Chapter 17

With a sense of urgency, Celeste leaped from her truck and sprinted towards the barn, her ears pounded by the cacophony of shrieks and crashes emanating from within. Terry emerged, palms raised pleadingly. "Mom, please don't," he implored, blocking her path.

"I have to see him," Celeste demanded, her resolve unshaken.

"He's out of control right now!"

"Terry, out of my way!" she asserted with more force.

Reluctantly, Terry stepped back, allowing his mother to pass before trailing behind her into the chaos.

The scene that greeted Celeste inside left no doubt as to why Terry had tried to ward her off. A scene of devastation awaited: The feed room's door lay in ruins, trophies demolished and littered around, tack thrown into disarray, with hay strewn from one end of the barn to the other like the aftermath of a tempest.

The yelling had subsided as Celeste tiptoed down the alleyway, eyes darting into each stall for a sign of Ryder. In the fifth stall she found him—exhausted, hands on his knees for support, propped against the wall.

He caught sight of her and his anger reignited. "Leave me be, ma!" he thundered.

"Ryder Ashton Hayes! No matter how upset you are, that is no way to speak to your mother," Celeste declared firmly.

"Just get out!" His anguish was palpable as he stormed from the stall towards the tack room, hurling photos and mementos against the wall in a clatter of breaking glass.

Tears streaming down her face, Celeste followed him inside. "Ryder, please stop this madness. None of this will return your father," she pleaded softly.

Halting his rampage momentarily, Ryder locked eyes with her. "You think I don't know that? Nothing will... He's gone because of me!"

"That's not true; you can't think that."

"But I do! I wasn't strong enough," Ryder confessed before hurling a hammer through a window in a burst of glass and despair.

"Strong enough for what?" Celeste ventured closer cautiously.

"To save him," Ryder admitted amidst sobs, his face a canvas painted with dirt and tears.

"Wren called over to Isobel as he hopped out of his pickup, 'Heard anything from Ryder today?'"

Isobel shook her head, perched casually on Rose's tailgate, eyes fixed on her perfecting her barrel racing technique.

"It's the day he lost his dad. Can't say Ryder's ever been good at getting through it." Wren paused, concern etching his face as he turned towards his vehicle. "I'm gonna check on him."

"Wait for me. I'll tell Rose we're heading out," Isobel replied, determination in her voice as she slid off the tailgate.

As they pulled to a stop outside Ryder's place, his truck loomed in its usual spot, steadfast and unassuming. Wren's hand hesitated on the car door, then he turned to Isobel with a cautious tone, "You might want to hang back, Isobel."

"Why?" she inquired, puzzled.

"Ryder's... he's likely been drinking, and who knows what else." His brow was creased with worry.

But Isobel wouldn't hear of it; her response was action – she burst from the vehicle and made a beeline for the porch steps.

Wren caught up in no time, his fists drumming an urgent beat against the door. "Ryder!" he called out, rapping louder. "You there?" He pressed his face to the windowpane, squinting through the glass. "Can't see him... Just those damn rodeo clips on repeat." The door didn't budge when he tried it. "I'll check the back," he threw over his shoulder to Isobel, caution thrown to the winds.

Isobel stood sentinel until suddenly, clicks sounded – the door swung open to Wren's beckoning hand.

Inside was a somber scene: Ryder, slumped on the floor against the sofa; an army of beer bottles holding court on the coffee table; whiskey held court beside him on the carpet. In his grip? A half-empty tumbler. He sipped absently, eyes fixed on a screen of past glory and pain.

Hanging back at first, Isobel watched Wren sink down next to Ryder with a comforting hand upon his shouldered burden. Tears stained Ryder's cheeks like unwelcome guests as he lamented aloud,

"I should have stopped him."

"Ryder, you did what you could," Wren reassured softly.

"But I didn't do enough!" Despair choked his words as he turned once more to historic scenes flickering before him.

"You couldn't have kept him off that bull any more than I could keep you from riding," Wren tried to reason with him.

A defeated shake of Ryder's head said more than words. "But I'm his son..."

"That doesn't change things. It was always going to be his choice."

Another drink passed Ryder's lips before his attention returned to his father's last ride.

It was then that Isobel made her move – without a word, she snatched up the remote and cut short the televised memories.

"Hey..." Ryder began in protest but fell silent as his gaze met Isobel's concerned eyes. "Isobel... why?"

