Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  Garrett nodded but didn’t elaborate beyond a yep.

  With a come on in gesture, she turned and walked through the living room. “Well, no reason to halt a night of redneck debauchery on my account. As long as you’re wrecking your health, how about a whiskey?”

  Garrett took off his cowboy hat and hung it on a coatrack. Lacey walked into the kitchen and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of Still Austin Bourbon. She poured two over ice, then came back and handed him one.

  In that brief moment she took her sip, Garrett caught a quick glance of Lacey in full. Her chestnut hair was down over her shoulders and she wore a black denim shirtdress with tights and no shoes. She’d always been stylish, having a knack for combining a high-fashion look with a down-home feel. As usual, her ample curves were the perfect accessories.

  Garrett took a sip before she noticed he was staring and glanced around the living room. “Nice place you got.”

  That was no lie. The Capshaws always had good taste, especially back when they had money. Their multimillion-dollar home just south of Canadian had been a showplace. Garrett wondered what it was like to go from having everything one moment to nothing the next.

  Seeing a few kids’ toys in the corner he decided to change the subject, lest he bring up an uncomfortable topic like he’d done at breakfast. “Little ones around?” He’d seen neither hide nor hair of them since he arrived. And other than some Lyle Lovett playing in the background, the place was dead quiet.

  “No, their dad was supposed to get them next weekend, but he’s going out of town. So, he asked if I could swap. Picked them up a little while ago.” She smiled. “It’s just me.”

  Garrett cleared his throat. “That’s good. Gives us a chance to talk.”

  Suddenly he couldn’t think of a thing to say. Fortunately, Lacey filled the dead air.

  “Are you . . . by chance into art at all?”

  “Hate it,” Garrett said, knee-jerk, before remembering she was an artist. “I mean . . . I don’t hate it. Just never had much use for it, I guess.”

  She looked at him puzzled. “Well, there’s not much use for it other than covering bare walls. But some people find that of value.”

  His skin burned, and he cursed himself for the stupid answer. “Well, I’m willing to give it a chance. It’s just that I’ve never quite understood how a square or a triangle or a blob of paint is a work of art. You know what I mean?”

  Lacey laughed, which eased the tension. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” She grabbed his hand and led him over to the sofa where they sat. After riffling through a pile of books on her coffee table, she pulled out one that featured the artwork of Charles Marion Russell. “I think this might change your mind.”

  She sat the book on her lap and scooted close until their knees touched. Then she flipped slowly through the pages of scenes with bronc-busting cowboys, cavalry soldiers, and bear hunters on the frontier.

  About halfway through, Garrett focused in on a painting titled When the Plains Were His. It displayed a Native American man riding across the frozen prairie. Garrett figured it was somewhere on the Badlands of North Dakota, but it didn’t say that anywhere in the caption. He put his hand on the page to keep her from turning it.

  “Whoa, wait. Stop here.”

  Lacey eased the book into his lap and leaned in. “Why this one?”

  Garrett stared at it awhile longer before answering. “The way he’s sitting in the saddle.”

  “What about it?”

  “Look at him compared to the others.” Garrett pointed to the one who looked like the chief. “See how he sits tall while the rest hunker down in the cold.”

  “Why do you think Russell painted him like that?”

  Garrett studied the painting a few seconds longer, finally comfortable with the silence between them. “Because they’re all watching. If he bends, they will too. And he’s not going to let that happen. This is a man you’d follow to the end. And they probably did.”

  Lacey studied the image for a good half minute before adding, “I like his face.”

  “That’s the best part.” It was another knee-jerk response, but Garrett felt it deeply.

  Lacey was clearly enthralled with his reaction. “What does it do for you?”

  Garrett remembered his dad’s comment from earlier, about how he was probably the only Comanche around who wasn’t parked in front of a slot machine somewhere. That certainly wasn’t true by a long shot, but it characterized more than he wished. And it made him sad, especially knowing how his ancestors lived not that long ago. He’d often daydreamed about going back in time and riding the plains with them.

