Page 4 of Boss and Brat

They’d washed their hands completely.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Welcome home,” he muttered, voice cracking. The barn swallowed the sound whole.

Chapter Two

Carter’s little cabin sat tucked back in the woods as if it had grown there on its own. The path, squeezed between tall pines and some willows, took you to the porch. Behind the porch was the lake, stretching out in a quiet, shimmering expanse. Mornings always smelled of damp earth and cedar. Evenings came with frogs croaking and the soft slap of water against the shore. It included just two bedrooms, a front room with a fireplace, and a bright yellow kitchen with windows overlooking Butte Lake, but it was more peaceful than he’d had at the Higgins Ranch in Texas.

He’d barely stepped out of the steamy shower, the scent of soap still lingering, when his phone buzzed, shattering his ritual morning peace.

Mr. Evans:URGENT. COME TO THE HOUSE. NOW.

Not exactly the kind of text he ignored.

He pulled on a pair of jeans, a faded denim shirt, and his boots. The cowboy hat went on last; then he stepped outside and locked the door.

The motorcycle was parked in the shade of a willow tree next to his truck. He swung a leg over, started it up, and let the engine rumble through the silent woods. Dirt kicked up behind him as he sped down the winding road toward the main ranch house. The ride was only a mile, but the dirt road twisted enough to make it feel longer—trees crowding close, sunlight flickering through the branches while the lake disappeared behind him.

By the time he reached the Evans property, the house stood tall and polished, a sharp contrast to the rustic barns and fields around it. White siding, a wraparound porch, windows that gleamed as if someone cleaned them every morning. It was the kind of house that shouted money without trying.

He parked the bike, dust settling around him, and walked up the steps. Before he could knock twice, the door opened. Mrs. Evans stood there, much younger than her husband, but dressed as if she’d stepped out of a church bulletin from twenty years ago. Red hair pinned up tight, a floral blouse buttoned to the collar, a skirt that brushed her ankles. She gave Carter a polite smile.

“Morning, Mr. Higgins,” she said. “My husband is waiting for you. This way.”

She led him through the house—over spotless floors, past framed family photos, and furniture that looked like no one actually sat on it. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something floral.

Mr. Evans’s office sat at the end of the hall. She opened the door and stepped aside for him to enter then left. Inside the office, dark wood gleamed and heavy furniture filled the space. Papers, arranged in orderly stacks, covered the surface of an enormous desk. Bookshelves lined the walls with mostly ranchmanagement, business management, and a few old Western novels and theology-themed books. A window behind the desk looked out over the fields, sunlight cutting across the room in sharp lines.

Mr. Evans sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, looking like a man who’d been wrestling with paperwork and losing patience by the minute.

“Carter,” he said, motioning him in. “Sit.”

Carter took the chair across from him. “You said it was urgent.”

Mr. Evans leaned back, studying him. “How do you like the cabin near the lake?”

“It’s perfect,” Carter said. “Quiet. Suits me fine.”

“Good.” Mr. Evans nodded once, then folded his hands onto the desk. “I’ve got an extra job for you. Different from what you’ve been doing.”

Carter waited.

“My son,” Mr. Evans said, voice tightening. “Ethan.”

Carter had heard the name. Everyone on the ranch had. The kid who partied too hard. The kid who didn’t listen. The kid who’d just been kicked out of college.

Mr. Evans rubbed a hand over his beard before he spoke again.

“He doesn’t get up on time,” he said, voice clipped. “You tell him to be somewhere at six, he strolls in at eight with bedhead and some excuse he thinks sounds clever.” He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “And he leaves tools everywhere. Saddles half-cleaned. Feed buckets sitting out in the sun. He starts a job, gets bored, wanders off like he’s chasing a damn butterfly.”

Carter stayed quiet, letting the man talk.

Mr. Evans leaned forward. “And he—” He stopped, exhaled hard through his nose. “He disappears. Just… vanishes. One minute he’s supposed to be mucking stalls, the next he’s halfway to town because he needed air.” His fingers tapped the desk,sharp and impatient. “He doesn’t think. He doesn’t listen. He acts as if the world’s supposed to bend around him.”

The man’s voice cracked just slightly—barely enough for anyone else to notice, but Carter caught it.

“He’s gonna destroy himself if someone doesn’t get through to him,” Mr. Evans said, quieter now. “And I can’t do it. He won’t hear it from me.”

This wasn’t just anger. This was a father who’d run out of ways to reach his son.