CHAPTER 16: PATRICK

_ JUST OUT OF REACH _

Three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred twenty minutes since August boarded a plane back to Wyoming. Not that I'm counting. I've listened to Just Out of Reach by Patsy Cline more times than I can count. It's not healthy, and damn August, damn him fer that being one of the last texts he sent me. The ache in my chest is a permanent fixture, an agony that constantly gnaws at me. The only thing that is keeping me from drowning in sorrow and allowing the darkness to cloud my thoughts, is work. And on Uncle Leland's farm, there is always something to do.

I wake early, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, my body is sore, and there is a hollowness where my heart should be. The air is crisp with a heavy fog blanketing the surroundings, a sight that usually sets my mind at ease. The familiar scent of grass and earth fills my lungs as I pull on my boots and head out to start the day. Scotland air has always been my reprieve – now, It's anything but.

First stop, the barn to feed the animals. Along the way, the two most sociable highland cows, Betty and Wilma greet me with their usual mooing and curious gazes. They are lively as ever as they follow me, knowing the routine Uncle Leland would keep. Tending to the abundance of livestock is a task that requires focus, and I welcome the distraction. I fill troughs with fresh feed, the buckets with water, and glance over the animals to ensure everyone is gettin' on okay. Grabbing a stack of hay, I take it to the inner part of the pasture where Betty and Wilma tend to stay. The tourists love their names, and the coos love the attention.

[Patrick] "Mornin', Wilma." I mutter, my voice hollow even to my own ears. "Hungry, are ye?"

She nudges my arm with her head, almost as if she understood. It made me smile, a brief flicker of warmth in the cold void. It's then I remember Wilma is August's favorite, even if she tried giving him a hard time when they first met. I have a turnip cut in half in my pocket and give the girls each a half then they get to grazing on their morning meal. By eight in the morning I've cleaned the horse stalls and put down fresh bedding, a task my uncle has hired help to do, but I cannae sit still, the physical exertion is a relief for my restless mind.

Now that the hired hands are beginning to settle in, I take the four-wheeler out to the far pasture to check on the herd and make sure there is'ne things left behind by the tourists. Some of the guests enjoy taking the trek out here to these beasts and will often pack a picnic with them to enjoy the scenery. Most are great at picking up after themselves, however on occasion we do have ones that do not follow the rules.

As I move along the worn path, my mind wanders to August, at how effortless he made this look. I'm outta practice, having gone too long away from my homeland. The memory of his laughter sends a pang through my chest, and I force the four-wheeler to go faster, hoping it will outrun the ache. I'm unsuccessful in my efforts. I check the herd, making sure all the cows are accounted for and in good health then I dismount the machine and inspect the fence line, finding two broken posts in need of replacing.

The hours pass in a blur of activity then it's time to break fer lunch.

Two hours later, I'm in the barn working on the tractor; changing oil, checking belts, and struggling to see what's wrong with the damned hydraulics system. Like the fencing, this machine is overdue fer maintenance. My hands and clothes are covered in grease, and my mind is miles away, the darkness hanging low and trying to suffocate me. The rage is stirring inside and I'm doing everything to keep it at bay. My hand slips off the hydraulic pump and slams against the undercarriage.

[Patrick] "Fuckin' hell! – gubbed wee baw-bag!" I yell at the broken inanimate object as I inspect my hand. The damned thing bit me right on the knuckles.

[Leland] "Dinnae allow yer auntie hear those words o' yers, lad." Uncle Leland calls out with a bit of wit, bringing me back to reality. Crawling out from under the tractor, I find a cloth to wipe my hands. "Ye have a minute, Patrick?" I lean against the wooden bench and inspect my knuckles, the skin unbroken but red.

[Patrick] "Aye. What is it?"

He leans against a post near the storage cupboard, his keen eyes always see more than I want to reveal. I find a wrench on the work table and begin to fidget with it, needing something to retain focus.

[Leland] "Ye've been workin' yerself to the bone these past days. What's goin' on in that heid of yers?" I shrug and avoid his gaze.

[Patrick] "Have'ta keep busy. There is much to do 'round here before the weather turns." His sigh is a mixture of understanding and mild irritation.

