Chapter 21

"Tell me about Father's Day, Ryder. Was it as you expected?" inquired Dr. Marie Brown with a note of compassion in her voice.

Ryder exhaled deeply, his words tinged with a mix of emotions, "Challenging, to say the least. I took your advice; penned a letter to him and stood by his gravesite reading it out loud—just before my mom and brother got there."

"Hmm, and did that bring any sense of release or shift in your emotions?"

There was a subtle nod from Ryder. "Somewhat, yes. I finally expressed my pent-up anger. Admitted I was remorseful for the changes in me." He paused briefly to gulp down some water. "And, well, I bid him farewell."

Dr. Brown offered an encouraging smile, "You're taking monumental strides forward, Ryder. Remember, relief manifests uniquely in each person. Some might experience it suddenly; for others it unravels slowly—like an imperceptible lifting of a burden over days or weeks. Yet everyone who's done this shared one common thing—they found it beneficial."

Ryder's nod was more pronounced this time; he absorbed her words while reflecting on his post-letter emotional state.

"I'd like us to pivot to discussing Isobel," Dr. Brown steered the conversation gently.

Straightening up in his chair, Ryder met the doctor's eyes, "What about her?"

"How often do you communicate with her? Do you see her?"

He shuffled uncomfortably. "A few encounters here and there. Phone conversations happen bi-weekly."

"And your thoughts on divulging what transpired after the rodeo that night? Have you planned that conversation?"

His discomfort was palpable as he repositioned himself on the chair. "Articulating that to her seems daunting."

"In this scenario, Ryder, speaking directly is your only course," she advised softly but firmly. "Consider this: can a true connection with Isobel flourish if it's rooted in deceit?"

He negated with his head—a silent admission.

"You're making remarkable progress," affirmed Dr. Brown warmly. "Now that you've confronted the source of your anger, it's time to step into life again. Have you started to believe that you weren't to blame for your father's passing—that no action of yours could have altered that event?"

"I'm slowly coming around to accepting that reality."

"Good," nodded Dr. Brown as she handed over a collection of pamphlets to him. "These are some support groups available to you—I found one that convenes at a cowboy church; thought it might be more in line with your environment—or there are alternative options."

Ryder glanced at each leaflet intently.

"This week ponder on two things: these groups and how you'll break the truth to Isobel—if continuing a relationship with her is what you truly want."

Without hesitation, Ryder affirmed his intentions with genuine urgency.

"Have you kept up with your journaling?"

"I have," Ryder confirmed, recounting the profound insights Isobel's diary had revealed to Dr. Brown.

"Isobel's wisdom is evident, Ryder. Her musings in the diary reflect deep contemplation. Tell me, how did you feel reading her final passage?"

Shifting in his seat, Ryder planted his feet firmly on the ground and hunched forward, cradling his head in his hands. "Each entry struck a chord with me, compelling me to see things anew—much like our talks here. But that last entry... it shattered me."

"What brought you to that state, Ryder?"

"It's Isobel—she's deserving of everything... everything I'm not. I've failed to be what she needs, and yet, she waits. But why does she wait?"

Pausing, Dr. Brown set her notebook aside thoughtfully. "Maybe Isobel recognizes the man you could be—the man you would've become if tragedy hadn't steered your life astray. That you're seeking help now is proof enough that part of you believes in a brighter potential too. Do you grasp my meaning?"

A solemn nod from Ryder was his reply as tears threatened to break free.

"It's crucial for you to see the value in yourself; to understand that Isobel's patience stems from love worthy of your own self-acceptance. If she can wait for your growth, then so should you."

These words yanked Ryder's attention off the floor; visibly moved, a single tear traced its way down his cheek.

"On another note, Ryder. Have you been screened? For STDs?"

"A couple of times before...not recently though."

"It's imperative that you prioritize this—not just for yourself, but for Isobel's sake as well," Dr. Brown advised.

Ryder acknowledged with a nod, chagrined by the predicament he found himself in.

As Ryder stepped out of the shadowy barn, Wren's truck rumbled into earshot. He paced towards the sound, just as Wren, nursing a colorful bruise on his cheek, swung around the vehicle. Their gazes locked and Ryder's eyebrows shot up in alarm.

"My God, what did you get yourself into?"

With a wince and a half-hearted chuckle, Wren prodded at his swollen cheek. "Ha, you ought to catch a glimpse of the other fella," he joked.

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Ryder queried with a knowing tone. "It was the bull again, wasn't it?"

Exhaling heavily and with an eye roll, Wren admitted defeat. "Yeah."

Ryder couldn't help but bellow with laughter, soon joined by Wren's own hearty guffaws. "Seriously though," Ryder said between laughs, "you should consider some proper protection for that face."

"You're one to talk," Wren retorted. "When's the last time you wore any?"

