"He'sours," Elena corrected, opening her eyes. The fear was hardening into defense. "But you weren't here, Ryder. You forfeited your share."
"I didn't know!"
"Because you didn't want to know!" she screamed, her voice finally breaking the silence of the house. "You wanted to run! You wanted to be free! Well, congratulations, Ryder. You were free. You got your buckle. You got your fame."
She stepped into the room, snatching the photo from his hand. She clutched it to her chest.
"You don't get to come back six years later and audit my life," she hissed. "You don't get to fix my sink and steal my son."
Ryder looked at her. He saw the fierce, terrifying love she had for the boy. He saw the wall she had built to keep him out.
And for the first time, he understood the size of the enemy he was fighting. It wasn't Thorne. It wasn't a bull. It wasn't a broken leg.
It was six years of silence.
"I'm not stealing him," Ryder whispered. "I just... I want to know him."
"No," Elena said.
She pointed to the door.
"Get out of my house. Leave the key on the table. And if you ever come near this room again, I will call the Sheriff."
Ryder stood up. He grabbed his crutches.
He walked past her. He smelled the vanilla and the rain, but now it smelled like regret.
He walked down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door.
He climbed into the truck. He sat there, staring at the white house with the leaking sink.
He had a contract for Tulsa in his pocket. He had a ticket to freedom.
But as he looked at the window of the boy's room, Ryder Stone knew he wasn't going anywhere.
The ride wasn't over. It had just begun.
CHAPTER 7: THE GHOST IN THE BLOOD
I. The Crater
Ryder drove back to the ranch in a fugue state. He navigated the truck with his knees and his good hand, his eyes fixed on the horizon but seeing nothing but the date stamped on the back of a photograph.
September 14th.
He parked in front of the barn. He didn't get out immediately. He sat in the cab, the engine ticking as it cooled, staring at the dashboard.
He had a son.
A living, breathing human being with his DNA, walking around Oakhaven in red boots, thinking his father was an astronaut. Or a spy. Or a pirate.
Ryder looked at his hands. They were the hands of a man who broke things. Bones. Horses. Hearts. What business did hands like that have holding a child?
"You messed up, Stone," he whispered. "You messed up big."
He opened the door and grabbed his crutches. He hobbled into the barn.
Cole was there, stacking hay bales. He stopped when he saw Ryder. He leaned on his pitchfork, wiping sweat from his forehead.
