by Nya Rawlyns
Now he’d worked down his list to plan zed, bottom of the barrel. He’d finally gotten up the courage to shove his pride where the sun don’t shine, opening that door, only to find his plans once more derailed. Two minutes with Marcus had tossed everything he thought he knew right out the damn window, turning a stranger into a friend. A friend he needed a favor from.
It was one thing to ask a buddy to come water the house plants or to feed the horses for a couple days, but it was an order of magnitude different to ask for something when the outcome might harm a man’s bottom line. And a friend being forced into a decision where a no was the only logical answer put both of them at a disadvantage. Even worse, a friend manipulated into saying yes risked more than the consequences of offering a hand. It risked trust and that was a commodity too hard to come by in Josh’s book.
He was already the source of all their problems, not that he’d done anything intentionally. But there was no reason why his run of bad luck should bulldoze everybody and everything he cared about.
There was no place to set the mug, so Josh leaned down and placed it on the floor, moving gingerly to avoid cramping. By the time he was upright and considering how he was going to exit the trap of soft, saggy cushions, Marcus had placed a hand on his arm, gently but firmly holding him in place.
“I’m listening, Josh.”
The man had no idea how that simple touch set his alarms ringing. Whenever he thought he had his symptoms under control, something innocuous, like a friend extending a kindness, would light him up and rocket him back in time. He hated losing it, hated what it did to those around him, forcing them to tippy-toe around him, having them forever fearful of triggering the dam break.
He lived his life in saturation—mostly of colors and sound. Sometimes a scent or a movement caught out of the corner of his eye would bring on the sweats and the gnawing ache that pummeled his gut. He’d want to run and wasn’t that the biggest joke? When it lit him up, running was the very last thing he could do, his body shutting down and making a mockery of the effort when he tried.
From a great distance he listened to the drone...
Tell me what to do. Josh? I don’t know what to do. How can I help?
You can’t Marcus, I wish you could but you can’t...
The shrinks and the groups chattered in the background, useless. Senseless. Only one thing mattered. Only one person mattered.
“Drink this. Come on, Josiah. Focus on this one thing. You can do it.”
“One thing?” Josh wondered if that was possible.
“Yes. Just one. Then you can stop thinking about anything at all. Is it a deal?”
Josh sipped. The water was cold. That shocked him into awareness. How did Marcus get icy cold, delicious water up to his attic, to the hidey-hole where he drank his whisky in the dark of night?
Alone.
Marcus was alone. Like him.
Josh croaked, “Good, that’s good. Thank you.”
He shut his eyes and rested his neck against the back of the sofa. It felt nice. Warm and welcoming, much like Marcus. The need to apologize, to justify and explain, hit like a runaway train, but Marcus murmured words that slowly made sense, assuring him it was all good, he was all right. All he needed to do was let it go.
For the first time in forever, he believed...
Chapter Three
Preacher Man
Marcus groaned and stretched, his back in knots from slumping in the old recliner. From somewhere in the recesses of his space he heard the toilet flush and the truncated “Shi—” as Josh’s head connected with the low beam under the eave where he’d set up a makeshift bathroom.
When he’d moved into the loft, the one concession he’d made to his comfort was installing plumbing, tying it into the store’s restroom directly below. What he hadn’t considered was having a guest Josh’s size. The man hulked out at six-three if he was an inch. Add cowboy boots and a hangover and the combination made for a concussion-prone zone. Not something he worried about with his modest five-ten frame.
It was the mirror that was his danger zone. That and the receding hairline and advancing gut and knowing he was fast-forwarding when all he wanted was to apply the brakes. Kind of an oxymoron when he thought about it. With Tommy gone, he’d done nothing but pine for what had been, drowning himself in memories, yet at the same time trying to wipe them out so he wouldn’t have to hurt so much.
Josh appeared, looking like Marcus felt, and waved a bottle of aspirin, his face in a grimace. “Sorry for snooping. Found this under the sink. How many you want?”
