***What's this??? Two thousand piddling words containing zero plot development, in a POV nobody asked for, after an unexplained month-long hiatus??? Gosh, I sure do express my gratitude well, don't I?
In all seriousness, I am sorry for disappearing. Here's a shitty chapter. Another should be forthcoming shortly. As always, thank you for reading.***

Owen

Every night, Owen Tucker stumbled off to bed with a plan. Tomorrow, he thought to himself, I'll get up with the dawn. I'll ride out with the men. I'll check the fences, visit the stables, poke my head in the bunkhouse. I'll come home and play chess with Melissa, talk to Amelia about what she's reading. I'll have one glass of whiskey, read some passages from the Bible, and retire.

Every night, he drifted off with crystal clear images in his head of what the next day would bring. Every day he woke up and put off redemption for one more day of sickening familiarity. The rising sun brought nausea and a stuffy, thick head. Breakfast brought bitterness, as he looked around the table at the bright, young faces with nothing but hope ahead of them. The quiet late-morning hours brought an intense need to stifle the silence, as he sat in his office and thought about his plans.

Today was supposed to be the day.

But it never was, and noon always found him sitting at his desk, already half-drunk, staring at the fading portrait of he and his late wife. When they'd had the photo taken, the photographer had asked them both not to smile.

"It takes a long time," he had said as he prepared his equipment. "And it's easier to hold a frown than a smile."

So they'd frowned severely, and laughed uproariously when they'd received the finished photo.

"You look like you're plotting my death," she had teased him.

"You look like you welcome the darkness," he'd returned.

Now, he wished they had smiled. That she, at least, had smiled. He'd long forgotten what a happy expression even looked like on her beautiful face. For so many years, he'd stared at this photo while stern disapproval stared back at him. Righteous anger. Seething disappointment.

He felt that glare on him every moment of every day, letting up only in the evenings, while he lay in bed, planning to do better tomorrow.

The rest of his day was a downward tumble. Lunch, where he sat alone with the girls, listening to the clatter of silverware against china and the echoes of happy family dinners that were decades in the past. Afternoons, spent turning his buzz into roiling, thick-headed drunkenness, his bitterness and grief into hatred. Evenings, fighting to keep that hatred on its proper path.

This evening, just like every evening, his plans for rebirth were forgotten. Everything was forgotten but his anger. Seething, sickening anger that bubbled in his stomach and left the taste of bile on the back of his tongue. Every word spoken across the expanse of the dinner table ignited his fury like a match to spilled liquor. Every word spoken by every member of his cobbled-together family.

To outward appearance, nobody would know how far his hatred extended. Nobody would know that nobody escaped his disdain. He hated Melissa and her mulish independence, because she reminded him so much of her mother. He hated Brent for his immaturity and lack of filial loyalty. He hated Amelia for failing to keep Brent home. He hated the preacher for the things the man said about his wife, he hated the people in town for the way they whispered, and he hated every one of his employees because he knew their loyalty was not to him.

He hated everyone, but he kept it to himself because they didn't deserve his wrath, and he knew that. It took everything in him to hold the poison at bay, but he did it because beneath the anger he loved his children. He knew he would come to love Amelia and the child she carried. He was loyal to the preacher and to the folks down in town, who had been his friends in the time before. He was fair to his employees because without them his ranch would fail. Yes, he hated them. But his soul knew better than his rotten heart, and it kept his hatred contained.

"Oh, we'll come down tomorrow and see!" Melissa exclaimed, dragging him out of his bitter reverie. He swallowed more whiskey and struggled to track the conversation.

"I don't know, Lisa," Josh was saying, shaking his head. Owen's blood simmered in his veins like the bottom of a pot just ready to boil. The boy was smiling to himself, clearly amused. Putting up a fight but knowing full well he would lose on purpose.

"C'mon, Josh, don't be difficult," Amelia prodded, the tablecloth shifting as she kicked her 'husband' beneath the table. His smile broke loose into a grin, and Owen wanted to scream.

How dare you be happy?

"You heard the woman," Melissa goaded. "Pretty please, Josh? Please, let your adoring sister and faithful wife come down and visit the baby cows. Please?" She dragged the last word out with a dramatic pout, and Amelia laughed. So did Josh.

How dare you laugh?

Owen Tucker hated everyone, but he shielded all of them from his hatred because he knew they deserved better. He protected them all, but for two.

He hated himself, openly and forcefully, with a power that crippled him. On the few days when circumstance kept him sober, with no film to blur sensation, the hatred was a physical pain, gripping his heart. Doubling him over. Burning his dry eyes with nonexistent tears. Prodding at the back of his throat with a roar that he could never let loose because it would leave behind nothing but an empty husk. He hated himself and he let himself know it with every gulp of burning whiskey and every glorious day spent imprisoned in his mouldering study.

He hated himself... and he hated his son.

His bastard.

The living embodiment of his sins.