"I came because I care about you, Ryder. I had to know you're safe."

"I don't want pity..." He averted his gaze as vulnerability took hold.

"Ryder," Isobel's voice cut through the tension gently but firmly, "I'm here for you — just as Wren is."

Ryder's frame shuddered with racking sobs even as he knelt, and Wren enveloped him in an embrace, a futile effort to stem his tears. Isobel felt the unmistakable tightness of emotion swelling in her throat, her eyes welling up with empathy. Swiftly turning away to conceal her moisture-glazed eyes from Ryder, she fled to the kitchen's solitude. There, gazing momentarily through the window and regaining composure, she flung open the refrigerator to forage for ingredients — her heart certain Ryder had neglected to nourish himself all day.

With the final sandwich crafted, Isobel carried sustenance into the lounge, noticing Ryder in a forlorn slouch on the sofa, elbows on thighs and hand cradling his skull in frustration. Wren sat beside him, body pitched towards Ryder's desolation, a silence heavy between them.

Cutting through the quietude, Isobel offered, "Lunch is ready—if anyone feels like eating." Her voice a gentle nudge.

Ryder's gaze lifted towards her; eyes red-rimmed betrayed recent turmoil. He conjured a fleeting semblance of a smile before rising and acknowledging her gesture with a tender press upon her forearm as he shuffled into the kitchen.

Wren followed suit, looping an arm around Isobel's shoulders reassuringly. "He needs time," he murmured as they joined Ryder at the kitchen island.

The three of them sat there, enveloped in hush, sandwiches mostly untouched while Wren's and Isobel's gazes lingered on Ryder with concern. He fidgeted aimlessly with his food - plucking at bread slices and discarding crumbs carelessly onto his plate.

Isobel relocated herself beside Ryder and rested a comforting hand on his arm — silent solidarity. His eyes briefly met hers then fell away dejectedly.

"Words fail us in times like these," she began softly. "But isolation isn't your only option."

Ryder's eyes snapped back to Isobel's earnest gaze but offered no reply.

Wren nodded affirmation from across them both. "We're united in this, Ryder," he supported.

Ryder layered his hand upon hers - an acceptance without words - before allowing it to fall back to dissecting his bread piece by piece.

Isobel persisted gently but firmly. "No one is leaving your side; not me, not now." She reinforced their presence with conviction, feeling Ryder tighten his grip on her hand in silent gratitude. "We're your anchor, Ryder - that includes God's presence too."

An intensity flickered across Ryder's features as he considered her faith-filled words.

"Some may doubt divine watchfulness," she added softly, yet confidently. "But be assured—my prayers for you are unwavering."

Ryder stood abruptly then, carrying his untouched plate to the sink as if to discard more than just uneaten food. Palms pressed flat against the counter as if bracing himself against unseen currents of grief, he finally spoke: "I'm gonna try to wash this day off," before climbing the stairs away from their carefilled gaze.

Wren exchanged a look with Isobel—both silently sharing an unspoken promise of continued support as they listened to Ryder's retreating footsteps.

"He's going to pull through, Isobel, just you wait."

"But he seems anything but alright at this moment."

Setting his plate aside, Wren conveyed an assurance girded by experience. "Trust me, Isobel, we're actually witnessing a breakthrough. On this day in years past, he was unreachable—swallowed by rage, drowning himself in liquor. That's why I was hesitant for you to be here." Wren gave a rueful shake of the head. "Yet today? It's extraordinary. He's sipping on restraint; only half his usual amount, and there he is, profoundly absorbing those old videos... This marks an incredible leap forward."

While Ryder sought solace in the shower's spray, Wren and Isobel circled the conversation in the warmth of the kitchen. A clink and clatter later, every dish resumed its place, just as Ryder reappeared. He sidled up to the counter where Isobel perched and slipped onto the stool beside her. Their hands converged silently on the cool countertop.

Ryder raised his eyes, a gentle seriousness within them. "I need to express my gratitude to both of you," he murmured with weighted sincerity.

Isobel responded with a gentle squeeze atop his hands. "Always, Ryder. You must know you're never alone."

With a brief nod in Isobel's direction, Ryder's eyes held an unspoken thanks.

"How about stepping out for a bit of air?" suggested Wren in a lighter tone.

Agreement written on his face, Ryder rose with them and together they unfolded into the vast calm that awaited them on the porchside seats.