“Four. There’re some bottles of water on the shelf. Juice too, if you want.”
Watching the man maneuver around the cluttered area, his movements slow and awkward, gave Marcus time to think about the night before when the big man had damn near convulsed and gone somewhere inside his head. It was like he’d been skipping over thin ice, punching through, then recovering, only to repeat it over and over.
Marcus wasn’t afraid to admit he’d been scared, worried, and damn near helpless. It’d been too much like being with Tommy those last days, looking at how something alien had taken over his lover’s body, eating him from the inside out. They’d told him... No, the doctors and nurses, all the specialists and social workers had assured him... Assured him Tommy was as comfortable as they could make his final weeks, days and hours.
Somehow, watching his man suffer, seeing the pain in his eyes, pain he hid with a brave smile and a don’t worry cuz, pain he refused to share in a final act of love... That wasn’t comfort, and it was wrong, just plain wrong.
Whispering, “Fuck,” Marcus popped the pills into his mouth and took a swallow of the proffered bottle of water. When he looked up, Josh had his back turned, his palm rubbing up and down his damaged thigh. Marcus suspected those morning aches and pains were doubly aggravated after an episode like last night. He knew about PTSD, he’d seen it surface now and then in a few of the young men in the valley who’d returned hoping to pick up where they’d left off but unable to make that old skin fit like it used to.
Josh Foxglove had done better than most, all things considered. Leastways that was how appearances went. He kept his head down, worked hard and stayed off most folks’ radar. But last night Marcus had been privy to something very personal and very frightening. He had no notion how it’d been triggered or why him saying a few words seemed to pull Josh back out.
Marcus asked, “You want coffee?” He struggled to stand and gave up, the pounding in his temples threatening vertigo if he moved too fast.
“Uh, no thanks. I have to get home to feed.”
The big man still had his back turned. Marcus thought he might be embarrassed, that he might be struggling to find a way to ease out of being a friend, let alone a BFF. At the very least, he most likely wished he hadn’t said anything about asking for a favor, a favor he’d yet to lay on Marcus.
It didn’t take a genius to guess what that favor was. It was the last Sunday of the month. In a couple days, invoices went out. He had Polly’s youngest girl, the one going to community college, come in and do the bookkeeping for him. Mostly that amounted to shuffling bits of paper, moving numbers from one side of the ledger to another. Lately the debit side was leaning harder toward barely making ends meet, for all of them.
He could outright offer. Give the family the extension they needed. Hear the I’m good for it because most times it was true. And when it wasn’t, it was still tough to lay blame. But, without Josh saying the words, it was still just a guess. If he mentioned it, whether or not he was right or wrong, he’d risk the tenuous thread they’d built during their weird interlude. He’d rather keep his new friend than risk losing him by making assumptions and running his mouth off, no matter how well-intentioned he might be.
Finally turning to face Marcus, Josh said, “Thanks for letting me stay over. I appreciate it.” His face was solemn and earnest, but then he grinned, the corners of his mouth tilting unevenly as scar tissue f
ought the emotion. “Haven’t tied one on like that in a long time. Don’t think Becca would’ve ’preciated me coming home in that condition.”
Josh held out a hand. Marcus grasped it thankfully, allowing his new buddy to yank him from the recliner, then hold him steady until the world stopped spinning. Marcus asked, “You coming to the service later?”
Josh sucked air and grimaced, “Shit. I gotta get home and get cleaned up. Becca’s gonna want to bring the coolers and whatever else she promised. If I don’t get a move on, my ass is grass.”
Marcus looked down. They were still holding hands. When he looked up, Josh was looming over him, his head tilted down, the expression on his face once more intense and absorbing.
“Thank you. For last night.”
Marcus knew the man wasn’t referring to their buddy evening of binge drinking, so he just nodded and wondered if it was possible to stay like that a few minutes longer. Keeping contact, rough skin to rough skin. It was nice.
