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Shane wished he could find it funny, but Micah was his responsibility. He’d promised Cora he’d take good care of the kid, and Boone’s bullshit stories were certainly not taking care.

“You can wash up for dinner.”

“Can I?” Boone replied, with that cocky grin and the faint hint of tension laced underneath all that lazy cowboy.

Shane didn’t know what he’d ever done to piss his brother off, what made them so much like oil and vinegar. It got him thinking about Molly’s saying they were all separate, fighting different, solitary battles.

A truth he didn’t care for because he’d been fighting it his whole life.

“Well, I’ll see you up at the house, kid. Whisper a few sordid stories to you at the dinner table.” Boone winked and then limped away.

Shane bit back all the retorts, all the lectures. They’d never worked. Why would they work now when Boone was a man? Limping and injured and perfectly happy not to let the family in.

Christ, his family was a mess, and Shane didn’t know what to do. Except put one foot in front of the other.

“Stan looks good. You hungry?”

“My mom should be getting here soon,” Micah grumbled.

“She should. But I have a feeling my mom is going to invite you both to dinner. My mom’s a pretty good cook.”

“Really?”

Shane nodded. Appealing to a kid’s stomach was rarely the wrong choice. “Never had better in fact.”

“My mom sucks at cooking.”

Shane tried not to laugh. He doubted Cora would be happy to hear that estimation. “I bet she tries really hard though.”

Micah shrugged, stepping out of the stall. He dutifully pulled the gate closed and latched it. Shane couldn’t help but be impressed that the kid would be that conscientious.

Micah shuffled after Shane, kicking at the dirt, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Something clearly heavy on those shoulders.

“Good day?” Shane asked, hoping to open up the line of conversation. Maybesomeonewould depend on him a little bit, and he could be a little less of a failure.

“Yeah. The horses are cool.”

“Good.”

Silence reigned except for the sounds of their feet hitting the grass as they walked across the yard toward the house.

“That thing you . . .” Micah trailed off, glaring at the ground and stomping on it like it had done something to him. “Violence . . .” He shook his head vigorously.

Shane watched him and wondered if Micah had taken such an interest in Boone’s story because someone had been picking on him. It could have been why Micah had gotten himself kicked out of basketball camp. Kids could be cruel for the dumbest of reasons.

“Violence is hardly an answer,” Shane repeated. It was something his father had told him once. When Shane had gotten into a fight at school because Pat Butler had called a girl in their class fat and Shane had told him to shut his ugly mouth. Shane had earned a split lip and a black eye, but he’d broken Pat’s nose and felt pretty good about it.

Until the lecture from his father.

“So, what . . . what do you do when someone’s bothering you if not knock them out?” Micah mumbled so quietly Shane had to really strain to listen.

Shane thought back to his father’s speech. In the end, it hadn’t been the lecture he’d expected. It had been neither outright censure nor fatherly delight. Something measured and tempered that had stuck with Shane for all the years after.

“Actions have consequences. Negative actions typically have negative consequences. I try to avoid the negative consequences if I can, which means finding positive ways to deal with a situation. It doesn’t mean you never throw a punch, but it means violence is always your last resort. Because no matter how little you mean it, violence leaves a mark.”

Micah’s head whipped up then, and he looked at Shane with something in his expression Shane couldn’t read. It might have made Shane uncomfortable if they hadn’t reached the porch stairs.

He heard the faint rumble of an engine and looked south to the entrance of the ranch. “That’ll be your mom,” he offered.