by Vivian Wood
He grimaced at the thought. “All right. So back to the developers.”
He glanced up at Sawyer. Looking at his brother was like looking in a mirror, if only a couple years older. Tall, with dark hair and a proud nose… and glittering hazel-green eyes that had caused many a women to swoon.
Sawyer was the oldest of the three Roman boys, and probably considered himself as the wisest too, now that he’d gone and got married. Walker, their middle brother, would agree with Colt. Sawyer didn’t always know what was best.
Sawyer picked back up on the story about the developer that had visited his place in the town’s strip, aka the most expensive part of their podunk town. Which wasn’t saying much. Catahoula Creek wasn’t exactly the most exciting part of Louisiana, not with the mecca of New Orleans to the east.
The town only had the bare basics: school, post office, grocery store. Plus a small but growing row of houses in the strip — Sawyer, his wife Remy, and their son Shiloh had started a trend, it seemed.
Colt half-listened to Sawyer talk about the developer, but his attention slowly wandered back to the guys at the bar. Sawyer was right when he’d called them rednecks. All three of the Roman brothers had joined the Navy, worked their way into the SEALs, toured the entire world.
These guys at the bar, in their patriotic shirts with the sleeves cut off and bottom lips fat with dip, had never made it farther than a few towns away, and probably never would.
“…anyway, that’s what I think,” Sawyer said, finishing with a shake of his head.
“Right, right,” Colt said, shaking his head in unison. He quickly drained the rest of his beer and stood. “I’m going to get another beer. You want one?”
“Nah, I’m watching Shiloh as soon as I get home, so Remy can have a break.”
Colt smiled. Listening to Sawyer talk about being pussy-whipped was almost endearing, especially when you considered what a slut his brother used to be.
“All right,” he said, clapping his brother on the shoulder, ignoring the warning look he was giving him. “Be right back.”
He walked to the bar, hearing the conversation fall into silence as he leaned up against it.
“You gonna have the same?” Missy asked him, already grabbing a fresh mug.
“Yep.”
Missy was Remy’s replacement behind the bar. Once Remy’d gotten pregnant the second time, Sawyer had put his foot down about his bride working at The Speckled Hen.
Missy was also one of Colt’s regular hookups when her husband was working on an offshore oil rig. It wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up, but Missy was going to get some strange where she could, when her husband was away.
Might as well be Colt, sometimes.
She poured the beer, giving him flirty eyes the whole time. When she brought it over to him, she leaned in closer than necessary.
“Two more weeks until Tommy is at work again…” she whispered, then winked.
“Oh yeah?” he asked, sipping the foam from the top of his beer.
“Missy, come serve us,” Brett called over, his cronies chuckling around him. “We got all our working parts, unlike somebody…”
Colt gripped his glass, having reached his limit. “Say that to my face,” he said in a low voice.
The rednecks turned around on their bar stools, moving as one as if they all shared the same brain, as small as it may be. Brett smirked.
“Gladly. You—”
That was all he got out before Colt swung his fist into the guy’s face. Quick as can be, two rednecks jumped in.
Colt couldn’t see through the haze of red tingeing his vision. He just swung his fists like twin war hammers, reveling in their might, in the taste of blood on his tongue.
They got a couple good punches in, one of them landing a blow square in his left eye. He fired back, pummeling the guy’s torso. Brett went down.
Colt’s heart pumped frantically, and for a moment he felt free…
Then Sawyer jumped in, and it was all over then. No one would hit Sawyer, a respectable family man. He happened to have been a SEAL as well, and he wasn’t missing part of his leg either.
Colt growled as Sawyer grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out of the bar, the rednecks heckling his retreat.
“Jesus, Colt,” Sawyer muttered, turning loose his neck as they stepped outside, just to grab him by the arms instead. “Three fights…”
Sawyer frog-marched Colt the three long blocks back to his house, a blue two-story gabled affair with a white picket fence, where Colt had left his truck parked earlier. Colt just took it, not shaking free until they were climbing the steps of the house.
He silently jogged the rest of the way up, already knowing what his brother would have to say… and agreeing. For the most part, anyway.
“Colt…” Sawyer started, looking like he was gearing up for a lecture, before thinking better of it and just shaking his head in disappointment instead. “Why the hell do you let them get to you like that?”
Colt blew out a breath as they walked into the house and straight to the kitchen to sit down. It had always been their way as kids to talk out their problems in the kitchen. Now they did it at Sawyer’s newly-constructed house instead of at Roman Ranch.
Colt struggled to find the words to explain. “You don’t… you don’t see it. They’re so fucking in-my-face…”
Colt could see that his brother was beyond frustrated with him, pinching the bridge of his nose the way that he did, as if Colt was a bad headache he needed to alleviate.
“Just… stay put. Stay here in the house until I can… do whatever damage control I can,” Sawyer said, shaking his head. “I’ll have to apologize to Remy. Actually, no… you have to apologize to Remy.”
He shot Colt a meaningful glance as Shiloh came barrelling into the room.
“Daaadddddyyyyy!” Shiloh said, exuberant. His dark hair stood out from his head like a wild man.
“Hey, Shi.” Sawyer scooped him up, kissed the top of his head, and put him down in one smooth motion. “I gotta run and do something. Uncle Colt’s gonna take care of you.”
Shiloh’s small face scrunched up in disapproval. “Mommy said that her feet hurt, so she’s gonna put them up. She said when you are home, which you are, you’re supposed to show me how to use the iPad.”
Sawyer gave his son a placating smile. “Well, good thing your uncle is here. He’s the best iPad-er on the planet.”
Shiloh was almost six, so this news was exciting for him.
“Colt, really? Cooooolllll!” he said, hopping up and down.
“Uh, yeah, I am,” Colt said with much less enthusiasm.
Shiloh stopped jumping around as he looked up at Colt, his head tilting to the side as he studied him. “Hey, Uncle Colt, what happened to your face?”
Colt stiffened in surprise, throwing a pleading look to his brother for help. The asshole just raised his eyebrows innocently in response, as if to say Yes, Uncle Colt. