Rugged and Restless

by Saylor Bliss

  “So, what’s his story? I ask toying with a bottle of mixer. “Lots of talk going around town.”

  “Talk’s overrated.” A scowl creases Sissy’s forehead. “I really hate gossip.”

  Time to turn on the charm, though I had to admit that usually worked better with customers. And men. Still, I smiled. “Give me a break. I’m not on the main grapevine. So, either I have to skulk around the supermarket or get it from you.”

  Sissy’s giggle echoed through the bar. “You wouldn’t have to skulk if you gave a little information back once in a while.”

  A blast of chilly air whispered across my hand as I opened the mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “I never have anything to say.”

  One delicate eyebrow arched, as Sissy stopped fussing with the napkins and looked up. “Honey, you’re the head bartender at the only watering hole in town. Trust me, everyone knows you hear the really good stuff.”

  The bottle cap twists off with a tiny hiss and I take a long drink before I answer. “Some of that’s personal.”

  “Exactly. The good stuff.” Another stack of napkins found its way into Sissy’s hands. Really the girl worked like a mechanic on an assembly line.

  “What do I have to do to stop being the outsider here?” As I take another drink and stare across the bar, I slowly draw one finger along the polished brass edging. It’s one of the few things that survived the renovations of Valentine’s. “I’ll bet if this bar could talk it would spill a lot of stories,” I mused aloud.

  Heaving a sigh, Sissy toyed with a napkin, rolling it into a tube then smoothing it flat again.

  A sudden tingle of awareness raced through me. She’s trying harder than I am to be casual.

  "Look there's not really much to tell." Sissy flipped the napkin into the trash. "Trav’s kind of the town bad boy. Got in a fair share of fights, but it usually wasn’t him starting them. He just never seemed to be able to walk away. He had girlfriends but he wasn't the marrying type."

  The guarded tone accompanying Sissy's words alerted me to something beneath the surface, something my friend wasn't saying.

  A gasp slips out before I can stop it. “Sissy, you and he weren't… where are you?”

  A short burst of laughter dispels the thought of me? “Oh, goodness no! I was just a baby when he left. Well, I was 12. I guess I had kind of a crush, him being so handsome and all. But I don't think he ever noticed me.”

  If he was male and breathing, he certainly was going to notice the pretty bartender now. Won't that complicate the excruciating slow burn between Sissy and Grant?

  “Everyone seems so surprised he's come back here.”

  “Truth is no one really knows why he left,” Sissy admitted. “Lots of speculation, but his family kept quiet, wouldn't talk about it. Wouldn't talk about him. Then, when he didn't come home, folks started thinking he wasn't going to.”

  The smile tugging at my lips bloomed into a grin. Gotta love small-town mysteries. Everyone has a theory and everyone absolutely knows his or her particular presumption is the only one and only truth.

  I open the dishwasher, lean back while the steam spills out, then unload the beer mugs and expertly stack them behind the bar. “You know,” Sissy pulls a handful of menus from the wicker basket next to the old fashion cash register and begins sorting through them. “He's probably still real easy on the eyes.” She turns one of the menus to match the rest of them and sweeps her gaze up towards mine. “And he is rumored to be unattached.”

  “Whoa!” I take a step back, holding up my hands in a defensive measure. “I'm not looking for anything like that.” Tipping her head down, Sissy simply shrugs. Her light blue eyes seem to dance. “Maybe you should be. Go for little human companionship instead of always hanging out with that wild horse of yours.” She winks, “Get a little, you know, companionship of the right kind… scratch any lingering itches.”

  Heat swamps my face, but I resist the urge to fan myself “Cloud and I do just fine,” I mutter. “And speaking of my horse, I need to run out to Hawk MC to pay for Cloud's board. Unless you want to run it out for me?” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively and finish in a singsong voice. “You could say hey to Grant.”

  “I'm just fine right here setting up,” Sissy murmurs, her neck and cheeks sustaining a faint rose color.

  “I thought you liked Grant.”

