Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  “You lost?” Houston drawled.

  Kenny grinned. “Not this time.”

  “Come on in,” Houston said.

  Kenny followed Houston into the house. “I came to ask you a favor,” he said.

  “And that would be?”

  “Teach me to ride.”

  Houston threw back his head and laughed. But Kenny didn’t laugh with him.

  “You’re serious?”

  Kenny nodded. “I need to learn how to ride by next weekend.”

  Houston leaned against the kitchen counter and folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t wait to hear the reason why.”

  Kenny looked a little embarrassed. “I met this girl in Dallas last month. She invited me out to her daddy’s ranch.”

  Houston’s grin was spreading. “Let me guess. You opened your mouth when you should have kept it shut.”

  Kenny grinned sheepishly. “Something like that.

  She asked me if I could ride and I said yes. Hell, how was I supposed to know she was a champion barrel racer?”

  Houston gave Kenny a friendly slap on the shoulder. “When you said you could ride, how much did you lie?”

  Kenny sighed. “Are horses anything like Harleys?”

  Houston chuckled. Lord, this was just what he’d needed. “No, my friend, they are not. Let me get my hat and coat and we’ll head to the barn.”

  Kenny breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew I could count on you,” he said.

  Houston eyed what his friend was wearing. “You plan on riding in those pants?”

  Kenny looked startled. “Uh, I—”

  Houston shook his head. “I’ll loan you a pair of my jeans. But a word of warning. When you go to Dallas, don’t show up in those fancy-ass slacks and dress shoes and head for a horse. She’ll laugh you off the place.”

  “Oh yeah, right,” Kenny muttered. “I’ll get some new things tomorrow.”

  Houston frowned. “Make sure you wash them before you wear them. And when you buy your new boots, get plain brown or black. You need to look like you mean business.”

  Kenny kept nodding as he followed Houston. “Wash the jeans. Plain boots. What about shirts?” he added.

  Houston grinned. “Stay away from rhinestones or fringe and you should be all right.”

  Kenny grinned. “I appreciate this.”

  Houston returned the grin. “Just remember you owe me.”

  A short while later the two men were mounted and riding away from the Bookout homestead. Once Kenny turned around to look behind him. The house was nowhere in sight.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “Where did it go? I thought this land was flat.” Then he gave Houston a nervous glance. “You won’t get us lost, will you?”

  Houston reined up. “Not as long as we stay in Texas,” he drawled. “Now pay attention to what you’re doing. If you want to look behind you, it’s a good idea to stop the horse first.”

  Kenny chuckled. “Yeah, right.” He pulled back on the reins and then relaxed, gazing around at the landscape with a practiced eye.

  As a geologist, he’d gotten into the habit of assessing the geography of an area as carefully as he assessed a pretty girl’s smile. At first his look was perfunctory. But the longer he looked, the more interested he became.

  “Say, Houston, are we still on your land?”

  Houston’s grin was wry as he shoved his hat to the back of his head. “Yes. It runs all the way to the highway in that direction and then angles back north. One hundred and sixty acres of Texas dirt, a few mesquite trees, and the occasional blade of grass. Two more payments at the bank and it’s all mine again.” He added by way of explanation, “Had to mortgage it three years ago to get through a bad winter.”

  Kenny nodded. “Mineral rights, too?”

  “Yes, for all the good it does me.”

  “This isn’t all that far from the Permian Basin,” Kenny muttered, more to himself than to Houston.

  “What did you say?” Houston asked.

  Kenny jerked, suddenly aware that he’d spoken aloud. “Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself. Say, would you care if I came back and ran a few tests?”

  Houston frowned. “What kind of tests?”

  Kenny wouldn’t look at Houston. “Oh, geological sorts of tests to measure structural plates and stuff like that. It’s too technical to get into, but it’s basically just like taking an X ray of what’s down below.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Although his interest was more than piqued, Kenny chose to remain noncommittal. “Just to see what’s down there.”

