I didn’t hear Knox come back in. He moved like he weighed half of what he did, boots muffled in the dust, voice gone quieterthan before. He stopped a few yards away, leaning on the shovel handle he’d found God knows where.
“You’ve never been around when someone’s been on the wrong end of a McKenzie before, have you?” he said, not a question.
“No,” I answered, and left it at that.
He grunted. “Didn’t think so. If you were, you’d know what we do to people who hurt our own.”
I let my head fall back against the wall, closed my eyes. “I don’t plan to hurt him.”
Knox laughed, the sound empty as the silo after a bad harvest. “Doesn’t matter what you plan, Moxley. Pain finds a way.”
I didn’t argue. He was right. Plans were for people who thought they could outrun history.
But he didn’t leave. He stood there, waiting, shovel shifting in his grip.
So I gave him what I hadn’t given anyone else.
“Look,” I said, “I’m not pretending I don’t get off on control. I do. I want to own every part of him. I want to tell him what to do, what to wear, what to eat for breakfast if that’s what makes him happy. But I’m not Westbrook. I don’t get off on fear, or pain, or making him small so I can feel big.”
I opened my eyes, let them focus on the dust motes tumbling through the last rays of light. “Bodean likes the collar. It’s not a punishment, it’s a promise. It says, ‘I see you, and I won’t let you get lost.’ He wears it because he wants to, not because I make him.”
Knox looked at me, expression unreadable. “He says you let him do whatever he wants. That you’re not even that strict.”
I smiled, couldn’t help it. “That’s because he wants to fight. He needs to know he can break the rules and I’ll still be there, every damn time. It’s a game, but it’s also real. He needs both.”
Knox frowned. “You really think that’s love?”
I picked at the straw until it snapped, then looked him square in the face. “I do. I think it’s the only kind he trusts.”
He was silent for a long time, thinking it over like he was plotting out the next year’s harvest. Then he said, “He’s been different since he moved in with you. Not… fixed, but less wild. Like he’s waiting to see what he turns into when the world doesn’t hate him.”
“That’s what I want to give him,” I said. “A world where he can fuck up, and I’ll still be there when he wakes up.”
Knox shook his head, but not like he was saying no. More like he was surprised to find himself on my side of the argument. “And you won’t ever raise a hand to him?”
I snorted. “He’d put me in the hospital if I tried. The only thing I want to raise is the bar for what he thinks he deserves.”
He almost smiled, just the ghost of one. “You’re serious about this.”
I met his gaze. “I’ve already built an art room for him. Do you know how much oil paint costs? It’s like feeding a Ferrari pure gold.”
He laughed, for real this time, the sound cracking the tension in the air. “Art room?”
I nodded. “Spare bedroom of my place. Took two days to sand the floor. He’s already ruined the walls with paint, but I can’t bring myself to be mad. He makes things I don’t even have words for.”
Knox’s brow furrowed, something new flickering in his eyes. “He’s never shown us anything. Always said he couldn’t draw a straight line.”
I shook my head. “Your baby brother is a fucking artist, Knox. He sees colors the way you see lines on a field. When he paints, he’s not scared anymore.”
He stood there, shovel forgotten, staring at me like I was the last honest man in the county.
Ransom poked his head in the barn, saw the two of us, and stepped all the way inside. “You still here? I figured you’d have run off by now.”
I shrugged. “Nowhere to go.”
He raised an eyebrow, skeptical as ever. “So you’re sticking around? Even after the family welcome?”
I stood, wiped my hands on my jeans. “I’m not leaving him.”