  “Look at his eyes.” Garrett traced his finger over them. “There’s as much pain as dignity. It’s almost like he can see what’s beyond the horizon and he knows what’s coming isn’t good. But he’ll keep all that to himself to protect his people. He’ll worry so they don’t have to.”

  She turned to him and smiled. “You got all of that from his eyes?”

  “Sure.” Garrett smiled back. “That and life experience, I guess.”

  He’d been so occupied with the painting he hadn’t realized their faces were just inches apart. He should’ve been nervous, but he felt as comfortable in her gaze as he had about anything in a very long time. With a quick turn of the head, he scanned the walls to see if any of hers were hanging, but it was mostly family photos. “How about your paintings? Got any I can see?”

  Lacey picked up an iPad from the end table and pulled up her web site. She clicked from the home page to the gallery and handed over the tablet. And to Garrett’s horror, everything she painted was squares, triangles, and blobs. But before he could even apologize, she was laughing so hard there were tears in her eyes.

  After insulting her life’s ambition, Garrett figured he couldn’t do much else but laugh. He would’ve felt worse had he not remembered what his mother once told him about finding your soul mate. She’d said you’ll know you’ve met her when you laugh till you cry.

  By anybody else’s standards the evening was a disaster. By his mother’s measure he was knocking it out of the park. And since he’d always cared more about what she thought than anyone else, he’d count it as a win. To his recollection, things had never gone so well.

  Garrett had just got his laughing under control when Lacey had what looked to be a genuine eureka moment.

  “Got an idea.” She grabbed her cell phone from the coffee table and took it into her bedroom. After a couple of minutes, she came back with a mischievous smile. “The Citadelle.”

  The first thing that came to Garrett’s mind was the military college in South Carolina. He’d known an officer or two back in the army who were Citadel grads but that was the extent of his knowledge on the subject. “What about it?”

  “Remember?” Lacey laughed. “At lunch today, you said you’d never been there.”

  It took a second but then it all came rushing back. The Citadelle she was referring to was an old Baptist church—turned mansion home—turned world-class art museum.

  “A friend of mine runs it, so she’s going to open it up for us. We’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”

  When Garrett had told Lacey he’d never been to the Citadelle, it was more of a boast that he’d managed to avoid it all these years than a hint that he wanted to go. But he did like the western paintings she’d shown him. He’d even come to the conclusion that if there was more stuff like that, people wouldn’t hate art so much.

  “Any Russells over there?”

  Lacey shook her head. “No. But there are a couple of other things you’ll like.” She still looked excited. “Trust me. No triangles. And no blobs. I promise.”

  Garrett found it interesting that she was so keen on convincing him to go. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  They strolled over to the museum, which was just a few blocks away. It was on the same street as the Stumblin’ Goat Saloon, which would’ve been a preferential locale in Garrett’s opini
on. But when they walked up to the massive iron gates in the fading light of dusk something changed his mind. There was a bit of magic to the place he hadn’t noticed blasting past it in his pickup at forty miles per hour.

  With eager anticipation, Lacey asked, “What do you think, so far?”

  “Impressive,” Garrett said and meant it.

  Between the redbrick church with its white pillars and the cold soft breeze, the place radiated tranquility in a way Garrett didn’t know you could find beyond the great outdoors.

  They walked inside to find a place frozen in time. Exactly what time that was Garrett wasn’t sure, but it took him back to his childhood. The museum wasn’t at all what he expected. There was a warmth to it that felt like a real home.

  They stepped into a smaller area and Lacey turned to Garrett. “This is what I wanted to show you.” She twirled around and smiled. “They call it ‘the cowboy room.’”

  Immediately, Garrett knew why. There were several paintings of western subjects that piqued his interest, but the one that impressed him the most was by a Chinese artist named Xiang Zhang. It captured the Oklahoma land rush of 1889, and featured dozens of pioneers on horseback and wagons racing to stake their claim.