But nice never lasted.
Slowly withdrawing his hand, Josh backed away and headed toward the door. Before he disappeared down the dingy stairwell, he asked, “You coming?”
“Yeah. I got tagged for a couple folding tables and the ice.”
“Good. See you there.”
Marcus listened to boots clomping down the steep stairs, the gait uneven and hesitant. When the sound diminished, then ceased, he blew out a breath and peered around at his few possessions. With a grin, he pushed the chair farther from the sofa, opening up more space. He had a couple hours before he was due at Polly’s restaurant. Usually he spent it downstairs, taking care of the endless tasks required around the store. But that morning, he decided it was time for him to pay attention to his own space.
Just in case...
****
The odor of stale beer, fried food and charred steak hung heavy in spite of Polly having thrown the windows wide trying to air it out. Most times nobody complained but it had turned unseasonably warm for early spring. The air was heavy, like it got before a rain storm, holding in the smells.
The sky held its secrets, keeping to a pale blue, but the wind curled everything into abstract patterns, changing directions with lazy grace.
The prospect of bad weather moving in had the ladies concerned, their hands in constant flighty, nervous motion. To a one they were either swiping palms on aprons or smoothing over the plastic tablecloths adorning the tables groaning under the weight of dishes of all kinds. Potato salad, mixed beans, condiments and toppings, rolls and flatbread.
Marcus was on his last trip, lugging the aluminum folding tables to add to the restaurant’s collection of outdoor benches and seats clustered under the patio roof. It wasn’t nearly enough space to hold the townsfolk, let alone all the ranchers who came in for the monthly service. Usually they offered cake and coffee but today was special and Centurion had gussied up to make a good first impression.
Polly tapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Is that the last?” He nodded. “Can you help the fellas inside? Looks like most everyone’s gonna be here. We’ll need those chairs from the basement.”
“On it. I put the extra ice in your big freezer.”
To get to the basement Marcus had to pass the line of homemade grills, most fashioned off old fifty gallon drums and soldered to tripods on the ends. He recognized John Barnes and stopped to say hello and remark on the man’s secret recipe for barbeque sauce. He and his wife had walked off with so many blue ribbons at the state fairs that everyone considered it a Centurion treasure.
Marcus asked, “Polly still after you to let her sell that in the restaurant?”
“Can’t do that. The missus says it was passed down from her granddaddy's daddy. Been in the family since time began. She says it’s a sacred trust.” He brushed the rack of smoked elk ribs and smirked. “Not sure I believe that, myself.”
Laughing, Marcus said, “One of these days some business type is gonna come along waving a wad of cash, and your sacred trust is gonna look damn fine on a designer label in an upscale grocery store over in Cheyenne.”
“Well, just between you, me and that light post, I wouldn’t turn down an offer, so long’s as they understand just how much sacred’s worth.” He shut the lid and wiped his hands on a towel.
When Marcus mentioned he needed to find more folding chairs, John joined him. They gathered as many as they could and lugged them up the steps and then into the restaurant. Most of the area's teenage boys were busy lining up rows of chairs, leaving a center aisle and angling them around so everyone got a good line of sight to the cash register that always doubled as a pulpit. The irony wasn’t lost on Marcus.
John said something to his son, then turned to Marcus. “You hear anything about that date of Petilune’s? I asked Will but he didn’t know nothing about it.”
Feeling a stab of guilt for having forgotten all about the incident, Marcus explained, “No, sorry. She went out to the porch. When I went to talk with her, she’d already left.” He decided Barnes didn’t need to know that Josh Foxglove showing up for the second time, filling his doorway and then filling the emptiness in his night, had driven all consideration about Petilune’s whereabouts clean out of his head.
“Might want to ask her when you see her.” John’s expression could only be interpreted as concerned parent.
“What’s up, Barnes? Is there something I need to know about?”
