by Taylor Moore
As Garrett drove to Miami, pronounced my-am-uh, he observed how the clear sky, tall as it was wide, turned from cornflower blue to cobalt the higher it reached to heaven. In summertime, the stretch of tundra between his ranch and town flourished into rolling swells of wheat, bluestem, and buffalo grass that swayed rhythmically like the ocean tide.
The county road was one of his favorites, as was the place he’d agreed to meet Sanchez—a little café called Henry’s that had swapped hands about fifty times since they were kids. The place had chipped paint, ripped vinyl chairs, and smelled like a grease trap. But it couldn’t be beat for crisp bacon, fluffy pancakes, and a steaming cup of coffee.
If memory meshed with reality, the county judge would be sitting at his regular table, surrounded by farmers, ranchers, and oil field types complaining about bad weather or the damn liberals in Washington—whichever was more aggravating at the time. So, when Garrett walked inside it didn’t disappoint. He was met with the full force of scraping forks, tinkling spoons, and crinkling newspapers that carried over the dull rumble of wall-to-wall patrons.
Looking around for anyone he might know, Garrett found only strangers’ faces. Still preferring to keep a low profile, he seated himself in a corner. He was just resting easy when she walked up to take his order.
“All right, what’ll it be?”
Even if Garrett hadn’t seen her, he would have known that throaty voice anywhere. She hadn’t recognized him though, and he hoped it’d stay that way. Lacey Capshaw wasn’t looking at him directly, her attention diverted by a surly patron barking about runny eggs.
She rolled her eyes, sighed, and faced Garrett head-on. “Coffee?”
He scooted his mug toward the edge of the table and looked at the menu. “That, and an ice water, please.”
She poured his coffee like it was second nature, barely glancing at the cup as she scanned the diner for more empties. “Ready to order or need a minute?”
Garrett pulled his brim lower. “Waiting on a friend, so it might be a few.” He glanced at the door searching for Sanchez.
There was a quick gasp, preceding Lacey’s inevitable question. “Garrett Kohl, is that you?”
He feigned a look of disbelief and pretended to rub sleep from his eyes. “Lacey?”
She stared at him like he was crazy. “Do I look so old you don’t even recognize me?”
Garrett laughed to buy some time, but the truth was she’d never looked prettier. Her icy blue eyes and thick chestnut hair were exactly as he remembered. And any pound she might’ve gained had found its way to all the right places. Even in her faded Levi’s, white V-neck, and New Balance running shoes, this small-town girl could stop traffic anywhere in the world.
Garrett was instantaneously transported back to high school, where he was the squeaky-voiced farm boy with pipe cleaner arms, and she the head cheerleader with a silver Mercedes convertible. Panic set in as he fumbled for the right answer.
“Yeah, of course! You look fantastic!” The words poured out with way more gusto than intended. “Clearly, I’m not worth shootin’ until I’ve had my coffee.” Garrett took a big sip of the steaming cup as if to remedy the problem, burning the hell out of his upper lip in the process. He forced a smile as he fought through the pain.
Lacey looked at him curiously. “What are you doing here?”
He pointed at the menu. “Breakfast.”
“No. I mean back home.” Lacey lost her look of surprise and appeared genuinely glad to see him. “It’s just that I haven’t seen you around since you—”
“Got blown to pieces.”
To minimize the awkwardness, Garrett had taken to answering for people when it came to what happened in Afghanistan. It was easier to make a joke of it than endure the agony of watching people fumble for the right words. But before he could follow up on his blown to pieces remark, she responded.
“So, what are you up to these days besides looking like a desperado?”
It took a couple of seconds for Garrett to process the fact that she was giving him a compliment. She’d always had a thing for bad boys. And now, apparently, he was one. Rather than try and think of something clever, he smiled and moved on. “Been doing some oil field work overseas. Mostly offshore.”
She let her shoulders drop and her lips curled into a grin. “Isn’t that kind of lonely?”
“A little, maybe. But you stay so busy there’s not much time to think about it.”
