Resentment

The old Ford coughed its last, a rattling, indignant gasp that vanished into the vast, indifferent expanse of the Oakhaven valley. Caleb, leaning against the cold metal of the truck’s fender, watched the last sliver of sun disappear behind the jagged, purple teeth of the Rockies. He jammed his hands into his pockets, the denim stiff with old dust, and felt the familiar, uncomfortable churn of anticipation and dread. Three years. Three years since he’d seen Owen, since the last time he’d breathed this particular brand of high-altitude chill. His breath plumed white, a stark contrast to the deepening gloom.

He squinted towards the sprawling, ramshackle silhouette of the Guthrie homestead, a collection of tired wooden structures that looked more like they’d grown out of the earth than been built upon it. One weak yellow light glowed from a window – the kitchen, probably. No other lights. Too quiet, even for Owen’s place. A sharp gust of wind slapped him, carrying the scent of damp earth and the sweet rot of fallen leaves, and he shivered, though not entirely from the cold. A small, dark sedan, unfamiliar and out of place, was parked near the main barn, half-hidden by a stand of wind-whipped poplars. The kind of car you didn’t see often out here; too sleek, too new.

He started walking, the dry leaves crunching under his boots like brittle bones. The air grew colder, and a thin, persistent drizzle began to fall, slicking the dusty ground. He felt a familiar anxiety tighten his chest, a sensation he’d grown accustomed to in the years since… everything. Owen had always been a magnet for trouble, and Caleb, apparently, had always been a satellite. He reached the porch, worn and creaking, and knocked. No answer. He tried again, knuckles aching. Still nothing. The generator’s hum grew louder, a steady, mechanical pulse against the vast silence.

He pushed the door. Unlocked. Of course. Owen’s family never locked their doors. A wave of stale air, dust, and old coffee greeted him. The kitchen was tidy, almost unnervingly so. A half-eaten plate of toast sat on the counter, a faint ring of jam visible. Whoever had been here had left in a hurry, or hadn’t bothered to finish. He padded through the house, calling Owen’s name, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the empty rooms. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight, each creak a complaint. The old house felt hollowed out, waiting.

He found Owen in the barn, or rather, the barn found Owen. It was a cavernous space, smelling of hay and damp wood, mostly dark save for a single bulb swinging erratically from the high rafters. Owen was perched on an overturned bucket, hunched over a sputtering lantern, trying to repair its wick. His hair, usually wild, was cut short, almost military-style, and there was a new scar, a pale, thin line that bisected his left eyebrow. He looked older, sharper, like a flint striking steel.

"Caleb," Owen said, not looking up, his voice flat, devoid of surprise. "You’re early."

"Truck died a mile back. Walked the rest. Didn’t expect a parade, but a 'hello' would be nice." Caleb leaned against a stall door, the wood splintered and rough. "Nice scar. Been brawling with a bear? Or just the local wildlife?"

Owen finally lifted his gaze, and Caleb felt a punch in the gut. Those eyes, once so open and expressive, were now guarded, shadowed by a weariness that went deeper than physical exhaustion. They met Caleb’s, held for a beat, then skittered away, like a nervous colt. "Something like that," he mumbled, going back to the lantern. His fingers fumbled with the wick, surprisingly clumsy for someone who could fix anything with baling wire and spit.

"Something like what? Owen, you barely answered my texts for a month. Then this weird invitation to 'come on out if I'm not busy,' and now you're playing the silent, brooding cowboy? Bit on the nose, even for you." Caleb pushed off the stall, moving closer. "And whose sedan is that? Not exactly standard ranch issue."

Owen flinched, a subtle tightening of his shoulders. "Just a friend. Helping with some… work." He finally got the wick to catch, and a weak, flickering light illuminated their faces, making the shadows dance. "Things are… different, Caleb. A lot has changed."

"No kidding," Caleb muttered, glancing around the barn. The sedan had him uneasy. He saw a shovel propped against a stack of hay bales, the blade disturbingly clean of dust, despite the general grubbiness of the barn. And fresh earth still clinging to the handle. He remembered his brother’s telescope, broken by Owen in a fit of pique one summer, and how Owen had fixed it, perfectly, later that day. And now… is that Perseus? Or Cygnus? Whatever. Bright. He liked bright. The air was thick with something unsaid, like heavy, wet blankets. His mind, always prone to associative leaps, flashed to the police tape, the cold metal of the handcuffs, the hollow echo of the interrogator's voice. He shook his head, pushing it all back.

A Strange Kind of Homecoming

Caleb watched Owen struggle with a stubborn hinge on a tack box, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Okay, spill it, Owen. What's the 'work'? And why do you look like you haven't slept since the last meteor shower?" He didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second.

Owen sighed, running a hand over his short hair. "The Mayor's land deal. It’s gotten… complicated. A lot of people are getting squeezed out. Our water rights are next on the chopping block if this goes through." He paused, chewing on his lip, a habit Caleb remembered from their childhood whenever Owen was hiding something. "There’s more, but it’s not for open ears. Not here." Owen gestured vaguely at the barn door, then to the windows, a paranoia that was new and unsettling.

"Right. 'Not for open ears.' So, we're doing clandestine operations in the family barn now?" Caleb tried for light-hearted, but the words felt like stones in his mouth. He remembered a hidden compartment they'd made in Owen’s old footlocker as kids, for their 'secret messages.' He walked over to it, the rusted metal surprisingly heavy, and tried the old latch. It clicked open. Inside, beneath a jumble of dusty comics and a cracked baseball, was a small, folded piece of paper.

