The Eagle and the Fox (A Snowy Range Mystery, #1)

by Nya Rawlyns

  Marcus wasn’t so sure it was a good idea to interrogate the kid. Her expression had gone from wide-eyed innocence and joy to stubborn petulance. She shuffled her feet, preparing to bolt.

  Marcus assured her they didn’t mean to pry. “We just want to make sure you’re okay, sweety. You know us, just a couple of old farts, acting our age.” He grinned, hoping to disarm her enough she’d at least share a few details about the mysterious date.

  Petilune refused the bait and instead said, “Oh, y’all ain’t so old,” in a way that clearly indicated otherwise.

  Guessing they weren’t getting anything else from the girl, Barnes stood up and backed away enough to give her some breathing space. “Well, like old Marcus here says, we don’t mean nothing by it.” He picked up the paper bag with his purchases and wished them goodnight, ending with, “You have a good time, little lady,” but gave Marcus a pointed look that left no doubt he was still concerned.

  Easing toward the door, Petilune said, “He’s picking me up. If it’s all right, I’ll be on the front porch.” She didn’t bother waiting for a reply.

  Marcus chewed his bottom lip. Something was off about how Petilune was acting. To his knowledge the kid had never been on a date. Not that he’d be the first person she’d think to tell, but over the last few months, she’d opened up about this and that, asking him questions. Listening politely to the wisdom of a man who didn’t have a clue most times. He’d thought maybe there’d been some trust going on.

  As it was, he asked himself if he had a daughter would y’all don’t know him make the cut. That was a hell no, because anything less than a signed affidavit from the boy’s father would’ve gone down like a lead balloon.

  When the door opened again, Marcus expected to see the kid coming back inside. Instead, he was surprised to find Josiah Foxglove standing in the doorway.

  “Josiah? Did you forget something?”

  Having the man in his store twice in the same day would normally have sent Marcus’ libido through the roof, along with a healthy dose of guilt that he was dishonoring Tommy’s memory.

  It’s an attraction. The man is... interesting. Nothing more.

  “I, uh, I was wondering...” Josiah was at the counter, his face carefully blank, but his eyes gave him away. They’d turned from pale ice to glacial muddy blue, the crinkles at the corners etched deep with worry or concern.

  Marcus excused himself and murmured, “Hang on a minute, will you?” He strode to the door, yanked it open and called, “Petilune? Honey?” There was no answer.

  He walked outside, leaving the door open. Josiah followed him out, asking, “Anything wrong?”

  After pacing around the perimeter of the parking area, Marcus concluded the mystery date had already picked the girl up and whisked her off to wherever.

  Josiah asked again, “Is something wrong, Marcus?”

  Shrugging, he said, “Probably nothing.”

  “Don’t sound like nothing.”

  “Shit. Well, it’s just that Petilune has a date.”

  Josiah scrubbed at the rough whiskers on his chin. He skimmed over the scar tissue and winced. Marcus wondered if it still hurt. Burns were a bitch and probably took forever to heal. After some consideration, Josiah said, “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, she’s a cute kid and it’s Saturday night.” The corners of his eyes puckered more.

  “She wouldn’t tell us who it was.”

  “Oh.”

  Marcus inhaled, exhaled, then explained, “He picked her up here. Shouldn’t he have picked her up at home?”

  Josiah snorted. “With Janice waiting like a vulture at the door? Probably drunk as a skunk. If you was her, would you want your date meeting your mom when she’s already three sheets to the wind?”

  Blinking at the run of words coming out of Josiah’s mouth, Marcus simply gawped at the mountain of a man taking up most of the real estate on the steps.

  Marcus sighed. “I guess you’re right. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Won’t she?” Since there was no point trying to pull an answer out of thin air, he changed tack and asked, “Is there something I can help you with?” He waved for Josiah to follow him into the store.

  At the door the big man paused. “This probably isn’t a good time. I’ll uh... um, never mind. I’ll catch you next time. Have a good night.”

  Before Josiah could shut the door, Marcus grabbed the handle and held it open. He winced as the desperation leaked through his pores, making his voice warble and waver as he asked, “Would you like something to drink, maybe? Unless you have to be somewhere...”

