Something Borrowed

Chapter 57

***WOW! Sorry it has been so long! Lots of reasons this has taken a while: 

1. Work has been a bit of a grind. Lots of sleeping in the woods with the mosquitos instead of at home with my dog as god intended.  

2. In my free time (in case you didn't see my wall message) I have been getting my skydiving license. Which is pretty rad and generally lifegiving and has lowkey pulled me out of a minor depressive episode. But ALSO it takes up most of what precious little weekend time I have and my drifty zen state post jump is not very conducive to writing.

3. This chapter resisted me. Just did not want to be written. So even when I did have time to sit down and write, I generally went "meh" and wandered off to something else. 

Bottom line, I'm sorry this has taken so long. The epilogue is already written . All I gotta do is polish it up and I'll have it to you by the weekend. Just a reminder, I'll be posting the first few chapters of Something Blue at the same time as the epilogue to this. I really hope you choose to follow me to the next story. I'm pretty excited about it. 

Anyways, as always thank you for your patience and thank you SOSOSO much for reading!!! 

Love! Liz***

Owen

Shame was a phenomenon. Unexpressed, shame was a festering wound-- sore and hot and sickly. It lingered beneath the skin, a disgusting secret, reeking of rot. The thought of exposing it to care, to the sight of others, was horrifying. Better to let it linger there, suppurating but at least veiled from judgmental eyes.

Then there was exposed shame. Expressed shame. Shame a man finally owned. It was so much more painful than its covert brethren. So much sharper and more distinct. It wasn't dull throbbing, it was the lancing agony of a broken bone brought back into place. It was the sharp stab of the physician's knife, slicing open the festering wound and draining out the puss. It was cauterization. Amputation. Debridement. Alcohol on an open wound.

It was good. Because after that first sharp pain came relief like he'd never felt. It was almost too easy. The worst conversation, in fact, was the one he'd had with himself. The one he'd carried out while lying on a hard straw mattress in the bunkhouse, staring at the ceiling. Forcing himself to relive his own words as he sent his son-- his boy-- to near certain death with words of hate. Asking himself what the hell Josh had done to deserve his loathing. Realizing that the answer was simple.

Nothing.

After that, the pain had lessened. Talking to Brent had been difficult. He loved his youngest, and explaining that he was transferring his inheritance hadn't been easy. But Brent had been rattled in his own right, and hadn't put up a fight.

Then had come the conversation with Josh. The man's wife had been a spitfire, as ever, and her temper hadn't wounded him at all. It was his son's disbelief, distrust, and disillusionment that had cut him deep and brought to life the reaches of his mistakes. But it had hurt in a healing way. Perhaps it wouldn't have, if he hadn't accidentally raised such a kind spirit of a son. After the initial outburst, Josh had mellowed to wary disbelief and suspicious gratitude. Had he been anything else-- cruel, angry, aggressive-- Owen wasn't certain he'd have been able to stand it. He was too raw from the shift in his own worldview.

Fortunately, Josh was as steadfast as ever-- quiet and dependable. He had showed up at the lawyer's office, as requested. Signed all the papers with neither mocking disbelief nor haughty triumph. He had continued, through everything, to see after his duties on the ranch. He had not lingered near the bunkhouse, flaunting his ownership, but had retreated to his home at the end of every day, leaving Owen and Brent in what peace they could find.