Keeping Our Home (Holliday Book 2)

by Sarah R. Silas

  "Coffee sounds great, actually."

  He got up and crossed to the kitchen of his father's small house and put on a pot of coffee, staring at her laying in his bed as the coffee dripped into the carafe. He knew it was stupid, he kept repeating to himself that it was stupid, but he couldn't help what he was feeling. How can anyone help how and what they felt?

  She got up and poured herself a cup. "I gotta get goin' actually," she said, smiling at him over the cup. "You mind if I take this with me?"

  "Yeah, no worries. Uh, did you have fun?" he asked. Every time they made eye contact, his stomach fluttered. It was like being in high school all over again.

  "Yeah, it was nice. Do you mind uh...I gotta get gas," she said, wiggling her fingers.

  He stared at her for a moment, realizing that she looked just as beautiful in the morning as she did the night before, drinking cheap wine and talking. It was an odd thing, to notice her beauty that way, and he cursed himself for objectifying her. He didn't want to be that guy. "Oh yeah, sorry, it just all got away from me, cause you're so," he said, stopping himself before he said something embarrassing. He took out a wad of bills, counting 200 and handing it over to her. "Have a good day and stuff."

  "Yeah, absolutely," she said. She walked out of the small house, the door slamming behind her. He watched her shiny brown hair wave in the wind as she got into her car and drive away.

  He knew he was a fool. This encounter happened every time and he knew he was a fool, but here he was doing it anyway. And somewhere inside his heart, he realized, he didn't care if it was foolish. It made him happy.

  His father had slept with more than one prostitute in this house, and he remembered it all very clearly, vividly, the carnal knowledge of it all seared into his childhood memory. He knew that he wanted to be different, to treat them different, even if no one else did. Was he trying to be the opposite of his father? Maybe, he thought. Maybe he just wanted to make up for his father's sins.

  He spat into the sink. What did it matter? He had put his father more than six feet into the ground, into that stupid bunker of his, not just in the middle of nothing and nowhere, but deep inside the middle of nothing and nowhere. And that's where the old man and all his memories would stay.

  He went back to the bed, still smelling of Kelsey, and laid down, unsure if had the strength and mental fortitude to go into work today. He might lose the job, but he didn't care except that he wouldn't be able to pay her more money. The mere thought hurt him.

