by Saylor Bliss
I pass off the information to Kate so she can convey it to the battalion chief.
With a pointed shake of the head, Kate catches my eye and hands me a message from the battalion chief. As I read, my heart flutters in my chest before moving upward to stick in my throat. My free hand rises of its own violation and covers my mouth, as if to prevent me from saying the words I was reading.
The Convention Center has collapsed with several men inside. Some of them are buried under four floors of rubble, while above them the fire from the gas main explosion burns fully evolved and uncontained. Rescue efforts will be delayed and prospects for extraction were grim. A chaplain was in route.
God help them all. How am I supposed to tell the man on the other end of the comm that he isn’t going to be rescued? What could I say to someone when my words were likely to be the last he’d ever hear?
Chapter Two
Travis
I kick in the clutch and ram the gearshift into second, to take yet another turn on the series of switchbacks through the mountain. The 1967 Corvette Sting Ray had been a mess when I’d bought her, but she’d been my mess, a bargain at the price I’d wrangled her down to. It had taken almost every one of my days off over the past two years, but I had fully restored her from the engine up. The work had been a welcome distraction from other less appealing aspects of life.
Currently, I was loving how she held fast to the road, gliding across the miles effortlessly. The throaty growl of the engine isn’t quite drowned out by the whoosh of the wind as it blows over my face. It’s still early in the year to drive with the top down in the mountains but I didn’t give a damn. The bracing cold reminding me once again, that I was alive.
It’s been too long, the guilty whisper nagged. I should never have let my life get so far out of hand. It damn sure shouldn’t have taken an emergency letter from my baby brother, for me to come back home and finally make things right with the old man.
Tires squealed just a bit when I took the downward curve a little too sharply. I was in the foothills now, only a few miles to go. I’d be able to open up on the two lane once the last hill was at my back, and I couldn’t wait. Soon the sun will be drifting down into the shadowy embrace of the mountains behind, leaving me the stars for company.
Shit, I’ve missed the mountains of home.
Halfway through what I recognized as the last switchback, I downshifted again and punched the gas. My mind registers the apparition blocking the road in front of me a bare second before reaction sets in. I slam on the brake, sending the car into a slow sideways skid and stalling the engine.
“Holy fuck.”
Darts of adrenaline scream through my veins, sending my heart into a staccato rhythm as I stare at the horse and rider on the road.
Washed in the golden blush from the setting sun, the horse rears, angrily, striking out at the air between us with menacing hooves nearly unseating his rider. With a toss of his head the startled horse rears again, baring his teeth and screaming defiance.
The red roan colt is clearly too much for his rider. Even though the horse responds to her steady touch, it is obvious any sense of control she has is an illusion. I shove the car door open and jump to my feet, ready to pick up the pieces when the rider is thrown, but when she swings her gaze in my direction, fury blazes in eyes the color of Desert Bluebells. Her face mirrors the horse’s defiance.
Sparks of awareness replace astonishment, and a grin pulls my lips upward as I lift a hand in greeting.
“Jackass.” The rider shoves at the wild mass of dark hair falling across her face. The motion distracts her, giving her mount the opening to misbehave, which he does.
With a clatter of antsy hooves on asphalt, the big colt dances and circles, threatening to rear again, but she recovers quickly and holds him down. The she tugs on the reins, steering the agitated horse away from the road, and sidesteps him down the steep, gravel covered incline. Once she reaches solid footing, the colt wheels sharply around. The rider casts a scathing look over her shoulder as the colt erupts into a reckless gallop across the prairie.
Pain shoots through my neck, and I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw. Absently, I rub the back of one hand along my chin, but keep my eyes on the horse and rider until they are no more than a speck in the distance.
“Well,” I mumble to the early evening sky, “I’ve just been schooled. By a woman and a damn horse.”
