Page 8 of Cowboy's Healing Heart

Ashanti and I have to find a way to make this work.

I pull up to the school, a squat brick building that looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1950s. Steeling myself for what’s to come, I take a deep breath before exiting the car. The air is thick with the scent of freshly cut grass.

Ashanti is waiting in the office, her head down and shoulders slumped. Her braids hang in her face, hiding her expression. But I can see the tension in her body, the way her fingers twist the hem of her T-shirt.

My heart aches for her. She didn’t ask for any of this – the constant moving, the new schools, the weight of secrets she’s too young to fully understand.

“Let’s go,” I say, my voice tight. I want to reach out and pull her into a hug like I used to when she was little. But something holds me back. The gulf between us seems to widen with each passing day.

The drive home is silent. I want to ask what happened and why she’s acting out. But I’m afraid of the answers. Afraid that if I start asking questions, I won’t be able to stop. And some questions—like why we really left, why we can never go back—are ones I’m not ready to answer.

Back at the ranch, I park near our cabin. It’s a small, weathered structure, but it’s ours. A safe haven in a world that’s felt increasingly hostile. Ashanti bolts from the truck before I can say a word, her backpack bouncing against her back as she runs.

“We’re not done talking about this!” I call after her. But she’s already inside, the door slamming behind her with a finality that makes my heart ache.

I lean against the truck, exhaustion washing over me. The sun beats down, relentless and unforgiving.

How did we get here? When did everything get so complicated?

I close my eyes, letting the warmth seep into my skin. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine a different life. One where Ashanti and I don’t have to keep running, where we can put down roots and build something lasting.

But that’s not our reality. Not as long as Jordan’s out there, threatening to tear apart everything we’ve built.

The thought of him sends a chill down my spine, even in the afternoon's heat. I can still hear his voice, smooth as honey but laced with acid.

“You can’t hide forever, Krystal. I’ll find you. And I’ll take what’s mine.”

A noise from the barn catches my attention.

Right. The tractor.

Shane.

Reality crashes back in, and I push off from the truck. No use dwelling on what-ifs and maybes. We deal with what is, not what could be.

I make my way over to the barn, half hoping he’s given up and left. The smell of hay and motor oil grows stronger as I approach. But as I round the corner, I see him bent over the engine, completely focused on his task. His hands move with a sureness that speaks of years of experience. It’s oddly mesmerizing.

Man and machine.

There’s a rhythm to it, a dance as old as time. It’s a language all its own, one of gears and pistons, of oil and steel. And I’m fluent in it.

This is where I find peace. Just me and the machine, locked in a silent conversation that requires patience, understanding, and the willingness to listen.

Each turn of a wrench, each adjustment of a valve, is a step in this intricate ballet. It’s a dance I’ve known for years, one that grounds me when everything else feels like it’s spinning out of control.

Being a mechanic isn’t just a job for me. It’s a sanctuary. When I’m elbow-deep in an engine, the world outside fades away.

I’m just...me.

Stripped of all the layers of fear and doubt I’ve built up over the years.

Therealme.

There’s an honesty to machines that I crave. They don’t lie. They don’t have hidden agendas. If something’s wrong, they let you know. And if you’re patient and willing to put in the work, you can fix it.

It’s a simple equation, a rare certainty in a life that’s been anything but certain.

That I can take something broken and make it whole again.

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