Chapter 6

Ben brought his hand to his face, not to cover his ears, but because the world was spinning violently. The anger dissolved into nausea. He swallowed hard, the bitter taste of bile and whiskey rising in his throat.

“He… Ethan… he was always the perfect one for you, wasn’t he? The strong one. The right one. I never… I never measured up.”

“No, you never did!” Marlene spat the words. “But you could have been more! You could have been a man, Ben! Instead, you chose to be a burden. A dead weight that we still have to carry.”

Ben looked at his mother. The iron woman, her face marked by sun and loss, her shoulders still broad but bent under an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, he saw not only anger in her, but a deep pain, a disappointment that went beyond the ranch’s bankruptcy. It was the bankruptcy of a son. And that pain, more than any insult, was what truly unsettled him.

He had no answer. He had no strength. The nausea won. Ben turned suddenly and vomited violently into the dirty sink, his body shaking like a green branch.

Marlene didn’t move. She offered no help. She said nothing. She simply watched, her lips pressed into a thin white line. When he finished, dripping with tears and sweat, slumped against the sink like a wet rag, she slowly returned to the table. She picked up a single corn kernel between her thumb and forefinger.

“Clean up that mess,” she ordered in a voice devoid of emotion, as if speaking to a stranger. “And then go to your room. I don’t want to see you until you remember that you have a surname to honor. Or until the devil takes you. Whichever comes first.”

Ben rested his cold forehead against the metal of the faucet, eyes closed. The taste of vomit and defeat was all that remained. And the silence of the house. He didn’t clean up the mess. He didn’t go to his room. He simply slid to the cold floor, curled up at the foot of the sink, while his mother continued her endless counting, grain by grain.

***

The night air in Serenity Creek was a warm, heavy sheet, laden with the smell of dry dust and desperation. Sofia left the Santa Maria with dragging steps, exhaustion deep in her bones. The long shift and the tension with Ethan in the ICU—that sticky awkwardness, his vulnerability beneath the anger—still echoed on her skin like an unpleasant tingling. She needed something hot, greasy, and human. Something that didn’t smell of antiseptic and defeat.

“Gordão’s,” a roadside diner with half its neon letters flickering, was the only inviting light on the way to her tiny apartment. She parked the Civic next to an enormous, shiny black pickup that looked like a war tank in the middle of the dust. Dawson, she thought, a sudden chill running down her spine. But he wouldn’t be here, in a hole like this.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burnt oil and bacon. Two tables were occupied: silent truckers devouring steaks, and a couple of teenagers laughing loudly in a corner. Sofia sat at the counter, her back to the door, ordering a coffee and a fried chicken sandwich that promised instant regret.

“You look like you fought the devil and barely lost, nurse,” Gordão commented, the owner, a large man in a stained apron, placing a steaming mug of coffee in front of her. “Or was it just Ethan Callahan giving you trouble today?”

Sofia gave a humorless laugh, wrapping her cold hands around the warm mug.

“A bit of both, Gordão. I just want food and silence, please.”

He nodded, understanding. He turned to the griddle, where the fat was singing. That was when the doorbell tinkled, bringing a current of warm air and a presence that filled the small space like heavy gas. Sofia didn’t need to turn around. She felt the eyes settle on her. Heavy. Calculating. The black pickup.

Rick Dawson slid onto the stool beside her with the grace of a predator. The scent of expensive leather and a light woody note that fought, and lost, against the aroma of frying.

“Sofia Alves. What a pleasant coincidence.” His voice was smooth, honeyed, but carried the edge of a knife. “Destiny seems to enjoy trapping us in the same space. Twice in one day… it must be a sign.”

Sofia kept her eyes fixed on the coffee. Her heart beat a little faster.

“Mr. Dawson. Small towns, you know how it is. Few decent places to eat.”

He laughed, a low and pleasant sound that didn’t reach his cold blue eyes.

“Decent is a strong word for Gordão’s. But it has its charm. Authentic. Like the people here.” He nodded at Gordão. “Whiskey, Gordão. Double, on the rocks. And bring a portion of those spicy wings for the lady, on me. She looks like she needs to recover her strength after dealing with our… difficult patient.”

“No need, thank you,” Sofia said quickly, but Gordão was already grabbing the frozen wings. She felt cornered. “I already ordered my sandwich.”

“Consider it a complement. A thank you for the service rendered to our dear Ethan.” Dawson rested his elbows on the counter, turning slightly toward her. The proximity was invasive. “How is he? The proud heir of Terra Seca? Managing to rest with his leg tied up, or just accumulating more anger?”

Sofia took a sip of coffee, burning her tongue. Professional. She had to stay professional.

“He’s stable. Under observation. Recovery depends on rest.”

“Rest.” Dawson savored the word as if it were a joke. “Difficult when the world you know is falling apart, isn’t it? When the creditors are knocking at the door, your brother is drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle, and the only thing holding things together is an old foreman and a well that gives no water.” He picked up the glass of whiskey Gordão placed in front of him, swirling the amber liquid. “Ethan has always been stubborn. Like his father. Joseph… now he was a man of principles. Inflexible. Deadly.” He looked at Sofia, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “He died because of them, you know?”