Page 27 of Shattered Melodies

“You need to find a healthier way to cope, before it’s too late.”

I hesitated, the bottle hovering halfway to my mouth. He was right, I knew he was. But the thought of facing the pain without the numbing haze of alcohol, without the distraction of nameless, faceless men it was terrifying.

Still, something made me put the bottle down, made me run a shaky hand through my hair instead of drowning myself in another drink. Maybe it was the memory of Caleb’s face, the way he had looked at me with such love, such tenderness. Maybe it was the knowledge that he would be disappointed in me, heartbroken to see what I had become.

Or maybe I was just tired. Tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of pretending that I wasn’t broken beyond repair.

CHAPTER 8

Life in the Ranch

CALEB

The sun was just starting to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, as I finished mending the last section of fence. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I stood back to survey my work. Not bad for a day’s labor, even if my back was screaming at me.

“Getting too old for this,” I muttered, stretching out the kinks in my shoulders.

Drumstick, my faithful quarter horse, nickered softly from where he was tethered nearby. I chuckled, reaching out to pat his neck. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Time to call it a day, huh?”

As we made our way back to the barn, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction mixed with a familiar ache. The ranch had been struggling lately, what with the drought and rising feed costs, but we were hanging in there. Mom’s medical bills hadn’t made things any easier, but her being in remission was worth every penny and then some.

The word ‘remission’ still felt fragile on my tongue, like saying it too loudly might jinx it. It had been almost fifteen years since Mom’s diagnosis, fifteen years since that late-night call from Dad that had changed everything. I’d been halfway through my junior year of college, chasing dreams of music stardom and thinking I had all the time in the world.

But cancer doesn’t care about your plans.

I’d dropped everything and rushed home, desperate to be with her, to do whatever I could to help. The ranch, the animals, the endless round of doctor’s appointments and treatments - it had kept me busy, kept me focused on something other than the gaping wound in my soul. College, music, my own ambitions - they all fell by the wayside as we fought this battle together.

Now, fifteen years later, here I was. Still on the ranch, still putting one foot in front of the other. Mom was doing better, thank God, but the fear never really goes away. You just learn to live with it, like a shadow always at the edge of your vision.

I was just finishing up Drumstick’s evening feed when my eyes fell on my old guitar, propped up in the corner of the barn. It had been gathering dust for months now, maybe even years. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d really played, not just noodling around but really playing.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked it up, the weight familiar in my hands. My calluses had softened, but muscle memory took over as I strummed a few chords.

The melody that came out was an old one, a song I’d written lifetimes ago. For Liam. The thought of him still sent a pang through my chest, but it was duller now, more of an echo than the sharp pain it used to be.

Then I heard a familiar set of footsteps coming towards me.

“If it isn’t the resident slacker, caught in the act.” Hank drawled, a shit-eating grin spreading across his weathered face.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth. Hank had only been with us for a few years, but he’d quickly become an integral part of the ranch and our family.

I chuckled, setting my guitar aside. “Very funny, old man. I was just taking a little break.”

Hank’s expression softened slightly, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. Lord knows this place has seen its share of hard times.”

I nodded, remembering the day Dad had finally admitted he needed help. It had been during Mom’s worst days, when the cancer treatments had left her too weak to get out of bed. Dad was stretched thin, trying to care for her, manage the ranch, and keep an eye on me. Hiring Hank had been a lifesaver.

“How’s Dad doing?” I asked, suddenly feeling guilty for taking a break when there was so much work to be done.

Hank shrugged. “He’s holding up. Your mama’s doing better this week, so that’s lifted his spirits some. But he could use a hand with the fence repair in the north pasture, if you’re done with your ‘break’.”

I stood up, brushing off my jeans. “Say no more. I’m on it.”

As I moved to leave, Hank caught my arm. “You’re doing good, kid. Don’t be too hard on yourself for needing a breather now and then.”

“Thanks, Hank. I appreciate that.”

Just then, Leo and Dean, our two younger ranch hands, poked their heads into the barn.

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