don't need an explanation, Dad. You've been living this life with me for thirty-two years. You know damn well what I'm talking about."
Now he becomes animated, a statue coming to life. His head shakes, and his fists ball at his sides. His lips press into a stern line. Before he can say more, I keep going. "You hate that I'm not more like Wes and Warner. I know what you think of me. I'm emotional. I'msoft." I put emphasis on the word, making it sound like it's so terrible to be described as such. "You don't value heart."
"Your brothers have plenty of heart, and—"
"Right. For the things you have heart for. But what about me? Remember what happened when you took me hunting?"
His nod is barely perceptible.
"You and mom wanted a girl, you wanted one so badly that you kept trying after Wes. Three attempts, all boys, and I can only imagine how disappointed you felt. You kept trying. How many miscarriages did mom have after me? Three? Four?" My forearms shake, my eyes fill with hot tears, and I wish it weren't happening. I want to be impassive and detached, like the cowboy in front of me, but it's not how I operate. "I've always felt your disappointment in me, but that day, when I couldn't make myself kill that deer, I saw it in your eyes. What a bitter pill it must've been, to have to continue on being a dad to a child you didn't like. To someone youstilldon't like."
"You've got it wrong, Wyatt." His head shakes back and forth slowly. He lifts a hand like he wants to touch me, comfort me, but the simple fact is that he doesn't know how to.
"I heard you, two years ago after your heart attack. You told Mom I'm like your brother. You despised him."
His head drops, his chin to his chest. "I don't know what to say, Wyatt."
"There's nothing you can say, Dad. Sometimes, there are circumstances that can't be fixed. Hurts that can't be healed." I gesture between our chests. "This is one of them."
My phone rings, and it's Jo. I answer, and all I can hear is hysterical crying.
"Take a breath, Jo," I instruct, trying to break into her heaving and gasping. "I can't understand you."
"Tra-Travis," she stutters. She draws in a shaky breath. "He was playing with firecrackers. I don't know where he got them. But… but a field caught fire."
"Shit," I hiss, running a hand through my hair. "What now?"
"He's in trouble. I don't know how much. But it gets worse, Wyatt. People are saying my ranch is going to bring trouble to the town. They're having an emergency town meeting in the morning."
"To do what?"
Jo chokes on a sob. "To talk about shutting the project down."
"How can they do that?" For some reason I look at my dad, who's still standing there waiting, as if he can make this all better. Vestiges from childhood, from a time when a parent was a panacea.
