by Karen Rock
His tendons strained as he hacked at the chopping block again, belatedly noting he’d forgotten the log again. The pain of losing someone he loved as much as Jesse made it impossible to imagine ever letting himself feel close to another person again. He couldn’t give in to his budding emotions for Brielle.
“Strange technique,” a man drawled behind Justin, and he whirled, ax in hand. “Never seen anyone split wood without wood before.” Cole Loveland stood beside the front loader and eyed the cut-up chopping block with raised eyebrows.
“What are you doing here?”
Cole nodded at the heap of uncut logs. “Volunteering. Question is, what are you doing here?”
“Chopping wood.”
“Right...” The ax hanging by Cole’s side caught Justin’s attention. “Lucky for you I’m here to lend a hand.”
“Don’t want your help.” Justin turned away from Cole’s irritating, cocky expression and dropped another log on the block. Typical Loveland.
“Wasn’t asking for permission.” Out of the corner of his eye, Justin spied Cole grabbing a hunk of wood and placing it on a tree stump. He halved it in one smooth move, chucked the pieces to the ground and picked up another log.
Justin clamped his back teeth and set to work, one eye on Cole’s fast-growing pile. He heaved, he swung, he cleaved, yet his rival began catching up to Justin’s heap. Like all Lovelands, Cole was mountain tall and built like a Mack truck, his trunk-size arms moving effortlessly as he chopped piece after piece without breaking a sweat.
Was this guy a machine?
“Shouldn’t you be up at the house with Brielle?” Justin grunted as he smashed through another log.
“I will be when I finish this,” Cole said easily, not a hint of strain in his voice as he cut through more wood then tossed pieces on his stack. “I’m going to the Al-Anon meeting.”
An ironic laugh escaped Justin. “That’s a piss-poor excuse.” Al-Anon was a support group for friends and family of addicts.
“For?” Cole slammed down his ax, breaking apart another log.
“Seeing Brielle.” Justin’s hands tightened around his ax handle to keep from smacking off Cole’s smug smile.
“That’d be a bonus, but I’m here for the meeting.”
“You don’t have any addicts in your family,” Justin accused, calling out the hypocrite. If Cole wanted Brielle, he had another think coming...namely Justin’s fist.
Cole returned to his work without bothering to answer, and Justin finished up the last of his stack. The satisfaction at scoring a point on a Loveland eluded him, though. Something about the rigid set of Cole’s shoulders, the clench of his jaw, left Justin uneasy.
“My mother drank,” Cole said at last when he split his final log. He pulled a can of pop from his knapsack and offered it to Justin. When Justin shook his head, Cole tossed it to him anyway, forcing him to catch it before retrieving one for himself.
“Didn’t know.” Condensation rolled down the side of the cold can and Justin popped the top, unable to resist. A sweet fizz bubbled from its opening, then splashed down his throat in one long pull.
Cole’s lifted can paused in midair. “It was in all the papers. News shows. The talk of the town—the state, even—how my supposedly abusive father drove Colorado’s favorite senator’s beloved daughter to drink, go insane and then take her own life.”
“Don’t pay much attention to rumors.” Justin tossed back another cold swallow and softened a touch for Cole. Justin’s father had mentioned the Loveland tragedy only once, referring to it as a suicide, and Justin never knew his father to lie. “Everyone trash-talked Jesse. They only had it half right.”
Cole nodded as he polished off his pop then stowed the empty in his bag. “Heard them yammering about him at last night’s meeting. That’s why I decided to volunteer.”
Justin lowered his can to the truck bed’s open gate and blinked at Cole. “Because of my brother?”
“And my ma.” Cole grabbed split wood from the pile and tossed it into the front loader’s bucket, the heavy clanging sound punctuating his admission. “She had depression. A place like this could’ve helped her.”
Justin joined Cole in transferring the firewood. “She might be alive, and our parents wouldn’t be dating.”
Cole nodded slowly as he hurled another piece. “Can’t change what we can’t fix, though.”
