"Some roots stay buried."
"Some follow you home."
"No matter how far you run."
"No matter how far you go."
── ✧ 🐎 ✧ ──
Ethan
Icy drops of water gush from the showerhead and fall on me.
I've been standing under the stream of water for ten minutes now. It's a cheap form of therapy that works better than most of the advice I've ever received. I needed to cool off. My body is on fire and the endorphins from my morning run and working on the ranch with my father are still coursing through me.
Together, we hauled bales of hay by tractor to the stables and paddocks, where the cattle were already shifting impatiently about. We checked the waterers and refilled the troughs for the horses, who immediately gathered at the fence behind us, panting. We opened the chicken coop, refilled the hens' feed and cleaned the rabbits' bowls. The morning round was quick and routine, exactly as it should be when nothing goes wrong. But on a farm, something can always go wrong: It could be a burst hose, a sick calf, a runaway stallion or just a jammed gate. Today, however, it was quiet. Suspiciously so.
Raindrops drummed on my back and head, ran down my face and stung my eyes. After ten minutes, I turn off the cold water and force myself to get out. I quickly wring the excess water from my hair with a towel, which I then wrap around my waist. My hair will definitely be dry by the time I go downstairs. It's almost seven o'clock, and it's so hot outside that I start sweating the moment I step out of the shower.
I finish my morning routine: brushing my teeth and applying deodorant. In this heat, it'll barely last until breakfast anyway. I step out of the bathroom into my old bedroom, which my parents have kept furnished in case I move back in permanently.
I pull an old white undershirt top out of the wardrobe; either it's still form-fitting, or I've put on weight since the last time I wore it. I put on my old sweatpants and realise that I'm slimmer around the waist than I used to be. I've been working out pretty hard lately. I've gained some muscle, mainly in my arms and across my shoulders. My waist has stayed slim. That's the only thing I have under control at the moment.
I may be a few years past thirty, but I still stand in front of the wardrobe mirror, clenching my left fist. Just for a second. The muscle tenses beneath my skin and I size it up, as if checking my gear before a ride. I let out a satisfied snort. At least it's something I can build and maintain.
My gaze drifts lower to a fading tattoo on my left forearm consisting of wings, a cross, a sword, black bird silhouettes and flowers that time has almost devoured. It's a relic of my youthful recklessness, when symbols made more sense to me than people and I had more alcohol in my blood than sense.
I got it tattooed during my first year at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville. I was studying criminal law and criminal justice because I had been pursuing my dream ever since high school. Unlike many people, I never struggled to figure out what I wanted to do: even back then, I knew I'd end up with the Texas Rangers one day. Not because of the star on the badge, but because of what the badge represented. That word meant more to me than anything else back then.
My friends, a bunch of guys from my dorm, used to tease me, saying that if I wanted to wear a badge, I should get a tattoo representing my beliefs. I wanted to impress them. And the girl I was dating at the time. Maybe even myself. I didn't stop at just one. I have a second one on my back that traces the curve of my spine. It's a sword entwined with a creeping thorny plant. It's one of the few decisions that will adorn my body forever.
I didn't choose that school by chance. It has one of the strongest police academy traditions in Texas. For four years, I studied law, procedures, forensic basics and interrogation psychology. I had lectures during the day and went to the gym or went for a run in the evening. Most people from there go into public service. I was no exception.
The academy is literally a breeding ground for police officers. Huntsville is a city with prisons and strong ties to the criminal justice system. It was my ticket to the Rangers.
After graduating from college, I joined the Texas Department of Public Safety. Like everyone else, I started out on the highways, doing patrols and responding to accidents, drugs and routine calls. Over the next six years, I gained experience, learned to read people and, most importantly, to keep my emotions in check. Over time, I began investigating more serious cases. That was when I knew I was getting closer.
Shortly before I turned thirty, they took me on as a Ranger.
I wore their star for four years. Tough cases: Brutal murders. Long drives across the state. Lots of sleepless nights. The Rangers aren't about glory, as many people think. They're about responsibility. It's about being the one who goes there when something goes wrong.
Then I left.
Not that I had to. They didn't fire me. They didn't hurt me. They didn't break me. I wanted to work on a case from start to finish. I wanted to get to know the city, the streets and the people. I wanted to do more than just close the file and drive away.
So I took the job as a detective. In terms of hierarchy, it's a step down. On paper, definitely. But I didn't care. I wasn't after a title. I was after meaning.