“And your folks?” she asked, writing on her little notepad as if she’d forgotten something about an order. “How are they doing?”
Another awkward moment but this time there was no quick quip to follow. Garrett did his best to respond without bringing up her obvious oversight. “Daddy’s doing all right. Stays busy. Horse business is a bit slow. But he keeps things afloat. Good as you can ask for, I suppose.”
The panic registered on Lacey’s face the moment she remembered the car accident. She quit writing on her pad and looked up slowly. “Garrett, I’m so sorry.” She looked around the crowd of patrons as if seeking a source to blame. “It’s not that I didn’t remember, I just got an order wrong earlier and I—”
Garrett cut her off, “Lacey, it’s okay. That was a long time ago.”
“But still I—” She glanced around again, her eyes a little misty.
“No, I can see you’re busy and I totally understand.” He mustered the same voice he used to gentle a colt or calm a wounded soldier—a commanding yet gentle whisper with the cadence of a lullaby. “No big deal, Lacey, I promise. No big deal.”
Undoubtedly, Lacey was feeling some guilt over the misstep but if he was laying down odds it went deeper, much closer to home. Growing up, she’d been from one of the wealthiest families around, but her father, who was in the oil business, had lost it all in some bad deals. Destitute and depressed, Henry Capshaw put a .38 Smith & Wesson in his mouth and blew his brains out, leaving Lacey and her mother to fend for themselves. Lacey was a junior at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth when it all went down and had to drop out before finishing.
Garrett had heard through the grapevine she’d married a heart surgeon in Amarillo. They’d even opened an art gallery where she displayed her own paintings, which sold quite well. Life was bliss until she found out her husband was running around on her with more than a few women around town. Now, she was a divorced mother of two, apparently slinging hash back here. Her real-life sad story was about as bad as the fake one people made up about him.
In an abrupt change of subject, she asked, “How long you back for, Garrett?”
“Not sure.” He looked back at the door for Sanchez. “Maybe a week or two.”
He was about to ask if she’d be free sometime for a longer visit when a bell dinged in the background and a man’s voice carried over the dull rumble of patrons. She rolled her eyes and jabbed a thumb back at the kitchen.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta pick up.” It looked as if she were about to say something but changed her mind. “It’s really good to see you, Garrett. Don’t be a stranger.”
Lacey spun on a heel and got back to work, stopping twice on the way to the counter to freshen a couple of empty coffee cups. And as she walked away, Garrett let out a sigh of relief. He was about to turn back to the menu when Sanchez sauntered up in full sheriff deputy’s uniform that included Stetson hat and cowboy boots that tock, tock, tocked on the approach.
Garrett slid out of his chair and gave his childhood best friend a solid inspection. The former Marine Scout Sniper and combat veteran still wore a buzz cut, which made him look slightly jug-eared and a little crazy. Although a good bit shorter than most of the Teutonic Panhandle locals, Sanchez had a rock-solid build. He had more than a few scars on his gnarled head from hooves and fists, a few licks earned breaking horses at the Kohl Ranch, others standing up to bullies in high school.
Garrett stood and feigned a sucker punch. “Well, if it ain’t the short arm of the law.”
Sanchez laughed, lu
nged at Garrett and grabbed him by the head, pretending to go in for a choke hold. “Quanah Kohl, the poor man’s version of pretty much everything.”
Garrett’s friend always called him Quanah, given his mixed Anglo-Comanche ancestry. Sanchez was an avid Texas history buff and had been since an elementary school field trip they took to Palo Duro Canyon. He particularly loved the Texas Rangers, claiming to be a descendant of Antonio Sanchez, a member of the famed lawmen from back in the mid-nineteenth century.
After letting Garrett go, Sanchez looked over at Lacey, who was serving a table across the room. “Ahh . . . taught you well, my boy. Always with his eyes on the prize.”
Ah hell. Garrett knew his friend had seen him watching her as she walked away. And he could tell exactly what Sanchez was thinking. Lacey Capshaw and her cutoff shorts had been the subject of numerous conversations back in high school, usually while dove hunting out at the ranch with a twelve-pack of cold Natty Lights.
