UNBROKEN PROMISE

~36~ Lingering Tension

The next morning, the tension in the air between Logan and Oma was palpable. When he walked into the house after finishing his early morning chores, he seemed even more closed off. His posture was stiff, his face set in that same hard, unreadable expression he always wore when he wanted to keep the world at bay.

Oma, who had woken early to prepare breakfast, glanced at him nervously as he came through the door. She wasn't sure if he remembered anything about the night before-about his drunken return, the bleeding gash she had stitched up, or the way he had pulled her close and whispered broken confessions in the haze of his intoxication.

If he did remember, he gave no sign of it. He didn't so much as glance her way as he sat down at the table, his movements rough and deliberate. The silence was thick as he ate his breakfast, the only sound in the room the scrape of his fork against the plate. Oma busied herself near the sink, her hands trembling slightly as she washed the dishes.

She wanted to say something-anything-but the lump in her throat kept her quiet. She could feel the weight of his presence behind her, a heavy, oppressive energy that made it hard to breathe. When Logan finally finished eating, he pushed back his chair with a screech and stood, grabbing his hat without a word.

Oma turned slightly, clutching the dishcloth in her hands as she watched him head for the door. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words died on her lips as he walked out, and banged the door close making her flinch.

---

Out at the main barn, Logan worked with a single-minded intensity that bordered on self-punishment. He threw himself into the tasks with more force than necessary, shoveling hay with rough, jerking movements and hefting heavy bags of feed as if the exertion could drown out the noise in his head. His knuckles throbbed with every motion, the swollen, bruised skin protesting each time he gripped the pitchfork. The gash on his head was bandaged, thanks to Oma, but the dull ache served as a constant reminder of his spiral the night before.

Jacob, who had been overseeing some of the ranch hands nearby, watched him with a keen eye. It didn't take long for him to notice Logan's unusually aggressive pace or the way he avoided looking at anyone. When the other men finished their tasks and dispersed, Jacob walked over, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the barn door.

"What's wrong with you?" Jacob asked bluntly. "You've been actin' off since yesterday. And what in tarnation happened to your head and your knuckles?"

Logan didn't even glance at him. He just kept working, his movements growing even more forceful as if he could shovel his way out of the conversation.

Jacob sighed, his arms still crossed as he watched his younger brother stubbornly ignore him. "You gonna tell me what's goin' on, or do I gotta drag it outta you?"

Logan paused for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening on the pitchfork, but he didn't answer. He shoved another load of hay into the corner, his jaw clenching visibly.

Jacob, not one to back down, pushed off the wall and walked over to him. He grabbed Logan by the arm, forcing him to turn around. "Look at me when I'm talkin' to you," he said firmly. "What's wrong with you, Logan? You were gone most of yesterday, you come back lookin' like you fought a bear, and now you're actin' like the devil himself's ridin' your back. What happened?"

Logan met his brother's gaze, his eyes dark and hard. For a moment, it looked like he might answer, but then he shook his head. "Nothin'," he said curtly, his voice low and flat. "I'm fine."

Jacob stared at him, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You don't look fine," he said after a moment. "You look like you're carryin' the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you're too stubborn to let anyone help you."