  The image encapsulated everything Garrett loved about the American West. It was wild, woolly, and wonderful—a place where grit mattered more than wealth or pedigree. He didn’t know you could make something come so alive with just a little paint on a piece of canvas.

  He turned to Lacey, who was smiling. “All right, all right, I’m impressed.”

  She didn’t have to speak. It was obvious she was thinking—told you so.

  Without a word, Lacey walked out of the room and Garrett followed. She led him to the old church sanctuary, and it was immediately clear what she was taking him to see. In fact, he knew exactly what it was before he got up close.

  “The Rough Rider,” Garrett said to himself.

  The bronze sculpture depicting a rifle-toting cavalryman was about as cool as it gets. For obvious reasons, the original Rough Riders, Teddy Roosevelt’s 1st Volunteer Cavalry Regiment made up of cowboys, college athletes, Texas Rangers, and Native Americans, held a special place in his heart.

  Lacey beamed. “Figured this one would be your favorite. What do you think?”

  He sauntered up to her and smiled. “I think I’m impressed.”

  “Maybe I am too.”

  Garrett didn’t know exactly what that meant but he was pretty sure it was a compliment. He was still so wrapped up in the night’s events he’d almost forgotten his mission. So, before this went any further, he figured he’d better reveal his ulterior motives. And hope she didn’t hate him after that.

  21

  Garrett awoke the next morning to the red glow of the old digital alarm clock he’d had since high school. It read 4:47. Apparently, Butch had been kind and let them sleep in. Asadi was in the twin bed against the other wall covered under an avalanche of sheets and his thick camo comforter, snoring somewhere beneath like a hibernating grizzly.

  Forcing himself out of bed, Garrett kicked off his covers and set two feet on the cold wood floor. He was having second thoughts about the early morning hunt until the aroma of coffee, bacon, and pancakes wafted inside the bedroom. He threw on his blue jeans and a thermal undershirt and wandered to the kitchen.

  Butch turned from the stove holding a cast-iron skillet with enough sizzling bacon to feed four counties. “Coffee’s on the fire. Should be about ready.”

  Too sleepy to talk, Garrett grabbed a red-and-white Perryton Rangers mug from the counter, walked over to the fire, and pulled the pot off the grate. After pouring a steaming cup, he leaned in close to the flames to warm up. A slight throb from a couple more glasses of the whiskey than he needed had resulted in a gnawing pain in his forehead.

  Butch set breakfast on the table, walked over holding his old Texas Tech Red Raiders coffee cup with the chipped rim, and filled it full. “Well, you must’ve been having a good time. Don’t remember you ever staying out that late before a hunt.”

  Garrett smiled wide. Not only had things gone extremely well with Lacey, he’d managed to convince her to pull a few files from the Renegade office that would no doubt help his brother’s case. And managed to pull it off without raising too much suspicion. He didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.

  “Yeah, partying before a hunt was always Bridger’s MO.” There were times when his brother would show up just minutes before sunrise, with bloodshot eyes and reeking of beer and cigarettes or perfume. Sometimes all three. “He never missed one though, did he?”

  Butch laughed also. “Not to my recollection.”

  “Asadi is still in there sleeping like the dead. You wore him out again, huh?”

  “He wore himself out.” Butch nodded toward Garrett’s old recurve bow and quiver on the couch. “Set up some hay bales last night and let him at it. Bet he shot a thousand times.”

  “How’d he do?”

  Butch took a sip of his coffee and smiled. “Took a while but he got the hang of it. Kid was about to turn blue he was so damn cold, but I couldn’t get him to quit. Once he sinks his teeth into something, he don’t let go easy.” He turned to Garrett. “Like someone else I know.”

  Garrett could tell his dad was proud. “Asadi’s got the bug now, huh?”

  “Hunting’s in his blood, all right. Just like horses.” Butch pointed at the stove where he had milk boiling and the cocoa powder sitting out. “But that’s his kryptonite there.”