  “If it doesn’t cost me anything, I guess it would be all right,” Houston said. “When?”

  Kenny looked at his watch, checking the date, then doing a mental run-through of his upcoming calendar.

  “How about day after tomorrow?”

  Houston frowned. “I won’t be here,” he said.

  Kenny shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a map in my car. You draw out your place on it so I don’t get on someone else’s property, and I’ll take it from there.”

  “Sure,” Houston said. Then he unwound his reins from the saddle horn. “Now, back to the lesson at hand. Are you ready to try a lope?”

  Kenny’s eyes widened. “You mean move faster?”

  Houston grinned. “Yes, city boy, I mean faster. You think your little barrel racer is going to let you walk your horse all day?”

  Kenny gulped. “I don’t know,” he began.

  “It’s simple,” Houston said. “Remember that Harley you were talking about?”

  Kenny nodded.

  “Good, because it’s nothing like that.”

  Kenny groaned. Houston grinned.

  “We’ll take it slow, I promise. Now, when the horse picks up the pace, you follow the motion with your body. It’s a little like rocking in a rocking chair. Okay?”

  “You’re the boss,” Kenny said.

  A few moments later they started toward the ranch at a trot. Houston quickly moved the horses into a canter. He shook his head as he watched Kenny ride. The only way Kenny Monday was going to pass himself off as a rider was if the little barrel racer was blind or in love.

  That night and long after Kenny was gone, Houston moved through the house with an ease he hadn’t felt in months. He wasn’t particularly happy, but that sideswiping pain that he’d been living with was gone.

  Later he set the alarm and then crawled beneath the covers. Shrouded by darkness, he felt safe within the room he’d slept in since he was a kid. Outside, Taco barked once, then again. Probably warning yips to a coyote who’d wandered too close to the ranch. Houston waited, listening. When no more barks sounded, he closed his eyes.

  Rachel was looking up at Houston, her eyes filled with love, her lips curved in laughter.

  “Houston Bookout, you’re dancing on my feet.”

  Houston dipped his head, stealing a kiss in spite of the fact that they were in the middle of the dance floor at Pete Henley’s bar.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” he said softly. “I can’t see for the stars in my eyes.”

  Then he held her close, savoring the sigh of satisfaction he felt against his cheek.

  “Love me?” he asked.

  She nodded without speaking, but he could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest and he knew that she was telling the truth. Whatever things their lives were lacking, love wasn’t among them.

  One song ended and she started to pull away, but another song quickly began. Houston recognized the singer.

  “Wait, baby, this is one of your favorites, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes suddenly teared as the familiar sound of Ty Herndon’s newest hit drifted across the noisy bar. She nodded.

  “Dance with me?” he asked, and held out his hands.

  She went back into his arms, as always, following her heart to Houston.

  The melody enveloped them as they danced to the song about a man holding on to a woman letting go.

 
Houston woke up with a jerk. The alarm was buzzing madly on the dresser across the room. He threw back the covers and crawled out of bed, stopping the alarm with one slap. Then he stood in the quiet, staring through the window at the breaking dawn and remembering the dream he’d had. If only he’d known how prophetic that night and that song would be, it might have lessened the shock of losing Rachel.

  He stalked into the bathroom to shower and shave. He didn’t need any nightly reminders of the fact that he’d been the unwitting man holding on to a woman who wanted him to let her go. In fact, he didn’t need any reminders of her at all. But what a man needs and what he gets are quite often two entirely different things.

  There was, however, no way he could have prepared himself for the events of that day.

  Six

  Houston had gone to work early in order to deliver a load of feed to a nearby rancher before noon. Now that the truck was empty and he was on his way back to Mirage, he felt as though he could relax a little. When he saw the familiar white star on the big red and blue sign at the gas station up ahead he began to slow down. He’d missed breakfast, and since it was pushing toward noon, he decided to get something to eat.