  “No. I’m good. I mean...” Josiah inched toward the door. “A drink would be good.”

  “Okay.” Marcus held the door ajar and stepped aside as Josiah sidled through the opening. After leading the man to his makeshift office, Marcus pointed to the folding wooden chair and wondered if it was sturdy enough to hold the man’s weight. The bottle and tumbler were still on the desk where he’d left them. He reached into the bottom drawer, extracted another glass and poured two fingers into each.

  Josiah accepted the whiskey and tilted his chin in salute before tossing it down. Both of them shuddered and grinned. Marcus asked, “Another, Josiah?”

  The man extended his glass for a refill. “You can call me Josh. I like that better. Sounds less... biblical.”

  Relishing the burn in his throat, Marcus murmured, “That’s good. So, Josh, what did you want to talk about?”

  “I need a favor.” He shifted on the chair. It creaked. “Thing is, I don’t got the right...” Josh grimaced, his face a war of emotions Marcus could barely fathom. Finally he said, “It ain’t like we got history or we’re friends or nothing like that. We hardly know each other.”

  Marcus listened to his own heartbeat, wondering what was driving a man like Foxglove to come and ask for a favor and to be so obviously torn up about it. So he said, “Friends give favors. That’s what friends do.”

  “But, we ain’t friends.”

  Marcus held up the half empty bottle. “Then I guess we’re gonna need more of this.”

  Chapter Two

  Favors

  Josh tried to be mindful most times—of who he was, what he had been, what he might be if the good Lord ever saw fit to lay on some healing. He was thankful for the small gifts—the kindness of neighbors who left him alone to deal as he saw fit, the way each day he got to wake feeling a little better than the last, the simple fact he got to wake up at all.

  Coming home had seemed a bad idea at first, but with his folks both gone and Becca struggling to handle what was left after the vultures had their day, the choice had boiled down to doing the right thing. That was how he’d learned to measure his life... doing right, even if you didn’t have a clue what that meant or how it would play out down the line. Especially now.

  The whiskey was working a bit of magic, sending tingles to his fingers, fogging up his head enough he’d almost forgotten why he’d hung around like a lovesick suitor, pacing the parking lot, and measuring out all the reasons why asking for help from a man he barely knew was such a good idea.

  They’d drained the bottle. Marcus looked up, his face oddly sad, road-mapped by lines around his eyes and deep cavities outlining his mouth. The sprout of stubble marked time like it always did. Five o’clock shadow. It was peculiar how a man’s body worked, measuring the passage of the day in small tells that shaded and defined the face, changing the texture from slick to scruff, and painting the flesh in a hue of weary each man could claim for his own.

  On Marcus, the stubble gave away the wear and tear of time. The wink of silver invaded from a strong chin and jawline, blossoming in splotches until it evened out at the short sideburns. The pattern of growth was uneven, much like his own, though his had the excuse of an abuse you couldn’t ever completely mask. Josh wondered if Marcus liked it, his new beard. Then he wondered why it mattered.

  “Looks like we’re done here.” Marcus pushed the rolling chair against the wall, using
it to brace himself as he stood, unsteady on his feet.

  Taking his cue, Josh rose and braced his hands on the desk. Slurring, “Right, thanks,” he nodded at the empty glasses and the empty bottle sitting in forlorn unity on the desk. He thought, good talk, but they hadn’t. They’d just downed the amber acid until it wore the edges smooth, keeping company, avoiding eye contact but unwilling to step out from behind the protective barrier shielding them from each other.

  Feeling like the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room, Josh spun to leave but Marcus beat him to the door.

  “Don’t...” Don’t what? “I mean... We aren’t finished. Are we?”

  His head spinning, Josh tried focusing on the words. They hung out there, in a bubble, all gobble-di-gook foreign to his eyes. He could so easily pick the man up, set him aside and leave, but instead he asked, “Are we what?”

  “Friends.”

  Well, that was a good question. And for once he had a good answer. “No.”

  Marcus sighed and scratched his crotch, staring off into space. Josh bit his lip, trying not to laugh. He had a buzz going, but the man straddling the opening with a hand clutching the door jamb and the other his junk like it was a lifeline, that man was slip-sliding into la-la-land.

