The Farmer's Son

Chapter 20 Still Welcome Here

Ray woke the next morning to a face full of bright sunlight streaming in his window. Hot breaths of wind brought the scents of warm earth and Noah's dinner—roasted chicken—from last night, mixed with something flowery, which had relaxed him enough to sleep. He lay on the bed, fully clothed, the night's sleep stiffening his injuries until every inch of his body ached.

Turning on the bed, breath catching in pain with every movement, he managed to sit up, swinging his legs to the floor. It was only then he saw it: on the nightstand, Alan's first aid kit glowing white in the sunlight like the ghost of injuries past, which had not been there last night. Alan had offered, but Ray had not even been able to meet his gaze, much lest let him tend to any of his wounds. The most he had managed was accepting an ice pack, which lay melted on the bed beside his pillow.

Seeing Austin had rattled him, stirring up feelings of guilt and regret, and a nagging sense of doubt. Nothing Austin had said was a lie, which made his words sting all the more. Even his speculations hit too close to home. Leaving Montana, knowing he would never be able to return to the first place that had ever felt like home, was enough. But on top of that, to leave in shame, and hurt the people who were like family to him, was enough to drag Ray down into a pit of guilt and despair. The only thing that had kept him going was the need to find Joel.

To find a man who seemed like he didn't want to be found.

Letting his head drop, Ray sighed.

He had just resolved to stand and see about his wounds, maybe even shower, when the sound of thumping footsteps in the hall heading towards him set his heart racing. Only one person in this house walked like that, and to Ray's guilty, regretful mind, it sounded like judgement coming for him.

Not long after, his door banged open and the man himself entered. Already in his work gloves, Noah stood in the doorway, one palm pressed flat on the door holding it open. His piercing gaze under the brim of his straw hat swept over Ray, taking in the darkening bruises on his face, and his hunched torso, one hand cradling cracked ribs.

"You're a sight," Noah said. He paused. "Must have been one nasty fall."

Ray, unable to meet the man's gaze, looked up then. But before he could question the statement, Alan appeared next to his father, holding a glass of water and bottle of painkillers.

"Getting drunk and falling out the truck—some cowboy," Alan said, moving into the room and towards Ray. "Good thing I could still drive us home." Leaning down, he placed the glass and pill on the first aid kit. As he did, he glanced up from under a fringe of corn silk hair, and sugar colored eyes caught Ray's gaze. "Right?"

Ray's lips parted, but it was a dry swallow before he could say, "Right..."

Alan turned to smile at his father. Ray's gaze went back to the floor. Noah stood in the doorway, tugging on the Velcro of his work gloves. He looked at his son, then Ray, then grunted. Turning around, he thumped back down the hall and out the back door.

"Drink that," Alan said, pointing to the pills as he moved away. "And there's breakfast if you can stomach it."

"Alan."

Already at the door, Alan turned back. Slits of blue flicked up from the bruised face.

"About last night..." Ray said, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Alan looked at him, then stepped back into the room and closed the door behind him. Coming back to stand in front of Ray, he leaned against the windowsill with his hands in the jeans. "What about last night?" he asked.

"Are you sure," Ray said, looking up from under a fringe of disheveled black hair, "about not telling your Pa?"

"What would you tell him?" Alan asked, shifting to cross one ankle over the other. "That you got into a fight? That Bear attacked someone? You think he didn't already know before we got home? Who do you think is holding off the sheriff?"