Page 39 of Lost Then Found
Out here, the air feels different. Still. No hum of the main house, no tractors in the fields. Just a quiet that sinks into your skin. You can hear the creek if you listen for it—steady and soft, running clear even in late April. The silence here isn’t heavy—it’s clean. Peaceful. Close enough to feel like part of the ranch, far enough to feel like a world of its own.
I swing down and tie Springsteen to a post that’s barely upright. Run a hand down his neck, and he flicks an ear, calm as ever. Doesn’t even blink. I swear this horse knows when I’ve got too much on my mind.
My boots creak on the first porch step. It groans under my weight, loud enough to make me pause. For a second, I think it might give—but it holds. Just barely.
I nudge the front door open with my boot. Hinge squeals like something out of a bad movie.
Inside, it’s a mess.
Dust thick enough to write your name in. Floorboards bowed and cracked, ceiling slouched in the corners, wallpaper stripped and curling. But even through the wreckage, you can see it—this place was built to last.
Big living room, fireplace still holding steady in the far wall. Kitchen’s huge—more counter space than we’ve got in the main house, deep farmhouse sink that’s rusted to hell but still there. Bedrooms off to the side, one tucked in the back that might’ve been for a kid. Two bathrooms, though I’m guessing neither has running water. The windows are caked in grime, but light filters through enough to tell me—if you cleaned them up, this whole damn place would shine.
I step into the center of it all. Plant my hands on my hips. Just stand there.
Yeah, it’s beat to shit. The roof’s got gaps, the wiring’s probably a death trap, and the whole thing needs to be gutted down to the studs.
But the bones? They’re solid.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel something settle in my chest instead of twist.
I roll my shoulders back, take another look around.
Maybe it’s worth fixing.
Not for me.
For Hudson.
If I ever get time with Hudson here, I don’t want him crashing on a couch or squeezing into a spare room with hand-me-downs. Kid deserves better than that.
He deserves a place that’s his. Something quiet. Separate. Something that doesn’t have the noise of the main house, or a dozen people coming and going, or Mom fussing over every little thing. Somewhere we can just breathe.
Somewhere that’s ours.
He could have his own room—one he gets to make into whatever the hell he wants. Posters on the walls. Baseball cards taped to the door. A shelf full of trophies, or books, or whatever it is that keeps him up at night.A TV for movies he probably knows line-for-line. A place to just be a kid.
Truth is, I don’t even know what he’s into. What team he roots for. What books he reads. If he still watches the same movies me and Lark were obsessed with.
We damn near wore out that Jurassic Park VHS one summer. Knew every line. Lark named her horse Ellie after the scientist in it—said she was tough as hell and smart to match. I remember thinking she was exactly like Lark.
She never changed the name. Ellie’s still out in the pasture, slow and spoiled. Makes me wonder if Lark ever rides her anymore. Or if she even has time to.
I drag a hand down my face.
Fixing this place up won’t be easy. I’ve already got more on my plate than I know what to do with, but I can carve out the time. Early mornings. Late nights. Hell, I’ll make the time.
Witt’s got the wiring and plumbing covered—grew up with a dad who taught him all of it. He’ll make sure this place doesn’t go up in flames or flood the second we flush a toilet.
Duke can help reinforce the structure. He’s been building things longer than I’ve been alive. Quiet, steady, knows how to keep things level.
I’ll do the rest myself. Drywall, cabinets, sanding old floors. Shit takes time, but I’ve got the hands for it.
And if I’m going to be in Hudson’s life, I want to do it right. I want him to have a space that feels like his. That tells him he belongs here.
I look around again. It’s still a mess, but I see it different now.
I can do this.