── ✧ 🐎 ✧ ──
I snap back to reality. I focus on my reflection in the mirror. I've got a few days' worth of stubble on my chin, which needs trimming, and my hair has grown quite a bit since last year. It's falling into my eyes at the front and not even gel can keep it in place anymore. I need to make time for a haircut.
I run downstairs, following my nose. The smell of bacon leads me to the kitchen, where I find Mallory sitting at the dining table with her two children, my step-nephews.
Jeremy is ten now. He has just finished his last week of Year 5. In September, he'll start sixth grade, a fact he makes clear every time someone looks at him as if he's still a little boy. Although his childhood is slowly fading away, he still has marker stains on his hands from school projects and sometimes forgets to tie his shoelaces. Next year, he will start middle school - a new building with teachers who won't take it easy on the kids.
Aaron won't turn six until the summer. He won't start school until next year, and for now he's happy playing with toys and asking endless questions.
„Mummy, that's Uncle Ethan," Aaron squeals, getting ready to climb down from the chair. But Mallory stops him and Jeremy turns towards me.
„Hi, Uncle."
„Here are my favourite nephews," I say, ruffling their hair on the way to the kitchen.
„We're your only nephews," Jeremy says dryly.
„Well, I'll have to be careful not to lose you." Ruth stands at the kitchen stove, frying more pancakes. They're my favourite childhood food: pancakes with maple syrup and crispy bacon. You don't know what you're missing until you try them. My mouth waters as I take a deep breath of that delightful aroma. „Hmm, the food of my childhood." I greet my stepmother with a kiss on the cheek.
„I saw you go to the barn to see your father." That explains why she has decided to make this particular breakfast treat. Who would have thought that, aged thirty-six, I'd be drooling over food like a child?
„Can I help you with anything, Ruth?"
„I'm done. Go and sit down. I'll serve you a hearty portion fit for a grown man." She eyed me from head to toe and poked my stomach with her finger. „You've lost weight. You should eat more." I was just wondering if I'd gained some muscle mass. Ruth never lets me go hungry. In fact, it seems to me that she's trying to fatten me up, but I don't hold it against her. She's like a mother to me.
My real mother left my father soon after I was born. I don't blame her for that; it was her life, and if she didn't want to live it with us, that was her choice. Soon after, my father met Ruth, and two years later they had a daughter, Mallory, who is my stepsister. Mallory is younger than me; she's the same age as Asher. She's divorced and shares custody of her two sons with her ex-husband.
A plate piled high with ten pancakes is placed in front of me. I reach for the maple syrup and treat myself to a generous helping of this rich, sweet delight. Using a spoon, I sprinkle the pancakes with crispy bacon cut into tiny pieces, then dig in.
I let out a satisfied grunt at the first bite.
„Delicious, mum, as always."
„Grandma makes the best pancakes in the world," Aaron mumbles, his mouth full and syrup dripping down his chin. Mall wipes it away with a handkerchief before it stains his clothes.
„How many times do I have to tell you not to talk with your mouth full?" Sister scolds him, but he ignores her.
„I'm just telling the truth, Mum." I've eaten half of what's on my plate and I'm starting to feel full. I put down my cutlery and pour some homemade orange juice into an empty glass on the table.
„I hope you're not done yet?" Ruth points her fork at my half-empty plate.
„Mom, I'm a detective, not a trash can," I complain.
„You're finishing that," she says calmly, as if she's just decided my fate. My stomach is about to burst, but I bite my tongue. I have to show the boys how to eat like real men. I shovel the rest of my breakfast down and wash it down with another glass of juice.
„See, boys, if you want to be strong, you have to eat heartily like your uncle." Jeremy takes Ruth's advice to heart and piles two more pancakes onto his plate.
I hear the front door open, and a few moments later, dad enters the kitchen. Ruth serves him the same number of pancakes as she did me. Unlike me, dad wolfs them down without a problem and even asks for seconds. He's been busy tuning up the tractor's engine, and he looks the part: his hands and face are greasy and black from burnt oil. There was a time when Ruth would have said something to him about it, but she came to terms with it a long time ago — he's a working man, and dirt is just part of the job.
After breakfast, Dad goes to wash up and promises to drive me back home. He says he needs to go into town anyway. While I'm waiting for him, I play with the boys outside in the garden behind the house. I teach them how to throw a lasso like a real cowboy.
They stand side by side, each with their own lasso, trying to loop it around a log that I've placed about five metres away. I show them how to hold the lasso, how to swing it over their heads and how to throw it.
„Hold it like this," I say, „raise your arm above your head, and use circular hand movements to make it spin. When you're ready, throw it forward. Like this." I demonstrate what I have just described. „It's easy; it just takes practice."