[Leland] "It's more than that, lad. It's like yer runnin' from a ghost." My jaw ticks and throat tightens; I cannae speak. Uncle Leland's gentle nature is the exact opposite of my father, his brother. Even though they have similar features, they're like night and day when it comes to temper. "Ye remind me so much of yer maw. Strong and resilient. But ye also carry a lot of pain from yer past." His lips purse at all the memories replaying in his head. "Yer da... he's a disgrace to the Shaw family name. The way he treated ye was despicable... and I ken it still haunts ye."

I swallow hard, memories of my father's rage flashing through my mind. The beatings, the harsh words, the constant fear, the look of pure pleasure he'd get as he would do it. No longer was he a lucid man, he turned into a beast in search of blood. I clench my fists, the anger and hurt bubbling up inside. I tamp it down out of respect fer my Uncle. He blamed himself fer not doing more fer us and allowing his brother to get away with years of abuse. He will never come out and say it, but I see it every time he looks at me.

[Patrick] "Aye." I admit and grit my teeth as I speak my truth. "He's nothing but a vile man." Uncle Leland's eyes soften as I meet his gaze. He's often a man of few words, so I'm not used to seeing this side of him.

[Leland] "But ye're nothin' like him, Patrick. Ye've grown into a good man. I'm proud of ye, lad." That has the darkness lifting a bit. A smile toys at his lips as he continues. "And as soon as I saw ye the day ye arrived, the heaviness ye've carried dinnae exist." He smiles knowingly. "That cowboy makes ye happy."

This man was the first male figure in my life I felt comfortable enough to come out to. He and Aunt Fiona were ecstatic to finally hear me say it, having seen the signs fer years. As proud allies, they love decorating the farm in rainbows every year in support of the LGBTQ community. I eye the wrench in my hand and twirl it, thinking of the day at the airport.

[Patrick] "August and I – It's complicated." He nods in understanding.

[Leland] "These wise words were given to me many moons ago, and I offer them to ye now. Love is never easy, Patrick. But it's worth fightin' fer. If it's meant to be, it will be." His pause lingers allowing me to absorb the strength of his words. "Ye've faced worse and came out stronger. Ye can handle this, too." His words spark a glimmer of hope, a small light in the darkness. A single star to light the way. Will it be enough to guide me?

"Thanks, Uncle." I finally say, my chest not as heavy. He pats my shoulder, a reassuring touch I've come to appreciate from him.

[Leland] "Anytime, lad." He moves around the strap of his sling then eyes the tractor. "Now, let us see what we can do to get this tractor fixed. I'll hand ye the tools." With a half smile, I shift under the tractor, ready to end this sappy moment and get to work.

[Patrick] "The hydraulic pump is temperamental. It will'ne come out."

[Leland] "Ah, just give it a wee shoogle and it'll come loose."

A memory of my Uncle fixing this very tractor in this same barn ages ago, and me as a wee laddie beside him learning everything I could and handing him tools when he called fer them. I need to remember the fond memories I've experienced, and in time, the dark ones will be no more.

That evening, I stand at the barn doors observing the sun as it dips below the hill and illuminates the sky vibrant pinks and oranges. My homeland has the best, most peaceful landscapes in the world. It has me wondering how the views are in Wyoming.

I pull my mobile from my pocket and scroll through the few photos August sent me then stop at the one of us on the hillside as we watched the sunset the night before he left. I snap a picture of the current fading sky then type out a quick message, dizziness filling me and making my hands tremble.

Me – The sunset reminded me of ye.

A few minutes pass then my phone buzzes with his reply.

August – Everything reminds me of you.

Reading it has me smiling. Even across the ocean, August has a way of knowing what to say.

Me – I miss ye, cowboy.

August – Miss you, too Scotsman.

After his text, a selfie of him pops up of him with a brown cowboy hat on while riding his horse, the sun shining bright against his skin. That smile of his is devastatingly charming. I keep my reply simple even if there is so much I want to tell him.

Me – Hard at work, I see.

I take a beat, doing something I never do; I snap a selfie of my own and send it off.

August – Moving cattle to a different pasture. Cell signal not the greatest. Pic won't load. I'll see it back at the barn.

Me – Sounds good.

I wait fer the bubble to state he's received that last text, but it doesn't. Waiting a few minutes, I heave a sigh and give up. As I tuck my phone away and head back to the house to shower, find some scran, and fall into a cold, empty bed, I can't seem to shake this hollowness inside me. The pit in my stomach is wide and uncertain, and I have to ask myself, was texting him the wisest thing to do?