"I might not wear a mask," Ryder pointed out gleefully, "but I'm also not on first-name terms with being clocked by bulls!"

Trying to steer the conversation away from his bruised ego, Wren eagerly switched topics. "Speaking of protection, any thoughts on when you're returning? Your presence is sorely missed back here."

Ryder's expression softened. "Just ironing out some personal creases," he shared somberly. "I won't let another rodeo pass by me."

"The crew keeps asking for you," Wren pressed on gently. "Don't forget the Leon Rodeo over in Iowa—a great comeback spot."

Ryder nodded affirmatively, "Thinking just that." He clapped his hand reassuringly on Wren's shoulder. "Now then, Rocky—let's round up a couple of steeds for a ride."

With renewed spirits and shared laughter, they vanished into the depths of the barn.

That evening, Ryder found himself perched on a stool at his kitchen counter, fingers grazing over the collection of brochures from the counselor. His gaze landed on one titled 'Crossroads Group Counseling,' its heading emblazoned above the image of a lone cowboy in solemn prayer at a cross, his faithful horse standing guard behind him. As he traced the listed days and hours, he cast an eye at his wristwatch, grabbed his hat, and exited into the fading twilight.

Moments later, Ryder's truck rolled to a stop in front of what seemed to be a repurposed barn. Climbing out, he walked with tentative steps to the entrance. The sight of numerous trucks and rugged SUVs scattered around eased some tension from his shoulders.

Inside, the hum of conversation drew Ryder toward an adjoining room. There, individuals clustered near a spread of light refreshments, conversing lively as others settled into seats arranged in an inviting circle.

With slight apprehension, Ryder selected an empty chair among them. He was soon met with warm handshakes and introductions. One man in particular, weather-worn but keen-eyed, occupied the neighboring seat.

"You bear a strong resemblance to Tyler Hayes," he noted.

Ryder returned his glance in mild astonishment. "I'm his son."

"I knew it – you carry his likeness. I shared many roads with your father during the heyday of his rodeo career."

As Ryder absorbed this revelation with a mix of emotions, the man expressed sincere regret for Tyler's passing—a sentiment Ryder echoed quietly.

Extending his hand, the gentleman introduced himself as Chancy Wilson.

Ryder reciprocated the handshake. "Ryder. A pleasure."

By then, Chancy had straightened up; anticipation settled among the group as proceedings were about to commence.

"Welcome all," began Luther Hogan, pastor and leader around these parts. He spoke with an open heart about founding this group borne out of personal tribulation—his wife's valiant yet tragic confrontation with breast cancer and his own subsequent battle against resentment toward God and life's relentless march forward.

As Luther encouraged another attendee named Mark Smith to share his story—a harrowing tale of loss entailing a son, a job, even a home—the room embraced him in silent solidarity.

All while Ryder felt an increasing pulse thrumming through him, well aware that soon it would be his turn to unravel the yarns of his own story before these kindred spirits.

"Sir," he acknowledged with a nod toward Ryder, "Would you be so kind as to introduce yourself and share with us the reason for your presence today?"

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Ryder offered a small nod. "Ryder Hayes," he said, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness as he worked to dissolve the tension in his throat. "It's been eleven years since my father succumbed to injuries from a rodeo accident."

"A whole decade and then some, that must be tough," came the sympathetic response. "Have you sought out any support groups before this?"

"This is my first time," Ryder admitted. "It was on my therapist's advice that I'm here."

"We're truly grateful you've made the decision to be with us today, Ryder."

As the meeting progressed, Ryder listened intently as others bared their souls. One woman recounted the tragic loss of her spouse in an accident at their homestead when a horse tragically crushed him. It was hours before anyone found him.

A man about Ryder's age detailed the heartbreaking loss of his brother during a rodeo bronc riding event.

Story after story unfolded—each a tapestry woven from threads of grief and loss. By the time it was Luther's turn to engage Ryder once again, the sheer volume of shared pain had left his mind reeling.

"Ryder, if I may ask, what inspired you to seek out this group after all these years?" Luther queried gently.

Ryder sat up straighter from his previously hunched posture. In search of words, he managed a strained "Um, well, I..."

"Take your time, Ryder. No judgment here—just ears ready to listen."

Taking in a deep breath, he continued. "Following my dad's passing...I found myself spiraling into self-destruction."

"And what shape did this self-destruction take—if you don't mind sharing?" prompted Luther.

Fidgeting nervously with his hands before drying them on his jeans, Ryder confessed, "Heavy drinking became routine for me...and reckless encounters with strangers became too frequent. The anger inside me was overwhelming."

"Ryder," Luther responded with empathy in his voice as heads around the room nodded in understanding, "we've all taken actions we wish we hadn't. But reaching out for help is a commendable step forward; focusing on setting and maintaining goals will guide you through your journey onward."