  He got up, put on his boots, and left the house. If anything, he had to work to keep seeing Kelsey. He had to try his best to maintain his happiness.

  ~~~

  Something had been bothering Sheriff Holt since the previous day when he had talked to Keith. Something about the guy's attitude and nonchalance, and perhaps overall helpful attitude, seemed too trite. It rankled every bone in his old cop body, and so he had decided to pay the roadhouse another visit. It was one of the grimiest and seediest places in town, but he had to admit that in his younger days even he had, had some happy moments in between those walls. Now though, having turned into Keith's headquarters, he didn't even like being in the parking lot.

  He sat in his cruiser staring at the building, hating the fact that he had to talk to Keith again. But it was the right thing to do, to do his due diligence, as Henrik would say. He got out of his cruiser and strode inside, his hand on his sidearm for comfort. At least the scum inside knew what the law meant, even if they didn't necessarily respect it.

  He found Keith still seated at the same barstool, most of the bar empty this early in the morning. Had Keith been here all night drinking? He didn't really want to know the answer to that question. He wasn't here to play nursemaid to the kid. "Keith, I need another word," Holt said gruffly.

  "Kinda busy," said Keith, grabbing the bottle from behind the bar and pouring another shot.

  Holt couldn't help himself. "You, uh, been drinking all night?" Having a kind heart was getting tiresome, he thought. Although that might be why the voters in this county kept electing him. A kind Sheriff got more votes, he reminded himself.

  "Something like that. Had to, uh, break up with someone I liked very much."

  "You just broke up with her and didn't kill her, right?" chuckled Holt. But he realized he didn't really want to know the answer to that question either. He needed to get the conversation back to where he wanted it. Keith didn't look good, as if he was strung out and on his last leg. But he didn't want to ask or know the answers to that either. It was probably best to ask just the questions that needed to be asked. Plausible deniability and all that.

  "Nah, she just had to leave town and stuff," said Keith. "Can I help you with something? You wanna drink with me? Drink to ladies lost and life on the lam because of lame love learned?"

  "Thank you mister poet, but this is about the Ricky thing yesterday," Holt replied.

  "Go on, tell me what you're thinking about," Keith said, slamming back another shot. "But lemme tell ya, I ain't gonna quit drinking on your account."

  "That's fine, but it came to my attention that you sorta led me to the conclusion that Clark was the murderer, mere moments before my deputy arrived to tell me basically the exact same thing. You wanna tell me how you knew that?"

  "I'm your gift from God, Sheriff. I am your prophet," laughed Keith. He leaned against the bar, his bloodshot eyes watering from the booze, his legs wide open, hands on his crotch. "I give you what you need, ya know what I'm sayin'?" He gave a loud belly laugh, his whole body shaking.

  "You gonna take this seriously?" asked Holt, glaring at him.

  "Look Sheriff, I dunno what to tell ya. All I know is that, remarkably, I've been doing naughty things for a while, and sometimes I know how people work. That's all."

  "I don't wanna know about your naughty things," Holt snapped. "Tell me how you know about the checks? Did you plant them?"

  "I wouldn't do nothing to hurt Lilith Holliday," wheezed Keith, his head falling against the bar. He coughed and wretched, trying to throw up.

  Holt grabbed the back of his collar and maneuvered him to throw up on the floor. "What do you mean you wouldn't do nothing to hurt Lilith?" he asked, the vomit splashing near his boots. "God that smells rancid you son of a bitch." He tried to avoid the bits of vomit as they hit the floor. He didn't want to have to clean his shoes later.

  "Just what I said," said Keith, wiping his mouth. "Can you go now, I got more drinking to do."

  Holt released him and stepped back. "Fine, but I got more questions for you later you drunk bastard."

  "Whatever, man." Keith took a sip of beer. "If I'm still alive later, I'll give you a call."

  Holt shook his head and walked out. He didn't know if he had achieved anything from that little jaunt, but he stood outside in the morning sun and realized that there was nothing else he could do at the moment. He sighed, got back in his cruiser, and drove away.

  He was going to have to go back to Ricky's house and search the place himself. Not that he didn't trust Hanssen, but perhaps there was something everyone was missing. This case was going to need more work, and there was no guarantee that Clark was getting off the hook.

  ~~~

  Marty sat atop his horse, looking across the ranch, contemplative and yet completely at peace. He had called Gregg the other evening. Unfortunately Gregg was heading out of town on business, but some preliminary arrangements were made for a date when he returned. Marty sighed, thinking that it probably wouldn't happen, but that was okay. Sometimes it was better to be wanted than to actually go through all the labor of relationships, sex, and the aftermath of it all.

  Having a boyfriend, let alone a husband, would be difficult, and he wasn't prepared to give up the ranch to leave and start a life with someone somewhere faraway in the unknown world. This is where his heart lay, and he hoped one day where his body would rest too.

  He maneuvered his horse across the landscape, pondering what it would be like to be in a stable relati
onship, and not so lonely all the time. Ultimately, everything was his choice, and he would have to live with the choices he made.

  Marty and his horse found their way deftly across the landscape. It was a beautiful morning with its big blue clear sky, the last dredges of sunrise fading away at the edges of his vision. There was no clear direction he was going, as he had left the other boys to finish up the main work to be done for the day. He would clean up and do extra things later on. This was too beautiful of a morning to waste.

  He wove his way through the hills, arriving at the Holliday family plot, tucked away neatly beyond a crest, barely visible from the main house. He saw the obelisks of the Holliday family, and the empty tomb of Aggie's father, who had chosen to mine the hills. His body had never been found. Marty sighed, thinking that it was up to him to ask and see if he could have the privilege of being buried there himself. But it was too much to handle at the moment, so he nudged his horse up the hill and towards the horizon.