  The face that had oozed into an expression of bone-weary morose now morphed into perplexed. It was like watching wet clay being formed and reset. A little pressure here, a shove there, and presto-bingo. A new, and clueless, Marcus Colton.

  The man frowned and muttered, “Harsh,” as he left the confines of the doorway and minced his way carefully toward the rear of the building. Curious, Josh followed. The feed store was laid out in a long rectangle with the small warehouse and loading dock at the rear. There was a second story with a set of steep stairs on the outside of the building that terminated in a narrow landing and a door that led, presumably, to Colton’s living area. They weren’t headed in that direction.

  “Thish way.” Marcus shoved a curtain aside, revealing an emergency exit to the outside on the left, and to the right a stairwell to the mystery quarters above.

  Josh wasn’t sure about the old wood steps. The risers weren’t up to code and the handrail left a lot to be desired. He asked, “You okay, buddy? I mean...”

  The look that crossed Marcus’ face was a wash of embarrassment fueled by concern. “Oh man, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t think...” He pointed to Josh’s left thigh, the one with enough hardware and fake parts to qualify him as a bionic man.

  Josh said, “It’s okay. I can do stairs. If I take it easy.” Real easy, one step at a time, thinking on it before you tried kind of easy. Why he was even contemplating following Colton up the damn steps was another issue entirely.

  The stairway did a dog leg. They paused at the landing and angled themselves for the final push. Marcus grunted and wavered unsteadily. Behind him Josh set his hands on the man’s hips and guided him in the right direction. It didn’t help the stairwell was dark as pitch with only a lone twenty-five watt nightlight in the overhead casting weak lumens on the scarred wood door.

  Marcus asked, “Why you doing this?”

  Grinning, Josh replied, “Friends don’t let friends climb drunk.”

  “You said we weren’t friends.”

  “I lied.” He nudged Marcus forward, guiding him the rest of the way.

  The inside was about what Josh expected—a large open space that at one time probably was used for storage of inventory. Near as he could recollect, the building was one of the original from when Centurion was founded in the mid-eighteen hundreds. The town sat in the low ridges tumbling east of the Snowys. Back in the day it acted like a fork in the road, the wagon trains splitting off to head northwest toward Oregon or nearly due West to the California promise of a new life and untold riches.

  The store had history carved into its very bones. Marcus had made himself part and parcel of it, yet upstairs the package of store keeper and monument seemed incomplete, like a hasty add-on, especially in the loft with the furniture arranged haphazardly. Like he’d just moved in and had yet to figure out the best placement, keeping the pieces tucked in tight and leaving bare the darker edges of the cavernous space.

  To his credit it was spit-polish, eat off the floors clean. He expected young Petilune had something to do with that. If Marcus was anything like him, housekeeping probably wasn’t a high priority. The boxes piled neatly around the periphery of the room spoke to the young girl’s sense of order, though in truth it was probably more an indication of Marcus’ unwillingness to commit. The man had been living at the store for a few years. Perhaps living wasn’t the right term... squatting seemed more like it.

  Of course, it was none of his business, after all. But that didn’t mean he was willing to shut off trying to learn what he could about the older man who offered friendship and perhaps a glimpse into something personal he wasn’t sharing with the rest of the world. A man’s space tended to be like that. It said things about who you were and how you dealt with shit. Colton’s loft—barren as it was of the particulars, the personal stuff that sometimes revealed your secrets—wasn’t forthcoming like that. The vibe was temporary, vacant like a blank stare, and that alone had a lot to say if you had a discerning eye. It was a skill he’d honed in the military, zoning in on what fit, what didn’t.

  The loft didn’t fit Marcus Colton, not at all. Downstairs, with the stacks of grain and the tools and their stark practicality, that bit of real estate was fine. On that stage Marcus was fine. But up here, there was a piece of the man missing. Josh couldn’t put his finger on it, and it annoyed him.

  Marcus stared at him, maybe expecting a compliment, so Josh said, “Nice place. Big.”