  “If that’s his, I guess this is mine.” Garrett hefted his mug of cowboy coffee, took a burning-hot sip, and savored the rich flavor on his tongue before swallowing.

  Butch looked a little uncomfortable. “Well . . . there’s plenty more where that came from if you ever decide to come back for good.”

  Garrett looked around the room. “Come back and do what?”

  Butch stared at the television, which wasn’t even turned on and dragged out a tortured answer. “Might could use a hand around here for starters.”

  It was a big step for Butch to admit he needed help. It was the old man’s version of an olive branch. Putting the past behind and telling his son that he wanted him back in his life.

  “Well, it’s mighty tempting, Daddy, but then we’d both be broke off our asses.”

  Butch chuckled and said, “Ain’t that the truth of it.”

  No sooner had he said it than a wild-haired Asadi came stumbling into the living room rubbing sleep from his puffy eyes. He was wearing one of Garrett’s old maroon West Texas A&M Buffaloes T-shirts. It was so large, it covered everything but his skinny brown legs.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Butch called out, more cheerful than even Garrett was ready for at five am. “Ready to earn your feathers?”

  Asadi walked over to the couch, picked up his bow, and yawned. He faltered when his toe caught the edge of the rug on the way over to the kitchen but caught himself before falling.

  Garrett turned to his dad. “Well, that’s the look of a cold killer if I ever saw one.”

  From there, they all took a seat at the table and ate like it was their job. By the time they’d finished, Garrett was stuffed to the point of needing a nap. But by his second cup of hot cocoa, Asadi was pushing him out the door. They went to the barn, saddled up, and by the time the horses were ready, Garrett figured he was probably even more excited than the boy.

  Asadi felt like he had barely slept. He nervously tossed and turned for at least a couple of hours before falling asleep. And once he finally went down it seemed like it was only moments later that Butch’s pots and pans were clanging in the kitchen. But aside from the cold, the early morning start did not bother him. In fact, he was eager for the hunt—even more so for the ride.

  As he sat atop Rascal gazing out at the giant orange fireball rising above the snowy plains, he tried to remember all his hunting instructions from the day before. Target practice with the bow and arrow had gotten off to a rough sta
rt. His first shots went wild, landing far beyond the hay bales and out in the pasture. Butch pretended not to mind fetching them, but Asadi had heard him grumbling as he dug the arrows out of the snow.

  Eventually, Asadi got a feel for it and was able to hit the target at thirty yards. But it was one thing to hit a hay bale, and quite another to shoot an animal on the move. The mere thought of it made him nervous all over again. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint Garrett by missing an easy shot.

  It also crossed his mind that his first hunt should have been back home with his father. Of course, neither his dad nor his brother hunted, so it was unlikely to have happened anyway. But the deep joy he felt made it seem like he was doing something wrong—like he was cheating his real family out of a special moment.

  Asadi wondered if he would feel this way forever. But even worse, he wondered if the day would come when he did not think about it at all.

  Garrett spoke to Asadi just like he would anyone else. The language barrier made giving instructions a little more difficult, but the boy got the hang of whatever he and Butch taught him rather quickly. The old man had said if a horse can learn English, then why can’t an Afghan boy. It was a weird sort of logic, but it actually made sense.

  It was clear to Garrett that Asadi was much brighter than others his age. And the better he got to know him, the more evident that became. According to Butch, the kid had even taken to the bow quicker than he and Bridger ever did. Garrett couldn’t verify that with any degree of certainty but didn’t see the point in arguing. Asadi was happy and that was all that mattered.

  At any rate, Garrett wanted Asadi to learn the basics. The boy was unlikely to make a kill with his recurve bow, but that wasn’t the point. The point was learning the craft. And the craft had less to do with the kill and more to do with the hunt.

  Spotting a set of animal tracks in the snow, they dismounted and knelt beside them. Garrett whispered aoudad and then added the Dari word for goat, the closest thing he could come up with to describe what they were hunting.