I wasn’t sure when I started this trip home if I was going to shake things up with my return or get myself shaken up, and I still didn’t know. But one thing was certain, I sure as hell plan to find out who lives behind those haunting bluebell eyes.
Shaking my head, I start to lower myself back into the car when I freeze. Why is it sitting at such an odd angle? Walking around the car to the passenger side I can’t contain the groan that escapes. My front tire has rolled right off the damn rim from the skid sideways.
Just fucking great.
Chapter Three
Christine
By the time I encountered the stranger in the fast car, my upbeat mood from earlier has degraded, thanks to the dull heartache I’ve given myself from lancing my old wound once again. Ordinarily, I would have laughed off the incident and introduced myself once I’d made sure no one was hurt, but the idiotic fool had just sat in his car staring at me in disapproval, apparently waiting for me to move out of his all-important way.
Wherever the aggravating stranger was headed I sincerely hoped he didn’t so much as make a pit stop in Pine Haven. I was pretty sure another meeting of that sort would result in me doing more than yelling at him. Pictures of strangling the shit eating grin off his face popped into my mind.
My heart still raced with jitters. The need to dispel some of it had me letting Cloud have his head again. He calmed us both by doing what he loved most, streaking at breakneck pace over the plains of western Wyoming.
By the time we slow to a walk, my ire at the stranger on the road has mellowed to a mildly bad memory. Whoever he is, it is likely he’s already hit Pine Haven and driven on through. The sun rests in the cradle between the peaks of the two mountains, sending lingering shafts of red to cast long shadows against the blue and white buildings. I close my eyes, bracing against the little pinpricks of pain, and allow myself to remember the reason I’d first come to Wyoming.
“You hang on, do you hear me?” I order. “I won’t leave until they have you, I swear. But you have to stay with me. Promise.”
“Okay … promise.” His words were slurred, his voice weary.
I struggle to think of something to talk about – to keep him speaking and alert. “Is that an accent I hear, Mick?”
His laugh is slow and soft. “Yep, afraid so. Seems nothing I do can get the Wyoming out of my voice.”
That worked. “Tell me about Wyoming.”
He sighs. “There’s nothing quite like a wild gallop across the plains on a fast horse. If by chance you can be on that horse at daybreak, you’ll feel like you’re flying up to meet the day, grabbing the sun by the horns and taking it for a ride. The only thing better than daybreak, is the Red Desert at sundown. If you time it just right, a split second before the sun’s gone down, you feel like you’re lost inside all that red and orange fiery glow, then in your next breath you’re surrounded by pitch black. As you look up at the sky the stars are popping out. So many stars the sky is almost unrecognizable. They blend together in a massive blanket across the horizon. And there’s always shooting stars for making wishes.” He laughed softly. “I guess I sound a little pathetic.”
“No.” I wish I could touch him with more than my voice. “Sounds more like a homesick cowboy to me.”
He’s quiet for a time before replying, “I guess maybe I am, Angel. I am homesick.”
His low spoken words bring tears to my eyes. And I pray right then and there that he would get the chance to see those sunrises and sunsets and stars again. “So, you lived on the desert plains?”
“I had the bes
t of both worlds,” he answers, his words filled with pride. “Our ranch is in the middle of a finger of desert that is nestled between two legs of mountains and forest.”
“Why did you leave?”
“That’s a story for another time,” he says. “I’ll tell you when we’re on our first date.”
“Are you asking me out?”
“Oh, we’ll go out.” His voice gave me visions of an easy cowboy grin. “I was just making the plans.”
My lips twitch at his audacity.
Cooled and brushed, Cloud nickers a soft goodbye as I leave the comfort of the stable and walk into the cold night air.
Stars twinkle into view above me, millions of glistening tiny pinpoint lights, fusing into a lacy curtain of soft illumination against the darkness. Leaving a trail of shimmery light tracked across the sky.
For the first time in seven years, my automatic wish isn’t for something impossible. Or rather something that was never meant to be. “I want to feel alive again.”