  There was a table with an assortment of kitchen appliances: a toaster oven, coffee maker, electric fry pan. Underneath the table, plastic boxes with the lids cracked revealed ceramic plates and cooking utensils laid out for easy access. He accidentally backed into a freestanding utility shelf holding canned goods, bread and other foodstuff. Marcus darted behind the tottering unit and kept it from toppling to the floor.

  “Shit, damn it, I’m sorry.” Josh cringed. Maybe it was time to go. Being here served no purpose. He’d seen the man up to his... home. Damn, could he even call it that? He’d been at drover camps with more amenities and sense of refuge than this hovel.

  Marcus disappeared into the murky recesses, then returned with the coffee carafe filled with water. He held it up. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks, no. I’m fine.”

  Marcus waggled a finger. “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”

  “I ain’t drunk.” Josh was but if he had to, he could walk the five or so miles back to his sister’s place. If she was still awake, she’d give him a lift to the ranch, or at least put him up in the cabin out by the creek. And give him meds, lots of them.

  Ignoring him, Marcus poured the water into the well, inserted a filter and measured out a few scoops of coffee from a tin that magically appeared from somewhere under the table. Bending down, he fished around in a box and emerged holding up an unopened bottle of booze.

  “Marcus, don’t you think...”

  The man grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. Josh had rarely seen him smile like that, all toothy and so pleased with himself he seemed like a naughty elf hell bent on getting into trouble. Some men were ugly drunks, mean and ornery, looking for a pissing contest and too often finding one. Marcus was the exact opposite. A man didn’t get to use the term endearing very often, but with Marcus it was perfect. Perfect and sort of cute.

  Josh tried not to think too hard on how Colton made him feel. He’d sensed a kindness in the man, a level-headed approach to life that was shot through with sympathy for others’ plights. Hell, he’d taken on Petilune, and given how the town was unravelling in hard times, he doubted the store could support the extra hand. Yet Marcus had done the right thing and seen to the girl’s safety.

  Sometimes Becca overheard stuff, gossip from the old cr
ones who could level a barrage of criticism that’d rival suppressing fire from a unit on the move. What she’d heard about the kid’s mother curled his toes, making him think on social services, though that was a last resort if truth be told. There’d been a fair amount of concern in town so when Marcus had stepped up, the biddies had zipped their collective lips but not their eagle eyes.

  When he got home, he’d be sure to share with his sister Marcus’ worry over the kid dating a stranger, if that was indeed the case instead of a convenient way to put off further questioning. However it turned out, it never hurt to line a man’s pocket with additional good will, especially in a small town like Centurion.

  The smell of fresh coffee mingled with the heady scent of whiskey. Marcus had set a sugar bowl on the counter. Dried creamer and the liquor bottle nestled side-by-side in a strangely pleasant way, all three condiments dueling for pride of place in the steaming mugs of dark roast.

  Marcus shoved the mug toward Josh. He said, “Casual friends,” and followed that by picking up the bottle and waggling it. “Or good friends?”

  Josh bit his lip, then asked, “Is this a test?” Before Marcus could answer he barked, “Wait, hang on. I think I got this.” He took the whiskey from Marcus and poured a dollop into his mug, then the other man’s. Holding his own mug up, he intoned, “To best friends,” and took a sip.

  Toasting their new bond, Marcus said between swallows, “Let’s sit on the couch. Now that we’re... What’s the term? BFFs? It’s time you spill about that favor you need from me.”

  Josh wasn’t sure he wanted to impose on a friendship that still had that new car smell. When he’d been driven to the edge and knew that his sister and her kids’ futures rested on him coming up with a solution to their dilemma, it seemed a hell of a lot easier to approach Colton, the proprietor, and ask for some extra time. But Marcus, the newly minted best friend, was a whole other situation.

  The proprietor could say no and Josh would understand. Business was business, it was nothing personal. He’d already been to the banks and the loan companies, making all the rounds in the vague hope that the last piece of hardscrabble dirt they owned was enough to rate some consideration. What he hadn’t realized was how it’d gotten mortgaged to the hilt, his parents doing what needed done to see to his surgeries and a future he’d gladly have given up... if he’d only known.