  He sighed, not knowing what exactly was bringing him down. Something was definitely bothering him, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. Perhaps it was some kind of existential angst about it all, his life, his wants, his needs, and some kind of dashed hope that the Gregg thing would work out.

  He spotted one of the old Holliday mine shafts sunken into the hillside. Its boards long rotted away from the rain and storms. He swung himself off his horse, trusting that his companion wouldn't wander too far while he did some exploring.

  A sign announced the dangers of entering the mine shaft, but he ignored them. He decided it was time to do something out of the ordinary. He carefully edged his way inside the shaft, trying his best to not step on too many sharp rocks. A small rail system existed inside, but it had long been covered in dirt, rock, and other debris. For as long as he could remember, the boys would just ignore the shafts, doing their work and hoping any of the leeching chemicals didn't kill any of the herd. Even growing up on the ranch, he had never heard of Lilith exploring the mines. It was either too dangerous, or just too much work.

  He crept along the shaft, as it got narrower and the ceiling dropped. He didn't know where he was going, or why, but it felt right. Sometimes, he thought, he just had to do things that felt right, because otherwise he wouldn't ever be happy. Creeping down an old mine shaft, yes it was weird, but it also made him believe he could be an adventurer.

  He came to a turn in the shaft, he could go either left or right. He took out a coin, flipped it, and promptly forgot whether heads or tails meant right. He sighed and turned left. It was better this way. He took out his phone, turning on the flashlight as the tunnel got darker, damper, and the air levels decreased. He couldn't smell gas or other chemicals, but he knew they had to be down there. These mines had never been safe.

  His head started to hurt, his eyes were burning and he was about to turn back when his phone's light came across a skeletal hand around a rock. He stared at it, not understanding what he was seeing. He reached out towards it, just to make sure it was real, and let his flashlight follow the arm down and saw the whole body.

  It wore a tailored three piece suit, still shiny black dress shoes, and a gold pocket watch that sat on the floor, still pinned to his jacket pocket. Marty didn't know whether it was okay to light a cigarette, but his stress and anxiety levels were calling for it.

  He picked up the pocket watch, turning it over. It was engraved Holliday, with the ranch's address. He sighed, understanding that he had perhaps found Lilith's great-grandfather. He laughed, thinking that perhaps it was ironic that the old man was found dead within his own creation, that ultimately would go on to bankrupt, and possibly kill, the ranch.

  Marty fished through the body's pockets, cursing at himself for the grave sin that it was to mess with a dead body. He was looking for a wallet, or anything to identify the suited man. Finally, in his breast pocket he removed a sealed envelope.

  He hesitated, unsure if he should tear open the seal. "Fuck it," he said, his voice echoing down the mine shaft, bouncing off the rocks and walls, getting softer as it went. He thought he might as well be a Holliday at this point. He tore open the envelope and scanned the flowery cursive script. It was hard to make out with just phone light, and his cursive skills were rusty, but he thought it was some kind of will and last testament.

  Marty stood up, stretching his legs. This was a huge find, he thought. He had to show Lilith, and he had to show her right now. Whatever she was doing, he would have to interrupt her and tell her about this.