Emotionally and physically exhausted, I tear my eyes from the stars and climb into the rusty Chevy pickup. It is older than I am by several years, so I count my blessings it still runs. Driving past the main homestead, I toss a wave to Justin McGee, who sits in his old white rocker on the wide front porch. With a quick smile and a gentle nod of the head, the old rancher touches a finger to the brim of his battered Stetson before taking another drag of his nightly cigar.
Just as I reach the cedar fencepost marking the entrance to the ranch, a pair of headlights swing in from the main road. So, the McGee men are about to receive a caller. Maybe Grant had finally convinced Sissy Brown to drop by after her shift at the bar.
The two sets of headlights collide, the bright beams briefly joining forces and splitting the darkness. Then the moment was gone, leaving me with a vague impression of something low and fast, before I am engulfed by the cloud of dust chasing behind.
Nope. I cough against the sting in my throat. Definitely not Sissy, who tends to drive her ancient economy car with the caution of a grandmother. Tough break for Grant.
Chapter Four
Travis
I park in front of the old ranch house, kill the engine, pop open the door, and take some deep breaths before climbing out of the car.
Though the land slumbered beneath a blanket of darkness, the nighttime couldn’t mask my memories even if it tried. I knew just beyond the edge of the light lay wide open spaces, with fields of green and gold, dotted sporadically by black and white cattle and rolls of cut hay bales. All snuggled in the protective embrace of the Rocky Mountains to the west.
Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, intoxicating myself on the aromatic blend of cow manure, freshly mown hay, and mountain wild flowers, which hang in the air. The sweet, somewhat earthy scent of home.
Overhead, a shooting star blazes a fiery arc through the myriad of visible stars. I think of a time, not so long ago, when Grant and I had lay next to our mother on a sleeping bag, watching the stars overhead. Every time she saw a shooting star, she would urge us to make a wish.
The memory fades as suddenly as it came on. What the hell was I doing, coming back to Wyoming?
“Don’t know of much call for such a fancy vehicle on a ranch,” admonishes a gravelly voice from the porch’s shadows. “You always did love speed though, didn’t you, boy?”
I stiffen as Justin takes a step forward into the light cast by the moon.
“Hello, Dad.” I keep my response respectful and reserved. Leave it to my father to act like this is just another homecoming after a night in town. “You look good.”
He chuckles, “Still spreading it thick, I see.” But fondness has crept into his voice. “What I look is old.” He nods in the direction of the huge barns that have been standing since before I was even born. “Your brother’s bound to be out there locking up… if you want to go find him and let him know you’re here.”
The statement startles me, “Since when do McGee barns need locking?”
The old man leans against the porch railing, examining the tip of his cigar.
I wait. It’s maddening, but no amount of pushing will ever get my father to talk before he is ready.
Finally, he shrugs and fixes me with a pointed stare. “A boy goes away for sixteen years, he’s bound to see some changes when he comes back a man.”
Same old shit with you, isn’t it, Dad? But I hold my tongue and acknowledge the well-deserved punch straight to the heart with a nod and a wry smile. Then I turn and stride toward the barns.
Strong floodlights, mounted at the corner of each building, light the yard. Grant is clearly visible as he slides the barn door closed and sets the lock. He walks toward the stable, a black and white dog at his heels.
I stand just outside the lights edge watching my brother, looking for a trace of the kid I’d left behind.
The skinny boy’s frame has become lean and muscular. Glow in the dark blonde hair has toned down some, but I notice it still curls at the ends even though he keeps it cut pretty short. Grant was thirteen when I left. In the time I had been gone he had grown into a man.
When he emerges from the stable, he orders the dog to stay inside. Then with a flexing of his muscles, he slides the door closed. Grant’s hands still. He eases around, his body tense, ready for anything. It has always been uncanny, the way the kid has been so acutely aware of his surroundings, still was… truth be told.