Justin’s mouth dropped open to hear one of his own phrases from a blasted Loveland. “We can stop it,” he muttered, thinking of Boyd’s crazy vow not to propose until all the Cades agreed. Boyd had to know he’d never succeed.
“And keep our parents as lonely and miserable as us?” Cole countered. He scooped up an armful of wood and dumped it on the growing mound. “How’s that fair?”
“I’m not...” Justin faltered. Okay. He was lonely and miserable. He recalled Cole’s hastily called-off wedding. It looked as though Justin and his rival had more in common than he’d thought. Both were solitary, unhappy bachelors. He shoved down the budding sense of camaraderie and grabbed more halved logs. He would not make friends with a Loveland.
“Focus on your own happiness instead of trying to stop theirs.” Cole stopped and his unusual Loveland eyes—some called the color sapphire blue—bored into Justin’s.
He threw down a bundle of wood without tearing his gaze off Cole then picked up his drink for a last swig. “I’m trying to save Ma.”
“You’re holding on to old grudges. Anger.” Cole chucked the last of the cord into the loader.
“I’ve over a hundred years’ worth of reasons to be pissed at you Lovelands.” Justin’s hand clenched around his can, crumpling it in his fist.
“We’re not the ones you’re angry at.”
“Then who am I angry at?”
Cole studied Fresh Start’s main house. “Come to Al-Anon and find out. Could be someone closer than you think. Someone besides yourself. Trust me. I’ve been there, buddy.”
Without another word, Cole turned on his heel, leaving Justin agape.
No question, he was angry at the world, at fate, at death and, most of all, at himself.
But he wasn’t mad at anyone close to him...was he?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“READY?” JUSTIN ASKED the rope-holding patients gathered around him.
Overhead, heavy gray clouds blotted out the sun and obscured Mount Sopris’s peak. A misty wind rushed across the grassy space like a cold, wet slap. The grim weather matched Justin’s oppressive mood. Carbondale’s fact-finding group had arrived unannounced this morning, and he’d gnawed over their whereabouts ever since. What were they seeing? Thinking? He wished he could be with Brielle, defending the program instead of teaching a workshop on tying and circling a lasso.
“Wait a minute.” Francis chuckled and kicked at the hemp tangled around his boots, ensnaring himself further. “Looks like I figured out how to hog-tie myself, anyway.”
Maya crouched to free him. “Don’t go hurting yourself, Grandpa,” she grumbled with a twitchy smile.
Francis ruffled her hair. “Ain’t been called Grandpa in a long time. Thank you, darlin’.”
Maya rolled her eyes, looking pleased nonetheless.
“The first step in tying a lasso is to make a simple overhand knot,” Justin began, demonstrating. “An overhand knot is the basic knot you’re familiar with. Just make a loop, then pass one end of the rope through it. Keep it loose and give yourself lots of slack to work with. Your rope should now look like a large O with the loose knot at the bottom.”
He strode to Mary, loosened her knot a touch, then grabbed his rope again.
“Next up, take the shorter tail end of the rope in your hand. Pull it around and over your O loop.”
“Can you do that again?” asked Francis.
“Yes, sir.” Justin replicated the move, watching Fran
cis until he’d completed the step. “Now thread it between the outside of the O portion of the overhand knot and itself. Pull the rope about six inches through. This’ll form a new loop, which’ll be the base of your lasso.”
“How, how, how,” Pam muttered. She flexed her wrists and flicked her fingers repeatedly as she struggled with the cord.
“Like this.” Justin guided her through the motion slowly, working around her tic, careful not to pressure her.
“You have nice lips,” Pam blurted, then clamped a hand over her mouth.
When Mary tittered, Francis wagged his finger at her. “Judgment-free zone.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Pam’s forehead smoothed at Justin’s easy smile and neutral tone.
He backed up a few paces, his lips still curled, and it struck him, full on, just how much he’d been smiling lately...more than the three and a half years since Jesse’s passing combined. By a mile. By light-years, even. In his family, he stood out as the sad, lonesome one. Here, everyone struggled, including Brielle. And this camaraderie redistributed the weight of their burdens because they carried them together.