  He took the turn off the highway with his mind on some sausage biscuits and jelly and a bottle of pop from the deli inside. The brakes squealed as he began to slow down, and he made a mental note to remind Dale Emery to have the brake shoes checked. A hot blast of air hit him square in the face as he got out of the truck. He settled his hat a little more firmly onto his head and started for the door, nodding cordially to a woman and child who were just coming out. His mind was on food and cool air as he sauntered inside. After placing his order, he turned to the magazine rack, idly glancing at titles while he waited for them to call his name. Halfway down the rack, he thought he saw Rachel’s face looking back at him from the cover of a magazine. For a moment he was certain that he had finally gone mad. It wasn’t until he bent down and took a copy that he realized he wasn’t dreaming.

  It was her. All he could think was, My God! The air slid out of his lungs as if he’d been punched. He knew that smile. He remembered the sound of the laugh that came with it. Jealousy spiked as he took a deep breath, wondering who had put that smile on her face and knowing it damn sure hadn’t been him.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at her flat, silent image and wanting to scream. It wasn’t until someone nudged his arm that he tore his gaze away from the magazine. All but blind with shock, he stared in mute confusion at the stranger beside him.

  The trucker nodded toward the deli counter. “I think they’ve been calling your name.”

  Houston looked toward the deli. The clerk behind the counter had a harried expression on her face.

  “Sorry,” Houston muttered, and laid the magazine on the counter, facedown. “Add this to my bill.”

  A few minutes later he found himself standing outside the truck stop with a sack of food in one hand and the magazine in his other. It hurt to breathe, and he kept blinking away tears. A horn suddenly blasted nearby, and he looked up in confusion, for a moment forgetting where he was.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  Houston turned. It was the same trucker from inside.

  “Yeah?” Houston said.

  “Are you all right?”

  Houston drew a deep, shuddering breath as a new wave of misery enveloped him. He looked at the trucker, his eyes narrowing with frustration and anger.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. Then he added, more to himself than to the trucker, “I have to be. I have no other choice.”

  The man nodded and walked away, leaving Houston to deal with his problems alone. Houston got in the truck and then leaned back in the seat, staring at her picture in disbelief. Up until now he’d let himself pretend that one day she’d be back. But this changed everything.

  He shook his head. Part of him rejoiced that she was making something of herself, but at the same time, a part of him died. She would never be home again.

  With the food forgotten on the seat beside him, he pulled out of the truck stop and back onto the highway. Sometime later he was vaguely surprised to see the outskirts of Mirage in the distance. As he pulled into the back of Emery’s Feed and Seed and parked, he saw his boss standing on the loading dock.

  “That was quick,” Emery said.

  Houston tossed his uneaten food in a nearby trash barrel and started for his pickup.

  “Hey, Bookout, where are you going?”

  “Home,” he said softly. “I’m going home.”

  “But I’ve got another load that needs to go out,” Emery said.

  “I can’t,” Houston said, and kept on walking.

  Emery frowned. “Are you sick?”

  Houston stumbled, then paused. “I don’t know,” he muttered, and dug his keys out of his pocket.

  Emery shoved his cap farther back on his head. The strangeness of Houston’s behavior as well as that oblique remark made him nervous. “Well, then,” he mumbled, “I hope you feel better tomorrow.”

  Houston’s hands were shaking as he crawled into the cab and rolled down the windows to let out the accumulation of heat. By the time he pulled into his yard and parked, he was in a bad way.

  He walked inside like a man in a daze, oblivious to the fact that the house was almost as hot inside as it was out. It was habit, not discomfort, that sent him to the air conditioner to turn it on. He tossed the magazine down on the coffee table as the first blast of cool air began to circulate through the room.

  Then he walked through the house, shedding his clothes—first his hat, then his shirt. By the time he got to his bedroom he was down to his boots and jeans. He turned on the air conditioner in there as well, but more for sound than for comfort. Anything would be preferable to the thoughts going around in his mind. So now he knew what she was doing, and with a little effort he could probably find her. But why? Obviously she was better off without him.