I step into the light. Green eyes identical to my own meet and hold my gaze. I marshal my expression and wait, unmoving.
Grant’s tension visibly drains. His smile starts slowly, first in his eyes, then spreading to his mouth, where it blooms into a full grin.
“Trav!” In two long legged strides, Grant is in front of me. “Oh man, it’s good to see you.”
In a move too sudden for me to dodge, he folds me into a bear hug and lifts me off my feet, his carefree laughter driving out the last vestiges of my uncertainty.
Welcome home, Travis McGee.
Chapter Five
Christine
A clunky basketful of hygiene products weighs on my arm. Idly I skim the magazine headlines while I wait at the checkout counter for Erin Brinks to ring up Nessie Young’s order. It seems the going rate for each item is a full minute of gossip, while the two gray haired women catch each other up on the goings on in the small town since they have last talked.
“No mistake! It was Travis, all right.” Nessie insists. “Bold as brass he walked into Ed’s and placed a considerable order for lumber and nails. Ed said he drove up all arrogant like in his big city sports car.”
“Do you think the old man knows he’s back?” Erin asks in a loud whisper.
“If he doesn’t, he will as soon as Henry makes the delivery. S’pose to take it out this afternoon.”
Erin glances at the line, makes brief eye contact with me and lowers her voice until it is barely audible. “What about the others?”
Nessie shakes her head slowly. “I was wondering that myself.” She opens her giant black purse and pulls out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. The gossip fest is apparently over.
Finally, it’s my turn at the checkout, but it seems Erin is no longer in the mood to be chatty, which was just as well, since it got me out of the store about ten minutes quicker.
The line at the bank is even longer than the one at the drugstore. It would appear it was training day for new hire Beth Wright. James Horton, the youngish bank manager, was showing incredible patience, even when he had to void each transaction and repeat it himself. Given the direction in which his eyes repeatedly strayed, though, I suspected him to be more concerned with the young girl’s deep cleavage than her banking abilities.
Standing behind Allan Cross and Adam Reed, I gathered more gossip of the day.
“He just drove into the garage with a mangled tire. Said there was an extra hundred in it if he got a new one by tomorrow,” said Allan, owner of Cross’s Auto Repair. “I had to send young Scott up to Jackso
n to get one. Damned fancy things. Got no use for something like that on my racks.
“Came by my place, too,” Adam announced. “Picked out some high-end tack. Ask me, the way he’s taking charge, I think he’s back to stay.”
Allan shook his head as he walked up to the next teller, grumbling. “Never thought that day would come. Now I s’pose there’ll be the devil to pay.”
By the time I got to Valentine’s Bar, I’d already learned a lot about the hometown prodigal son named Travis, back after a long absence, and by all reports walking the streets like he owned them. Apparently, no one knew exactly why he’d left home fifteen or sixteen years back, though there is speculation it has to do with his father and the MacKay family. On two points, however, the entire town seems to agree. No one expected him to ever return to Pine Haven, Wyoming; and now he is back, trouble has likely come with him.
I am fairly certain I’ve already had a taste of the man’s particular brand of trouble the evening before. And I was beginning to wonder if that one taste might have only primed my appetite for more.
The snatches of conversation I’d overheard have been tantalizing, but I suspected they were only the tip of the iceberg. Maybe it is time to delve just a bit below the surface of that sleeping giant. And I knew just the person to ask as we prepped the bar for the Friday evening crowd.
“So, what’s the story on this gentleman who’s come home…Travis?” I ask, leaning one elbow on the bar striving for nonchalance.
A cynical snort, matching the inward rolling of Sissy Browns lips as she shoves a stack of napkins into a holder, is the first thing I hear. “I don’t think anyone here’s ever called Trav a gentleman before.” Her short cap of pale cloned hair flashed almost white in the glow of the neon bar sign, as she glanced up with a grin. “Lots of other references. Though.”