“Pull on the slack end of the rope, the part you’ll hold on to when you throw your lasso, and the new loop you just made.” He tugged the line taut then paused for the group to catch up. “Be careful not to pull the tail end back through the knot.”
“Wrong!” Pam exclaimed.
Justin inspected her handiwork and adjusted the line slightly. “You’ve got it.”
“You’re doing better than me.” Francis held up his knot. “This looks like a cat toy.”
Pam’s wrists and fingers stilled and a fleeting smile whisked across her face. “Mittens.” Then—“Thank you.”
“When you finish,” Justin continued when Maya jumped in to aid Francis again, “you should have a tight knot at the base of a small loop. The tail end of your knot should extend from the knot, too.”
“This is a honda knot, right?” Paul held up his rope. “One of my buddies showed it to me in Mosul.”
“Is he a cowboy?” Mary asked.
“Was.” Paul’s face contorted. “Did rodeo. Promised to teach me how to rope calves when we got out. Ride bull.”
“He’s dead!” Pam shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, Paul.”
Paul hung his head. “Me, too.”
“What was his name?” Maya asked as her nimble fingers freed Francis’s knot.
“Tyrone. Tyrone Johnston.” Paul’s face lifted.
“We’ll rope some calves for him, then,” Justin vowed. “In his honor.”
Paul blinked up at the sky. “Yeah?”
“Heck, yeah.”
“Cows smell like—”
“Hello!” Brielle called, interrupting Pam. Her stiff smile and high shoulders, along with the pinch-faced crowd surrounding her, told Justin everything he needed to know about how the fact-finding mission was going.
“Howdy.” He glowered at Brent Jarvis, the Carbondale Home Owners’ Association member who’d called for a vote to revoke Fresh Start’s charter. How did such an idiot get on the committee?
“We don’t mean to interrupt.” Mayor Cantwell beamed at each patient with a wide, toothy smile.
“Good,” Justin bit out. His gaze swerved to Doug Rowdy, the hardware store owner who’d helped rile up the locals against Fresh Start.
Another idiot.
“It’s the feds!” Pam warned.
“What? Where?” Francis dropped his rope and Maya slung an arm around the older man’s thin, shaking shoulders.
“That looks like a honda knot,” observed Judge James, aiming an admiring look Pam’s way.
“Dead,” Pam whispered, nodding in Paul’s direction. “His friend is dead.”
Paul dropped his rope and lumbered away, his shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep inside his parka’s pockets.
“What’s wrong with him?” shrilled Dana Stoughton. She owned a convenience store about a half mile down the road and had lost her son to a drunk driver a few years back.
“As we mentioned at last week’s meeting, Justin’s teaching our residents ranching skills,” Brielle said, her tone brisk as she deftly switched subjects to avoid revealing confidential information about her patients...something she’d warned him, and the rest of the staff, about in advance of the visit. If she was intimidated or nervous, she wasn’t showing it.
“What have you learned so far?” Justin’s elementary school principal, Miss Grover-Woodhouse demanded. She pinned a stern eye on, of all people, Maya, an authority-resistant teenager.
Justin bit back an oath.
“Who?” Maya looked around her. “Me?”
“Yes, young lady. What have you learned?” Despite the steady, waterlogged wind, Miss Grover-Woodhouse’s clipped gray hair lay perfectly flat, her lipstick not daring to stray from its borders. She was an uncompromising woman, stern and exacting, but also fair, Justin recalled. He’d clocked a lot of hours in her office...more than in his actual classrooms.
“Nothing.” Maya dropped her rope, flipped up her hoodie and tugged its strings tight.
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Brielle jumped in. “They’re all just beginning, gaining basic skills.”
“And they’re attending meetings and therapy and dealing with withdrawal,” Justin added, feeling like a hypocrite since he hadn’t done any of those things, even after Cole’s prodding the other day.
“Still looks more like a vacation to me,” grumped Doug Rowdy as he glanced at the assembled group.