Dad steps out onto the porch and waves at me. I say goodbye to my nephews and walk with him to the car.
„Looks like you kept them entertained for quite a while."
„I hope so. I'll be happy if they enjoyed it." Family traditions should be kept alive. I'll be happy to see to that.
Our family used to compete in rodeos. Mainly bull riding. Dad used to say that as long as he could stay in the saddle for eight seconds, he wasn't old.
He started riding when he was just a young teenager, around fifteen years old. By the time he was eighteen, he was competing all over Texas. Back then, he was quick, agile, and reckless enough to not be overly afraid of the bull. He used to say that you had to keep your fear in check; otherwise, it would throw you off before the gate had even opened.
He had a rival: Ronnie. Ronnie was younger, more talented, and extremely good. By the time he was thirty, he was one of those who racked up points faster than they could spend their winnings. Dad called him „that brat with a cat's balance". He never meant it as an insult, though. It was more a way of acknowledging that time was running out.
When dad was forty-five, he was still riding. He wasn't the fastest anymore. He wasn't the lightest either. But he was stubborn. By that last year, it wasn't about winning anymore. It was about proving that he still had it.
Then came the fall.
It wasn't dramatic. There were no slow-motion shots worthy of a movie. Just a bad landing, a hand pulled back too late and the weight of bull body rolling over his leg. Thankfully, he didn't break anything badly enough to end up in a wheelchair. But it was bad enough for the doctor to tell him that another fall like that could be fatal.
I was twenty-one at the time.
Ronnie won that night. Dad sat in the stands with an ice pack on his knee, silently watching the younger guys jump into the arena.
The next day, he announced that he was quitting.
I never dared to ride a bull. It wasn't that I lacked the courage. It was more that I knew I wasn't cut out for eight seconds of madness. But I love rodeo. I love the smell of dust, sweat and nerves. Cowboy events always remind me of where I come from. It's where my heart still belongs.
„What are you working on right now, son?" Dad asked, just to make conversation.
„I'm investigating the murder of a wealthy man involving drugs. The suspect fled to Wyoming, and I had to convince the local authorities to hand him over to us so that he could be prosecuted under Texas law. They're handing him over to us this week, which is why I left Kelly with you – I'll have to drive up there for him. Then they'll assign Asher, so we'll be working together on what they give us." dad grunts and grips the steering wheel tighter — it's impossible not to notice the gesture.
„I'm glad you won't be on your own anymore. Ethan, you should think about the future, too. You're thirty-six and you don't have a partner or kids. I'd like to live to see more grandchildren. And so would Ruth." I wonder what to say to him. I don't have trouble meeting women; I have trouble keeping them. Ninety percent of them couldn't come to terms with my job. With the rest, it just didn't work out. My longest relationship was, when I was in college, lasted four years. Since then, I've only had brief flings.
„I'm working on it," I reply, and my father looks at me sceptically.
„I'm sixty, I'll soon be too old to have any more grandchildren, I'd like to enjoy them more." His words prod me. I can't stay silent forever; I have to say something. But what? I don't want to lie to him, and I won't.
„I'd love to make you happy, Dad. But as you know, because of my job, my relationships don't last very long."
„Have you ever thought about quitting?" I understand why he's asking. I inherited my passion for being a police from my mother's side of the family. Then I wanted to do more, so I passed the detective exam. My dad was never thrilled about it. To him, it was always a risky profession, and what happened last year only reinforced that for him.
„I love this job, even if that might be hard to hear. But I promise I'll think about what you said and try to do something about it." I wouldn't want to let my dad down. The car stopped outside my house a while ago – we don't live far from each other. Five and a half kilometres.
„I love you, Dad. See you soon." I open the door of his old Ford and get out. I closed it and leaned against the rolled-down window.
„I love you too, son. Take care of yourself."
„I will, don't worry." I tap the bonnet and watch him drive away. I walk towards the house, pull my spare key from its hiding place and unlock the door. It's time to change my clothes and head back to Wyoming for our suspect. Assuming I have a smooth ride, the round trip will take me at least thirty-six hours by car. I'll spend the night in Wyoming and bring the suspect back to Texas. Then I'll return to my life as a detective with a partner who'll have my back.
── ✧ 🐎 ✧ ──
*Sam Houston State University in Huntsville – a Texas university known for its strong focus on criminal justice and police studies.
* Texas Department of Public Safety – the Texas state police agency.
── ✧ 🐎 ✧ ──
JUDGEMENT OF THE BURIED
𝓜𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒆 𝒀𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏, 2026