  “I do,” Sissy answers steadily, without looking up. “And I want him to like me, which is why I'll just wait for him to come in to see me tonight instead of me going out there looking for him.” When Sissy finally glances up her pale blue eyes twinkle “I like to give him little opportunities to figure out he misses me.”

  With a good-natured chuckle, I grab my purse from under the bar. “Okay, then. I won't be long.”

  The gas gauge on my truck indicates that it will take a little longer on my errands then I planned. I swing into the gas station and swallow over the knot of unease in my throat. The huge white pick-up parked at the inside island takes up two spaces. The pump nozzle is jammed into the open gas tank door. The truck's hood is up, but the owner is nowhere in sight.

  I ease my pick up to the other side of the island, casting a wary look for Robert McKay. Finally, I spot him under the hood, the oil dipstick in his hand. He lifts his head from his task and meets my eyes with a look so dark it freezes my blood. Quickly, I avert my eyes, pretending I hadn't noticed him. I let the icy chill roll through me, accepting it for what it apparently is: an inexplicable sense of nervousness I always feel in Robert McKay's presence.

  Calling myself a coward for avoiding the man, I ease behind his truck and start across the parking lot to the mini mart. For the first time I'm actually grateful that Kenny Gordon has never installed credit card readers on his pumps.

  I set my gaze on my goal and keep walking towards the door. The same metal and tempered glass door has probably hung at the entrance since the original service station was built in the 1930s, and now hangs on the building that replaced it in the late 1960s. I pull the heavy door open and step into the stuffy building.

  Sliding a 20 across the counter, I think about the bottle of water I left sitting on the bar. “Hang on a sec, Kenny. I need something to drink.”

  I step around the end of the aisle, heading for the cooler at the rear of the store, and nearly barrel into Stella Jinks, the sheriff's secretary, and… oh great. Phyllis McKay stands next to Stella, a scowl marring her face. Both women abruptly stop talking.

  “Christine,” greets Phyllis, in her well-modulated voice. “Are you in a hurry to get someplace?”

  I laugh hoping I mask my unease. Why did I feel like I was interrupting some covert spy operation? “Oh, you know me. I hurry everywhere. I'm just on my way to pay Grant McGee for Cloud's board before my shift at the bar starts.”

  Was I imagining things or did Phyllis's lips thin just before she lifts them into a chilly smile?

  “Well, then, we'll just let you pass so you can get going.”

  I grab the first soda I lay my hands on, hoping it’s something I can stomach. Then I force myself to take more sedate steps back to the register, wondering how Phyllis manages to look and sound so unpleasant and disapproving at the same time.

  Chapter Six

  Travis

  If there is anything I missed least about the ranch, it was mucking stalls. And yet here I am, using the rake to spread fresh bedding into the stall I just finished cleaning.

  My early morning trip to town had been both productive and informative. It seems some people, at least, are in a forgiving mood. Others apparently weren’t, if the four-foot keying the driver side of my car had taken while I was in the vet’s office was anything to go by. As if it wasn't enough the veterinarian wanted nothing to do with the Hawk MC, now I would have an expensive insurance claim as well. The gouge is so deep in places that the fiberglass will need patching before the paint can be retouched. No need to wonder who had been at the heart of that, even if not directly involved.

>   I've been back less than 24 hours and already I have more disturbing questions than anyone seems inclined to answer. Maybe coming back was a mistake after all. I saw no emergency on the ranch to warrant bringing me home. Of course, that didn't mean there was none. Grant is just like our father when it comes to talking. They both got around to it in their own time and pushing only made them close down. Hell, with as slow to broach the subject as my family was being, I'd probably figure it out on my own first.

  With a resigned sigh, I return my attention back to the stable. The ranch is a little more rundown than I expected. It appears the major necessities were being handled but the small stuff seems to be waiting. Some of the simplest projects are sitting so far back on the back burner, they were in danger of falling off the stove completely.