Everybody knew Petilune spent most of her afterschool hours at the store. Truth be told, the town had started seeing him as her guardian, sort of a surrogate uncle. It didn’t sit well that he was apparently falling down on the job by ignoring something going on right under his nose. Worse yet, it wasn’t just a matter of ignoring it. He was coming across as completely clueless.
It wasn’t a good feeling, knowing he was letting people down. But then... Hell, he wasn’t a relation to the family. He was a lonely middle-aged man, trying to run a business, and not doing so hot at that. Why did the town suddenly think he was father material for a sixteen-year-old girl who might, or might not, be simple in the head?
John pulled him toward the front porch, far enough away from the commotion inside they could speak without being overheard.
“Will told me last night, when I asked about Pet’s new beau, that there’d been some trouble lately over by Toller’s Ditch.”
“At the guest ranch?”
“Yeah. Mostly mischief. Some shit stolen. Fence down. Usual stuff.”
What Barnes said didn’t sound exactly earthshattering. There wasn’t a lot to do in the area on a Saturday night, especially for kids who’d spent every waking hour either in school or working their asses off with chores. Now and then things got out of control, especially if the teens got their hands on beer or liquor. They’d been lucky lately, avoiding the drug problems and some gang-related stuff going down around the University in Laramie. But Laramie and points east weren’t the only source of their problems.
Marcus asked, “You think it’s the usual suspects?”
“That’s what I asked Will. He says it ain’t nobody he knows. Could be some vagrants passing through. God knows, ever since they opened the oil fields up north, it’s been a fucking stampede through here.”
Marcus felt the familiar squeeze in his gut thinking on the kind of trouble that could come their way. There was a reason they kept an eye on strangers. Up until recently most folks were passing through, heading to the recreational areas in the Snowys. They’d stop, take a photo with their cameras or phones, grab a bite at Polly’s and move on, leaving the residents of Centurion undisturbed from their normal routines. But there’d been enough times when they’d been blindsided to keep them all just a little on the wary side.
Gossip about the usual stuff didn’t merit being dragged into a corner by a man not prone to getting his knickers in a twist over teenage misdemeanors. God only knew, Barnes' two boys were a handful and had had their fair share of dressing down. The fact that Will had thought to mention it
, especially in light of how Petilune had been acting, might be reason to investigate further.
Marcus said, “I see what you’re saying, John. I can talk to Petilune, see what’s up. But, you know as well as I do, if you push too hard, that girl’s gonna clam up so tight we’ll never get anything out of her.” And the last thing he wanted was for the kid to up and decide she didn’t need to be his housekeeper and galley slave in the store, leaving him high and dry and the girl at the mercy of a woman who thought nothing of offering her up to the highest bidder.
The matter seemed to require a little delicacy, not exactly his strong suit.
Barnes pointed in the direction of a dust cloud making its way up the slope. “Looks like the preacher’s here.”
They both stared with curiosity to see the man billed as the best reverend to hit the circuit in years. Marcus grumbled, “I hope to hell he’s better than the last one. Swear to God, that man made my ears bleed.”
“I hear he’s young, fresh out of seminary school. And he sings like an angel. So I’m told.”
Marcus and John grinned. It explained the frenzy of gingham and Sunday best converging on the black SUV. As the man stepped onto the dusty lot, he swept a hand through curly dark brown hair, settled a Stetson on his head, and graced his congregation with a brilliant smile.
Marcus thought, I’m too old for twinks, but hell’s bells...
John chuckled. “I’d best check on those ribs, then see to staking a claim up front. Marge ain’t gonna be happy if she’s stuck in the back today.” Tipping his hat, he hustled down the steps and bore left around the building, heading for the pavilion and the picnic area.
Since he had completed all his chores, Marcus wandered inside to make sure the seating was adequate for the turn-out. He was about to join his friend at the line of grills, when a hand tugged on his shirt sleeve. He startled and spun, almost knocking over Petilune.