  He paused, remembering that today could be her last day on the ranch. She was set to make a decision about Boston today. He cursed his luck, putting the letter into his own breast pocket, and tried to hurriedly step over the rocks and debris to make his way back to his horse. He had to get back to the main house as fast as possible. This was a huge find.

  ~~~

  Lilith rolled over on the couch and straight onto the hard wooden floor. Her eyes stayed close but she let out a loud groan and moan as her bones clanged on the cold wood. What a way to start the day, she thought. Sunlight streamed through the window, hitting her eyelids and causing more pain. She pulled her blanket over her head, wanting to fall back asleep on the floor, anything but get up, make decisions, and think about Clark sitting in jail. It hurt just to think about, and especially because she couldn't do anything about it.

  She got up, letting the blanket fall to the floor in an untidy heap. She was cold in an undershirt and shorts, but decided that there was nothing to do but start the day. She grabbed her towel and headed to the shower.

  The water was warm against her shoulders. She had to make a decision about Boston today, and it had to be her decision, and hers alone. That was the only way that she was going to be happy about it all. That much she had learned from reading Aggie's diary.

  Lilith had gotten to the point when Aggie was worried that she hadn't seen enough of the world, having consigned herself to living out her life in the small piece that was the Holliday Ranch. While it was a running thread throughout Aggie's entire life, in her later years it had turned from want to regret, a sad bitter regret that she repeated over and over again. Lilith knew she didn't want to turn into that. But it was difficult to see that she had a choice in her own affairs. Sometimes it was easier to leave it up to the world.

  She lathered, shampooed, rinsed, and stepped out, not wanting to spend her entire morning in an existential haze under the comfortable streams of warm water. She dressed quickly, finding something comfortable and altogether plain and headed downstairs. Saul hadn't come downstairs yet, so she put on some coffee and stared out at the ranch.

  It truly was beautiful, there was no denying that, but it was good to be reminded of that everyday, that leaving would be giving it all up. The drip of the coffee was her morning symphony as she watched the boys working out in the field, Clark visibly absent.

  In some alternate existence, she would be standing here, pouring coffee for her father and Clark, as she dashed off to the doctor's office, and everyone was fit, healthy, and happy. In this alternate reality, she’d be wearing that mysterious pink dress and she would know who and what she was, and she would be able to accept her future happily, without regret, without remorse, and without want of something else. But was that realistic? She didn’t even know if she looked good in pink.

  She poured coffee, thinking about it as her father bounded down the stairs, looking pale. "You feeling ok?" she asked, grabbing him a mug and pouring more coffee.

  "Feeling a bit slow today, but I think it's just some allergies," he said, sipping at his coffee.

  "Since when have you had allergies?"

  "Right about when you got so damn nosy," he replied.

  "So like when I was 4?"

  "Yeah, right about then."

  They laughed together, the sun hanging above the horizon. She was starting to like the morning routine. It was felt good, familiar, and easy. But not easy in a negative way, easy in a happy way. She sighed, st
aring at her father, knowing that it would be harder to leave him now when she had no idea how much time he had left. But she kept thinking back to Mulreedy's words. Her father would hate if she stayed to wait and watch him die. He would hate it, and he would be miserable. It just made all her decisions more difficult.

  "I heard something odd about Pistol the other day," said Saul, looking at some papers on the counter.

  "Oh?" She was surprised that Pistol was a point of conversation anywhere, anywhere at all. She chuckled to herself. She was too hard on Pistol, he was a good guy after all.

  "Yeah, I was at the bar, having a drink and talkin' to some of the old boys, and I heard that Pistol's been hanging out at truck stops and the like with some uh, shall we say, unsavory women," he said absently.

  "Unsavory? That's kinda misogynistic Dad."

  "Well, fine. They're sex workers. Pistol's apparently hanging out with sex workers. And I know his father was a fan of that, and I really hope he's not going down the same path as his father."

  "Well, I dunno what's going on in Pistol's life," she replied. She really hoped Pistol was okay, but she didn't know how to talk to him about most of his family stuff. The last time she had tried it had ended in a rather frightening trip to a bunker in the middle of nothing and nowhere.

  "Well, this ain't an opening for him to come back and work here, but maybe you should go and check on your friend. If he still is your friend, that is," said Saul. "I got a lot of work to do out in the fields today, and probably gotta head up to Billings later, you wanna come?"

  "Wait, back it up. Pistol is my friend, Dad. He is my friend."

  "Well, maybe you should act like it and look after your friend," he replied, looking up at her over his reading glasses. "I know you've been gone and whatnot, but that ain't no excuse anymore to forget your friends. We got all this texting and emailing and video whatever, now."

  She nodded, trying to understand what he actually meant. "Is this about you Dad?"

  "No, this is about your friend Pistol who's on the fast track to getting a disease," said Saul, shaking his head.