“Our residents are working quite hard,” Brielle insisted.
Justin’s gaze skimmed over the residents, imagining what the committee saw. Pam flicked her fingers and flexed her wrists, Francis managed to tangle himself in his line again, and Paul stood apart, shoulders shaking. Maya had disappeared inside her hoodie, and Mary swung her lasso like a jump rope.
Anger flared inside as he pictured the negative words they’d write in the report, words that didn’t apply to Fresh Start’s patients.
“Ms. Thompson’s right. Everyone here’s working hard on themselves. On what’s inside. You feel it more than you see it.” A muscle jumped in Justin’s jaw as he stared down Doug, daring him to criticize one more thing. From the corner of his eye, he spied Brielle’s slightly open mouth and still form. He’d surprised her—heck...he’d surprised himself—but he meant every word.
“Paul,” Justin commanded. “Report for duty.”
The word choice worked. Paul squared his shoulders, marched to his rope and grabbed it from the ground. Maya shoved back her hoodie and Francis managed to organize his rope—somewhat. Pam’s hands stilled, and Mary stopped twirling her rope.
“Next step. Pass the slack end of your rope through the honda knot.” He modeled the maneuver, his attention solely on the students in front of him. “Then pass the long slack end of your rope through the small loop in your honda knot to create a functional lasso.”
“I got it!” cackled Francis.
“Don’t have a heart attack, Grandpa.” Maya mocked then glared at Dana, who pressed her hand against her chest, eyes wide. “If you can’t joke about death here, where can you?”
Justin bit back a smile at Doug’s outraged sputter.
“Thank you all for your time.” Brielle’s shadowed green eyes settled briefly on Justin then skittered away. “We’ll leave you to your work.”
“And miss the last few steps?” he insisted, galvanized to defend Fresh Start, its residents and Brielle, who, despite her own issues, was doing a good job. If Fresh Start shut down, she’d leave Carbondale. He had to sway the committee’s opinion and ensure they voted to keep the facility open. Then Brielle could stay here, where she belonged. “We’re learning to rope next.”
“I’m a proponent of lifelong learning,” Miss Grover-Woodhouse declar
ed. She unzipped her purse, pulled out a plastic square, unfolded it, then placed the rain bonnet over her head. As if on cue, the clouds began dripping, light cold sprinkles.
“I’d like to see it,” added Judge James, opening her umbrella.
“It’s settled, then.” Mayor Cantwell yanked his hood over his head.
Justin held out his rope. “By pulling on the slack end of the rope, you can tighten the lasso to grab onto objects. See?”
A waved of affirmative murmurs rolled around the circle.
“Tie one more basic overhand knot at the end of the tail to keep the knot from coming undone and ruining your lasso.”
“That’s a stopper knot,” Paul announced. Water droplets glistened on the tips of his short, spiked hair.
“Right. Now here’s how you hold your lasso. Grab on to the slack end of your rope and start to swing. The tension in the rope will pull the loop in your lasso shut before you can throw it. So it’s important to use a grip that keeps your lasso wide-open as you twirl it and build momentum.”
Justin peered through the water dripping from his hat brim. The bedraggled group approximated his directions. Francis grabbed the loop without letting most of it fall, and Pam compensated for her hand tic by alternating her grip.
Did the committee understand the effort, the courage, the grit the Fresh Start residents showed? They darn well better. “I need a volunteer.” Then, since he’d already picked his victim, Justin pointed at Brent Jarvis, the Home Owners’ Association rep. “You.”
“Me?” the weasel squeaked.
“You. Justin jerked his chin to the left. “Over there. Nope. Farther back. Now take ten more steps backward. Do it again.”
“You’ll never rope him from there,” Doug Rowdy exclaimed between the scarf folds wrapped around his neck and face.
“Wanna bet?”
“Betting’s not Christian,” Doug chastised, pious as a TV preacher broadcasting from jail.
“Neither is turning your back on people who need help, but you’re certainly doing it,” Justin replied.