  Sick to his stomach, he sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots, then his jeans. His movements were jerky, his breathing shallow. Everything inside him was coming undone. He staggered to the bathroom and leaned over the sink, splashing his face with the tepid flow of water. It wasn’t nearly enough to take away the fire that was burning him from the inside out.

  In desperation he shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain shut behind him. Silence enveloped him. Sweat beaded upon his bare skin and began to run from his hair and onto his face. He shook his head and swallowed past the knot in his throat, but the pain wouldn’t go away. He reached down and turned on the water, barely aware of the chill as it blasted against his skin. Then he braced himself against the shower wall and leaned into the spray. Even with his eyes closed, he could still see her face laughing up at him from the magazine cover. He shuddered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made her laugh.

  Oh God.

  The pain tore at him then, ripping its way up his throat and coming out on the sound of choked sobs. He went down to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

  Kenny Monday was beside himself with glee. It had been all he could do to contain his elation as he drove away from the Bookout ranch, the seismograph readings on the seat beside him. Yes, it was too early to be certain. But even though this was just the first step, he knew he hadn’t wasted his time. He needed to talk to Houston. They needed to set up a rig. Take some core samples. He wanted to—

  He took a deep breath, making himself calm down. The worst thing for him to do was jump the gun. His years in the business had taught him that there were always exceptions. Just because these readings looked good didn’t mean there was oil under Houston Bookout’s land. But as he turned out onto the highway and headed toward the Midland-Odessa airport, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

  At thirty-nine, Beatty Andrews was in a rut so deep he couldn’t see over it. Born and raised in Brooklyn and still living with his widowed mother, Margaret Andrews, in the two-
bedroom apartment in which he’d been born, his life was less than remarkable.

  He was the kind of man who was invisible to women. Short and wiry, he had thinning hair and a receding hairline that made him look like a human version of Tweety. His eyes were large and a sickly green, flecked with bits of yellow. In the right light, his eyes almost glittered. His teeth were small and even, like baby teeth that had never been shed.

  In spite of his innocuous appearance, Beatty was a man with hidden passions. In another place and time, he would have willingly become a survivalist. He devoured soldier-of-fortune magazines and spent nearly every spare minute of his day on the Internet in chat rooms devoted to anarchy, both here and abroad. He lived vicariously through the stories and planned for the day when he would possess guns of his own. Guns were power, of which Beatty had none. He was a closet advocate of revolution and believed that one day the people of the United States would overthrow the existing government and create one of their own. Beatty wanted to be prepared. But the closest he’d come so far to being a gun-toting radical was subscribing to numerous magazines devoted to the cause.

  His mother, Margaret, had grown old without grace. At seventy-nine, she had become the bane of Beatty’s existence, a whining, demanding shrew who controlled her son by sheer will alone. But no matter how many magazines Beatty read, he couldn’t find the impetus to strike out on his own. Their lives were rooted in anger and colored with hate. He hated himself for not having the guts to leave home, while Margaret used her age, as well as guilt and illness, to make certain that their lives stayed the same.

  His job as doorman at one of Manhattan’s more exclusive apartment dwellings paid the rent and bought the food. His mother’s pension went for their small luxuries, and what was left over often went toward new computer software. He lived for the nights when he would retire to his room after supper and get lost in the glow of the screen. By day he was a uniformed doorman. By night he was a stick of dynamite with a very short fuse. He dreamed of power and fame. Nothing mattered but the dreams.

  Rachel got out of the cab and paused on the street to look up at the towering building as Jules Farrier paid the driver of their cab. Jules was a demanding, imposing man, but he was her boss. Yet when he took her by the elbow, Rachel hesitated. She didn’t quite know where her boundaries lay, and that alone made her nervous.