  It feels a bit like living from crisis to crisis, with no time or cash flow or anything but the next problem. As far as any extras went, there didn't seem to be any, not even the luxury of casual labor to help with menial chores. I thrust the rake against the wall and kick some errant straw. When did things get so bad for the ranch that Grant couldn't afford a couple of minimum-wage high school kids to help out part-time?

  Loud snorting sounds from the next stall told me I would have to turn the occupant into the padlock. I grabbed a lead from the hook outside the stall. The last thing I plan to do was spend the rest of the day chasing an ornery horse. No sooner than I touch the door than hooves started cluttering against the wood.

  “I don't intimidate so easily, Pal,” I said in a calming voice. I flip up the latch and tug. A hairy mass, the size of a semi, barrels towards me.

  “Shit!” I leap backwards to avoid the snapping teeth and slam the door shut, a bare second to spare before one angry hoof connects.

  My heart jackhammers, complementing the rhythm of the kicks coming from the other side of the stall door. What the hell was that demon of a red roan colt doing in the McGee stable? As I suck in air trying to catch my breath I consider the most obvious implication of finding the horse. My brother knows the woman behind the bluebell colored eyes. That my brother might have any sort of attachment to those eyes, I refuse to consider.

  Fate owes me one.

  “Seems you lost your touch with horses there, Bro.” I spin around. Grant leans indolently in the doorway.

  “Horses? No.” I shake my head. “I can still handle a horse. That?” I jerk a thumb at the stall behind me, “is not a horse. That is a demonic replica of a horse.”

  Grant pushes off the doorjamb and saunters towards me. Inside the stall, agitated snorts of the big roan continue, but the kicking has stopped.

  “Cloud? This guy’s a sweetheart. You just gotta speak his language.” He holds up an apple.

  “You mean you have to bribe him,” I say flatly. Grant smiles and holds out his free hand for the lead rein. I stand well back when he eases open the stall door and steps inside, apple first. When the horse takes the apple, he clips the lead to the halter.

  “Sucker.” I mock the big horse. “Trading your freedom for an apple. You should've held out for two.”

  Cloud's eyes roll suspiciously as he passes, but the spirited colt nonetheless goes easily with Grant.

  I follow keeping a cautious eye on the colt as he prances into the paddock. Leaning both arms on the top rail of the fence, Grant comes to stand next to me and together we watch the horse careen around the enclosure.

  “What's the horse like that doing in your stable?”

  A troubled expression creeps over Grant's face. “He's not ours. He's a border.”

  I choose my next words with care. “Because you're doing a favor for friend?”

  “For a friend, yes.” He speaks slowly, apparently considering his words with equal care. “But it's strictly a business arrangement.” His direct look is a plea for understanding. “We have five other borders and room for six more. It's part of the business now.”

  “The Hawk MC runs cattle.” I never take my eyes off the colt, bucking and kicking his way from one side of the paddock to the other.

  Grant stiffens but remains silent. When I swing my gaze away from the colt we lock eyes and Grant speaks without emotion. “Price of beef’s down, not likely to go up anytime soon. Cattle don't pay all the bills these days. The borders fill in the gaps.”

  “It's a good idea,” I acknowledge. “What does the old man say?”

  Grants always ready grin flashes again. “That the Hawk MC runs cattle.”

  My bark of laughter startles the colt, who expresses his displeasure with flattened ears and sharp teeth.

  “By the way, your delivery arrived earlier,” says Grant. “The lumber is stacked by the barn.”

  I shrug and look away. “I took care of a few needs. Some of the wood on the back barn is rotten, needs seeing to. I figure I'll make myself useful.” I swing my gaze back to meet my brothers. “I found out we apparently don't use Dr. Jones anymore when I tried to order cattle vaccines.”

  Grant lowers his eyes, staring at the ground. He kicks at a pebble with a well-worn boot. “We use the services of Dr. Beck up in Jackson.”

  “Jackson?” I was genuinely surprised. “Why so far away?”

  Grant lifts a shoulder. “He is the closest vet who has no ties with Robert McKay.”

  Robert McKay.