“Now you know what brings me back here, Garrett. What about you?”
“You’re the one suggested it.”
“I’m not talking about this place. I’m talking home.” Before Garrett could respond, Sanchez unloaded both barrels. “After three years? Not an email. Not a phone call. Nothing. Just show up out of the blue, huh?”
Garrett was a little thrown. Given the warm greeting he figured his old friend was going to let bygones be bygones. He knew it was going to be a little tense, but this was downright hostility. And it didn’t sit well.
“Didn’t realize I was under any obligation to report to you or anyone else.”
“Didn’t think keeping up with your best friend was an obligation.”
Garrett wondered if Sanchez and his brother had joined forces to make him feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. At the very least, they were using the same playbook. He was starting to wish he’d taken Kim up on a CIA safe house.
“Wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
“Look, Tony, when Bridger and I got into it over the Kaiser deal it brought up a lot of old memories. Bad memories. Just didn’t want to be around for a while. That’s all. Nothing to do with you.”
“Nothing to do with me? You know what I’ve been through and I could’ve used a friend. Someone who knows what it’s like coming back home after being over there.”
By over there, Sanchez was referring to a war zone. And like a lot of veterans, his ghosts had followed him home. The why me and not them guilt was both real and devastating.
Sanchez’s nightmares began with an insurgent and an RPG. He got the guy, clean through the chest, but not before the attacker had pulled the trigger on a marine fire team. Two lived. Two died. And Sanchez turned to the bottle. It was an elixir that nearly took everything the war hadn’t. Fortunately, this marine powered on and came out the other side. No thanks to Garrett.
Having developed a taste for crow over the past twenty-four hours, Garrett dolloped another big helping onto his plate. He leaned back and let out a defeated breath.
“All right, Tony. You win. You were there for me when I needed you and I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been. I may be late to the party but I’m here now. And if there’s anything you need, I’m all in.”
Unlike Bridger, who had to follow the Kohl Code of clemency, his best friend didn’t shake off the offense and forgive and forget. Sanchez was holding on to his grudge like grim death. He’d been that way since they were kids. It was his only attribute Garrett hated.
It was an awkward breakfast, one filled with prolonged silences that were fortunately filled by passersby who’d stop by the table to hit up the sheriff’s deputy for the latest gossip. But Garrett was genuinely beginning to wonder if their friendship was too far gone. He was almost tempted to give up after all the dull shrugs and one-word answers and decided to lay it all on the table.
“Now after all we’ve been through over the years, you really gonna punish me for the rest of my life?”
Sanchez’s dark leathery face was set, as rigid as a statue.
“I said I was sorry,” Garrett persisted. “What the hell else can I do?”
A wry grin crept across the deputy’s face as he slid the check across the table. “Well. You can take care of this for starters.”
Before Garrett could say a word, Sanchez slipped out of the booth, donned his cowboy hat, and marched out of the café. Grabbing a twenty and a ten from his wallet, Garrett placed the bills under a saltshaker and followed his friend outside.
Sanchez was standing in the parking lot grinning from ear to ear. He didn’t say a word, but his look said it all. The breakfast tab was just the beginning.
Sanchez jumped in his white Chevy Tahoe with the Hemphill County Sheriff’s Department logo on the side, cranked the engine, and rolled down the window. “I’m thinking this is a good start, Quanah. But while you’re here I suggest we drive on down to Amarillo for some steaks and Macallan 18 over at OHMS. What do you say?”
Garrett had to laugh. Buying his way back into his friend’s good graces was going to cost him. “I say . . . we play it by ear.”
“Just remember.” The sheriff’s deputy smiled wide. “I know where you live.”
He had just put his truck in reverse when Garrett stopped him. “Hey, Tony, what do you know about Renegade?”
Sanchez lost his smile. “Why do you want to know?”
“No reason, really. Bridger mentioned some things in passing. Sounds like they’ve got a few employees on the naughty list.”