The boy with dark hair just like his mother's, eyes that could have been hers, and a smile that gripped Owen's heart and threatened to rip it from his chest.

The coward who had left his mother, the kindest most beautiful soul on earth, to die a hideous death. Alone.

His fist came down on the tabletop, clattering silverware. The table fell silent, three sets of wide eyes turned to him as he breathed heavily through his nose, fighting the fury.

How dare you laugh?

"If your sister wants to visit the ranch, you'll oblige her, Joshua," he commanded through his teeth. Melissa's face went stony, and Amelia's gaze dropped to the table. Josh's smile melted away, and a disparate pang of loss and relief spasmed deep inside Owen's gut.

How dare you look like her? Brent should look like her, or Melissa. If they did, he could bask in their smiles. Her smiles. Maybe then everything would be right and he would wake early and spend his days on the range.

"Daddy, we were just teasing," Melissa said, her small hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles matched the white linen napkin clenched in her fingers. She was angry, but appeasing him. Like a child.

"I'll take 'em," Josh said quietly, silencing Melissa with his eyes. The tablecloth shifted again, and Owen could imagine Amelia's fingers twining with her husband's. They stood against him, the three of them, united in quiet rebellion.

How dare you?

"Joshua," he demanded, lifting his chin and fighting the wave of nausea that threatened. He was drunker than usual for this time of night, his hatred riding higher, his ire more potent. "How many calves, today?"

"Three, sir," his bastard replied quickly, relief in his tone. Work topics were usually neutral ground, as a matter of necessity. Owen needed to know about the goings-on of his ranch, and Josh was the man who ran it. It was unfortunate that he'd been born with the aptitude. If only it had been Brent who took to ranching and Josh who wanted to run with the wind. If only. "One more tonight. Hoskins is sitting with her."

"You aren't supervising?"

"I trust Hoskins," Josh returned quickly. "This is his fifth calving season, and Paul is a shout away if there are any issues."

Owen snorted, slamming his empty glass into the table with a clunk. "Paul is a shout away," he repeated, glaring, "while my foreman enjoys a homecooked meal and teases with his wife." He said the last with a sneer.

It was a ridiculous argument, and he knew it. But he didn't mind about the logic of the thing. He just wanted to see that look of defeat in Josh's eyes that told him some portion of his wandering hatred had found a deserving mark. It gave him a moment of relief. A breath of respite from the pain. Nevermind that the pain always came back, doubled in potency. Every smile he erased from his son's face was a second of solace. Every time he roused the boy to argument was a chance to battle with the demons who rattled the cages in his brain.

But it wasn't Josh who argued.

"Mr. Tucker, if the men need him they know where to find him," Amelia said, her face carefully impassive. "Two nights ago, they sent a runner. Fetched him up in the wee hours of the morning and he didn't come back until just before dawn." She turned her face to her husband's, and Josh smiled down at her, weak but genuine.

How dare you smile? How dare you, how dare you, how dare you...

He struggled to rein in his anger at Amelia. She didn't deserve it. She didn't know how she'd stepped between him and the relief he so desperately needed. And even if she knew, she was innocent in all this. There were only two people who had earned his wrath, and he clenched his fists around two invisible necks. In the background, conversation had resumed, willfully ignorant of his raging thoughts.

"Will you be free around noon?"

"Should be."

"Perfect! We'll bring lunch and we can meet the calves afterwards."

"I'll come meet you and walk you down. You sure you're good for the walk, Ames?"

An exasperated sigh. "I'm fine, Josh. It'll do me good."

"But your feet--"

"My feet are fine for a short work. You worry too much."

The conversation didn't break as Owen shoved his chair back and found his wavering feet. Nobody bade him goodnight as he shuffled off to his study to smudge out what remained of the day with the last of a bottle of fine Kentucky bourbon that could've been rotgut for all he cared.

He didn't remember much of his last few hours of wakefulness. Just the taste of liquor, the stern disapproval gazing up at him from the faded portrait, and the hope that engulfed him as he slid between cold sheets.

He'd wake up early in the morning, and nevermind the hangover. He'd rise and wash and dress in sturdy clothes. He'd escort the girls down after breakfast, and watch them fawn over the calves. He'd join them on their picnic and, if Amelia made Josh smile, he wouldn't leap to wipe it away. He'd savor it. Grasp it and pull it tight. He'd return to his study, look at his portrait, and paste that smile onto his wife's face. Tomorrow he would deserve to remember what she looked like happy. 

***And before I let you go... part of the reason I am so slow to update this thing is because I'm kind of low on inspiration. I know where this story ends, and what part two looks like, but I'm kind of at a loss about how to get us there in a way that's entertaining for you, the reader. So I guess like... where do you think the story is going next? What scenes would you like to read? What questions do you want answered? Hit me up here or PM me. However you do it, just please, for the love of all that is holy, help me.*** 

***Please***