  The name turns my stomach as I struggle to recall what connection the McKay family has with Dr. Jones, frowning when I come up blank.

  “Jones Junior married some cousin of McKay's,” supplies Grant. “Anyway, Beck's good. Really good. He stopped an outbreak of what we thought was scours last spring before we lost too many calves.”

  What? With a jerk, I pull my head out of my musing and focus on my brother. “We had scours?” Left untreated the dehydrating illness could wipe out an entire year worth of calves in a heartbeat.

  Grant kicks at the pebble again this time connecting and sending the stone flying across the drive. “Yeah, well. Turns out it wasn't really scours. There was some kind of toxin on the grass in the south pasture. The cows were handling it okay but the calves were sensitive.”

  “What kind of toxin?”

  “Never determined conclusively. Spring rains washed it away.”

  A sense of apprehension churns in my gut. “We ever have problems with that pasture before?”

  “Nope.” he shakes his head. “State tested the soil and found nothing, but we haven't used the pasture since.” He shrugs. “I prefer to keep things a little closer to home.”

  It didn't make sense. How would a short-lived toxin make it to one of our distant pastures? Before I could press the matter, Grants cell phone chirps. Judging from the grin on his face, the call was from someone of the feminine persuasion. Someone important. Pushing off the fence, I head back to my chores. I make it to the barn door when Grant yells for me.

  “Hey, Trav!”

  I pause and shoot a glance over my shoulder.

  Sunlight glints off Grant's cell phone, still pressed against his ear. He flashes a grin. “It's good having you home.”

  With one finger, I push my hat toward the back of my head and survey my brother, the rancher. “Thanks. Feels good to be here.”

  But I don't know if it feels right.

  As I work, I give some thought to my other life. It wouldn't be hard to leave it behind, except for her. My search has been a priority for so long it has become a part of me. Maybe it's time to let her go, take my life back. How long was long enough to look for someone who obviously didn't want to be found? I'm pretty sure I passed that mark a long time ago.

  With the last of the stalls mucked, my aching muscles demand a hot shower. Grant is going to give me grief about my stamina for ranch work if I don't get my act together. Hoping to avoid my brother, I tramp along the side of the stable, stopping short when a feminine laugh from the direction of the main house draws my attention.

  A rusty green pickup is parked on the circular drive in front of the house. Propped against the driver side doo
r, with one foot bent backward to rest on the fender, stands Miss Bluebell eyes herself. Grant leans forward, saying something to her and causes her to throw back her head. Her melodic laugh echoes across the yard, spreading over me like honey and heating my blood to one notch above simmer. I linger in the shadow of the stable and watch.

  She sashays away from the fender and mock punches Grant’s arm. Then she reaches for the door handle, but Grant says something else. With another laugh and a toss of her long chocolate colored hair, she climbs into the truck. After she tosses a careless wave in Grants direction, the trucks engine grumbles to life and leaves the ranch in the trail of dust.

  No sign of a goodbye kiss.

  Good.

  I count to ten after her departure. Then affecting a relaxed attitude, I don't particularly feel, I saunter across the yard to the house. It's been a long time since my interest has been piqued by a woman. I didn't realize how lonely I’d become until just that moment.

  “Who was that?” I ask. Good move, just keep it casual.

  Grants eyebrows inch higher and one corner of his mouth pulls upward. “That would be Christine, our best boarding customer. Cloud's owner.”

  “You two look friendly.”

  “Yeah, I like her.” Grant settles his hat back further on his head. You want to meet her? She'll be at Valentine's tonight.”

  It takes me less than a second to accept invitation.

  “Bar’s expanded some.” I scan the parking lot, jammed to overflowing. “Always this busy?”

  “Usually on a Friday and Saturday.” Grant maneuvers his pickup into a tight space between another pickup and a compact car. “Does a fair business the rest of the week but Friday and Saturday, there’s a live band.”

  The marquee in front of Valentine’s Bar and Grill advertised a band called Cowboy Blue featuring Ray Dan Beckley. The sound of lively music thumped across the parking lot.