Chapter Eighteen
~ Carter ~
The porch boards were silvered and split, warm underfoot from the sun, but I felt the old chill anyway—the one that always preceded the arrival of my father, like a low-pressure system rolling in.
I gripped the banister so hard I thought I’d leave fingerprints in the grain, and stared down the driveway where the black Mercedes approached, tires making no sound on the packed dirt, windows reflecting the sky. Even from a hundred yards, the damn thing looked like a mobile boardroom, sleek and predatory.
Rawley stood beside me, arms folded across his chest, posture so at ease it was almost an insult. Next to him, I was a scarecrow lashed to the porch, every tendon drawn tight.
Behind us, through the screen door, I could see the others—Burke, Hooper, a couple of the ranch hands—arrayed like a Greek chorus on the inside steps. They hadn’t been invited, but nobody was going to tell them to leave. The mood was charged, all eyes on the car, every breath held in collective suspense.
And then there was Macon. He sat in the rocker just off the threshold, cradling Margot in the crook of one arm, the other hand resting on the armrest with military precision.
The baby was swaddled in a quilt so new it hadn’t lost the factory smell, her hair sticking out in a cowlick that defied gravity. Jojo perched at his elbow, baby on his own lap, a lopsided smile on his face that suggested terror and pride in equal measure.
I drew a breath, held it, and told myself not to throw up.
The Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of the house. For a few seconds, nothing happened. The air was so clear and still I could hear the creak of the barn roof, the lowing of a calf from theeast pasture, the distant whir of a lawnmower from one of the neighbor’s ranches. Dust hung in the air behind the car, drifting lazy as pollen. A crow hopped along the top rail of the fence, and I envied it for being able to just up and leave whenever things got dicey.
The driver’s door opened with a muted pop. My father stepped out, the gesture as economical as every other thing he did. His suit was navy, his tie the color of old blood, and his hair was so perfectly combed it looked plastic.
He didn’t check his reflection in the glass—he’d already calculated the risk of the Montana wind and accounted for it. Instead, he smoothed the lapel with one quick swipe and then came up the walk, not glancing left or right.
He reached the base of the steps and paused, like a king surveying the site of a future conquest. The porch felt suddenly small, crowded with ghosts of every past encounter.
My mouth went dry.
“Carter,” he said. There was nothing warm in it, but also nothing overtly cruel. He spoke like he was confirming the contents of a shipping manifest.
I nodded, because saying “sir” would have cost me a tooth.
He let his gaze slide over the rest of the porch—Rawley, arms like telephone poles; Macon, watchful and impossible to ignore even while holding a baby; the constellation of other bodies in the gloom of the hallway. His eyes lingered for half a heartbeat on Margot.
He didn’t look at me again.
Instead, he addressed Rawley. “You too, I see.” If it was an accusation, it was so subtle that only another Steele could decode it.
Rawley didn’t move. “Family reunion,” he said, dry as sand. “You want coffee or you here on business?”
My father’s face didn’t change, but I saw the small flicker at his temple, the pulse that meant he was recalibrating. “You know why I’m here.” He mounted the first step and then stopped, waiting for permission to proceed.
It was an old script, but this time I was supposed to play a new part. I straightened my back, tried to keep my knees from knocking, and met his eyes. “We could do this outside,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “We don’t have anything to hide.”
His gaze flickered, then snapped back to Macon, then to the baby, then back to me. “I hoped you’d have reconsidered by now,” he said, every syllable loaded with the history of every command he’d ever given.
I ignored the bait. “We’re not moving back to Texas. This is our home now. I’m married. We have a daughter. You need to get used to it.”
For a second, I thought he’d just bulldoze past that, the way he always had. But maybe the scenery threw him off—maybe the sight of his two sons standing side by side, refusing to cede an inch, was too much even for him.
He looked at Rawley again. “And you’re okay with this?”
Rawley gave a little half-shrug, the kind that was more threat than indifference. “I don’t get paid to be okay, Dad. I get paid to protect my family. That’s what I’m doing.”
The phrase “my family” hung in the air like a gauntlet.
Something in my father’s posture changed. His shoulders went up, just a centimeter, but it was enough for me to see the crack in the armor. He exhaled, slow, nostrils flaring. “You’re making a mistake,” he said, but there was less conviction behind it than I expected.
I felt the panic start to recede, replaced by a hot rush of something I’d never associated with myself before: anger.
