Page 47 of Dusty
The old lady who checked him in reminded him of a character you’d expect to see in a movie or on television. Tiny little thing with a voice so deep she sounded like a guy. She’d eyed him up and down for a long time, finally nodded once, and handed him a key. Luckily, the room was exactly what he expected—a queen bed with a faded floral comforter, carpet that had once been plush, but years of wear and tear had squashedthe pile flat, and a “No Smoking” placard on the door. Ethan tossed his duffel onto the bed and pulled out his laptop.
He’d done his research using the ancient computers in the prison library, currying every favor and privilege he could finagle to dig up information once he even had an inkling he’d be granted parole. Searches about Shiloh Springs, but mostly about the two people who were the reason he’d even considered coming back to this small town. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes of searching public records online to confirm the information he sought. Douglas and Patricia Boudreau still owned the ranch property outside of town. He even found an article about them having a vow renewal ceremony, with the whole family in attendance. There was an event he wished he could have attended.
The Big House is still standing. They are still there.
Ethan closed the laptop and moved to the bathroom, bracing his hands against the sink as he stared at his reflection. Prison had hardened him in ways that were written across his face: the permanent crease between his brows, the wariness in his dark eyes, the scar that ran under the curve of his jaw from a fight during his second year inside. He barely recognized himself from the angry, scared twelve-year-old who had once lived at the Big House.
What would they see when they looked at him now? The former inmate? The delinquent? Or somehow, impossibly, the boy they had once tried to save?
Ethan showered quickly, changed into his cleanest jeans and a simple black T-shirt, and headed back to his truck. The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that made something twist painfully in his chest. The Texas sunsets had been one of the few bright spots he looked forward to each day during those months at the Boudreau ranch. He’d sit on the porch steps, watching thecolors bleed across the sky while Douglas worked on the ranch accounts at the outdoor table and Ms. Patti busied herself with dinner preparations inside. It had always been his favorite time of the day. The other boys cavorted around the yard, laughing and playing, but Ethan cherished these moments of solitude, watching Douglas and listening to Ms. Patti. Knowing they were always exactly where he expected them to be, that they didn’t disappear to get their next fix, or run to the corner store to buy a bottle that’d be gone before he went to bed.
For a brief, shining moment, he’d felt safe. He wouldn’t call it home, because he’d never had one of those, but it had felt like the next best thing.
The drive to the ranch took forty minutes, each mile increasing the tight knot in Ethan’s stomach. The turnoff was marked by the same hand-carved wooden sign, “Boudreau Ranch”, though the wood was weathered now, the carved letters softened by time and elements. He had no trouble spotting the security cameras lining the entrance and gate, and he nodded once. Good. Glad they took precautions. The gravel drive was longer than he remembered, cutting through pastureland that seemed unchanged by the passing years.
There it was. The Big House. A plantation-style house, it reminded him of an antebellum plantation home, of something you’d see in the Deep South instead of in the heart of Texas. Two stories of white paint and dark green shutters, a wide wraparound porch, and windows that caught the dying sunlight like flame. Ethan pulled up beside a blue pickup truck that looked to be about ten years old, put his own vehicle in park, and shut off the engine.
He couldn’t move. His hands remained frozen on the steering wheel, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. What was he doing here? What right did he have to show up after all this time, a refugee from the prison system, his life filled withbroken promises and in shambles? Douglas and Ms. Patti tried to save him once. His mother had made sure that effort was wasted. Maybe they’d forgotten about him entirely. Maybe they wouldn’t even remember the troublemaking kid who’d spent less than six months under their roof.
The screen door of the house swung open, and a figure stepped out onto the porch.
Ethan’s heart stuttered in his chest. Douglas Boudreau stood there, older now, his hair gone silver at the temples, but still tall and broad-shouldered. He shaded his eyes against the setting sun, peering at the unfamiliar truck in his driveway.
“Help you with something?” Douglas called out, his voice carrying across the yard with the same quiet authority Ethan remembered.
It was now or never. Ethan forced himself to open the truck door and step out. He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do with his hands, finally settling on shoving them into his pockets as he walked slowly toward the porch.
“Mr. Boudreau,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended, “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—”
“Ethan?” Douglas’s voice cracked on the name, his hand dropping to his side. “Ethan Randolph?”
Something broke open inside Ethan’s chest—relief, gratitude, fear, all tangled together in a mess of emotion he couldn’t begin to sort through. “Yes, sir,” he managed.
Douglas was down the porch steps in an instant, covering the distance between them with long strides. He stopped just short of Ethan, his eyes searching the younger man’s face with an intensity that made Ethan want to look away. But he didn’t. He owed Douglas that much at least—to stand there and be seen, really seen, after all this time.
“My goodness,” Douglas said softly. “We thought…after your mother took you, we tried to find you. For years, we tried.”
Ethan swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. “I know. I found a couple of letters that had been forwarded by Child Protective Services in my mom’s stuff—after she died.”
Douglas’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, son.”
Son.The word hit Ethan like a physical blow. No one had called him that in a very long time—certainly not with the genuine care he heard in Douglas’s voice.
“Douglas? Who’s out there?” Ms. Patti’s voice floated from inside the house, and a moment later, she appeared in the doorway. She was smaller than Ethan remembered, her blonde hair not showing a strand of silver, but her eyes were the same—warm and kind in a way that had terrified twelve-year-old Ethan because he hadn’t known what to do with genuine kindness and affection.
She squinted into the fading light, and then her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord. Is that—”
“It’s Ethan,” Douglas confirmed, his voice thick with emotion.
Ms. Patti was down the steps and across the yard before Ethan could brace himself, throwing her arms around him with a force that nearly knocked him back a step. She smelled the same—like vanilla and clean laundry—and Ethan found himself tentatively returning the embrace, his arms stiff and unpracticed.
“You came back,” she whispered against his chest. When she pulled away, her eyes were wet. “You came back to us.”
“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” Ethan admitted, the words scraping his throat raw.
Douglas stepped forward then, placing a heavy hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “We never stopped hoping you would find your way back here someday.”
The sincerity in the older man’s voice made something crack inside Ethan, a thin fracture in the wall he’d built around himself. He cleared his throat, fighting for control. “I’ve done things…made mistakes. I’m not the kid you remember.”
“None of us are who we were eighteen years ago,” Douglas said firmly. “What matters is you’re here now.”
But would they feel the same if they knew what he’d done, and why he was really back in Shiloh Springs?