Sanchez looked around the parking lot before answering. “Man, nobody’s digging too far into that one. Drugs weren’t found in the county, so not a whole lot of people are interested in taking on a company that’s providing good jobs.” Sanchez lowered his voice. “Drilling stops and this place dies. Money like that takes care of lots of problems.”
Garrett furrowed his brow. “It also causes lots of problems if used the wrong way.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but I’m just being real with you. Kaiser money makes the rich richer and the poor less poor.” Sanchez jerked his thumb toward the direction of Canadian. “Hell, who do you think eats at my mama’s restaurant? Oil field, that’s who. You can drive by her place at lunch and it’s standing room only.”
As Garrett was about to counter, his friend interrupted. “Look, buddy, I know you hate the Kaisers. Believe me, I get it. But they’re good to the community. Hospital equipment. Courthouse refurbishment. Hell, they even put in a jumbotron at Wildcat Stadium. So, as far as people round here are concerned, if it ain’t a local problem, it ain’t a problem.”
Garrett thought about saying, it’s a local problem for someone, but didn’t see the point. Almost everybody around here was borderline isolationist. It was an argument he wouldn’t win.
“Speaking of local problems, I ran into Bo Clevenger last night.”
Sanchez nodded. “That’s what I heard.”
“How’d you know?”
“Small town, Quanah. Things get around.”
That didn’t answer the question. “Seems he was at odds with some Mescalero employee. Guy named Smitty.”
“Well, you know Bo. He’s always been at odds with everyone.”
The news didn’t seem to surprise Sanchez, nor did it draw any concern.
“True enough, I guess. But it was a pretty brazen display. Even for him. Right there on the Wagon Bridge. Made me wonder if things around here are getting out of hand.”
Sanchez tapped the badge on his chest. “That a criticism?”
“No. But I did get the impression from Bridger that Sheriff Crowley might be turning a blind eye to some things for the sake of politics.”
“So, that’s Bridger’s take?”
“An observation is all. Between that and seeing what I saw at the river it got me curious.”
Sanchez let out a whistle. “You know what they say about curiosity, don’t you?”
Garrett understood the politi
cs of crime. From the sheriff’s department to the DEA, every law enforcement organization knew when to look the other way. Right or wrong, that was reality. But since Sanchez had provided no help, Garrett had no choice but to find someone who would.
14
Asadi turned over in his little twin bed, kicked the thick comforter from his body, and sat up straight. The aroma that awoke him was straight from heaven. He was certain it was nothing he’d ever smelled before and worried it might be horse. His brother told him there were nomads around Afghanistan who ate them, although he’d never witnessed it personally.
Of course, Faraz was prone to teasing, so who knew if that was true at all. Asadi didn’t think Americans ate horse and convinced himself the smell had nothing to do with the wonderful creatures he’d met the night before.
Asadi wanted desperately to go back to the barn and see how they had weathered the cold night. He was particularly interested in visiting his new friend—the black one with the white star on his forehead. Asadi closed his eyes and his mind rested on an image of his family—all there together—happy again.
He’d pushed those thoughts away as best he could over the past few days, telling himself not to worry, that all of this was only a horrible nightmare. Soon he’d wake to find things as they had been. He’d be back in Nasrin, his mother rousing him for school, and his brother snoring in the next bed.
He was near tears when thankfully interrupted by a call from Butch, who was shuffling around in the kitchen. Asadi got up from the warm bed, crept down the hallway, and joined him by the stove. The old man raised the pan where a delightful-smelling meat crackled and hissed in a pool of grease. With a look of pride, Butch pointed to the dish and called it beh-gen, and the round breads on the plate pamcates.
Asadi sat at the table and ate until he couldn’t eat anymore. He’d just finished the last bite when he looked over to find Butch had donned his tan work coat and popped on a dusty brown Resistol cowboy hat over his curly white hair. He held Asadi’s football coat in one hand, and the green-and-yellow stocking hat in the other.