He picked it up. It was a grid of numbers and letters. A cipher. Their old childhood cipher. His stomach dropped. "Owen, what is this?" His voice cracked slightly. Owen stared, then looked away, his jaw tight. "It's… for emergencies." The words were clipped, almost mechanical. Owen’s movements were clumsy, his hands scraping against the wood of the tack box. A bead of sweat, despite the chill, trickled down his temple.

Just then, the distant thrum of an engine grew louder, not a truck, but something heavier, slower. Headlights swept across the barn's entrance, cutting through the drizzle, before dimming as a vehicle pulled up near the unfamiliar sedan. A hulking, older SUV, clearly a Sheriff’s department vehicle, though without its lights flashing. Sheriff Hayes. He’d never seen Hayes on a patrol route this far out unless there was a specific reason. Caleb felt a prickle of alarm. His mind jumped. He remembered the feeling of the interrogation room, the too-bright light, the questions. He should be scared. He was scared. But it was also kind of… exciting? Stupidly exciting. God, why did he even come here?

Owen's breath hitched. "He's early tonight." Owen quickly snatched the paper from Caleb's hand, shoving it deep into his pocket. "Look, just… act normal. He’s just checking up."

"Checking up on what, Owen?" Caleb’s gaze darted from Owen to the barn door, where a large shadow now loomed. Hayes, a man who seemed to be carved from granite, stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette imposing against the faint glow of his idling vehicle. A moth flew past Caleb's face, distracting him for a second. The distinct smell of damp canvas and pipe tobacco filled the barn as Hayes stepped in.

"Evening, Owen. Everything alright out here? Saw a new vehicle, figured I’d swing by. That yours?" Hayes' voice was a low rumble, polite but with an underlying current of steel. His eyes, though obscured by the shadows, felt like they were pinning Caleb to the spot.

"Evening, Sheriff. Just a friend visiting. Caleb, you remember Sheriff Hayes." Owen's voice was too bright, too forced. He even offered a weak smile, which looked painful on his face. He nudged Caleb with his elbow, a clumsy gesture. Caleb noticed the way Owen's hand trembled, barely perceptible, as he gripped a wrench, the old refrigerator in the corner humming loudly.

"Caleb. Been a while." Hayes didn't offer a handshake, just a slow, assessing nod. His gaze lingered on Caleb, then swept around the barn, pausing at the clean shovel, then the sedan outside. "You keeping busy, Owen? Heard some talk about the Mayor’s new proposal, about the development down by the river. That involving you at all?"

"Just local gossip, Sheriff. You know how it is. Folks get riled up about nothing." Owen's voice was a little too casual now, and he fiddled with the strings of his worn hoodie.

Hayes grunted, a sound that could mean anything. "Right. Well, keep it quiet, Owen. The Mayor's got a lot of support for this. Don't want any… misunderstandings." He fixed Owen with a long, unblinking stare that stretched the silence taut. Caleb felt his own heart pick up its pace, a frantic bird in his ribs. He felt a weird sensation. Like maybe everything would be okay. Maybe not. The conversation was like a game of chess, each move calculated, each word a pawn. He wanted to kick a stone, but there were only hay bales. He noticed a small, dark stain on Owen's work jacket, near the cuff. Oil? Or something else?

Hayes finally turned, his heavy boots crunching on the straw as he moved towards the door. "Alright then. You two keep out of trouble. Lot of coyotes out tonight. And other things." The last words hung in the air, heavy and pointed, before he vanished into the autumnal gloom. The SUV’s engine roared to life, and its headlights carved a path through the misty night as it slowly drove away.

The generator's thrum filled the void again, now seeming less comforting and more like a mechanical heartbeat in a body under duress. Caleb stared at Owen, whose shoulders had slumped the moment Hayes was out of sight. "'Other things'? Owen, what the hell is going on? What's in that cipher? And what are you doing with a freshly used shovel and some unknown sedan outside? You're not just 'keeping busy,' are you?"

Owen just shook his head, refusing to meet Caleb’s gaze. He didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second. His face, normally open, was a mask of exhaustion and something else – a grim determination that chilled Caleb to the bone. "This isn’t some game, Caleb. Hayes… he’s involved. Deeper than you think. And that land deal… it’s not just about water rights. It’s about power. And what they’re willing to do to keep it. You shouldn’t have come back. Not now." Owen finally looked at him, his eyes filled with a desperate plea and a warning. "We're digging in something that doesn't want to be found."

Caleb felt a cold dread settle in his gut. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken dangers and years of shared, complicated history. The air was heavy, the kind before a storm, even though the drizzle had stopped. He saw Owen shiver, despite the thick flannel shirt. It wasn't the cold. It was something else. A new tremor in Owen’s hand as he finally put down the wrench. That streak… reminds me of last summer. My brother yelling at me for breaking his telescope. And now… is that Perseus? Or Cygnus? Whatever. Bright. I like bright. But the darkness was winning.

He looked at Owen, really looked at him, and realised the boy he knew, the one who broke his telescope and then fixed it, was gone. Replaced by this hollowed-out version, shoulders hunched, eyes full of secrets. "Owen, what have you done?"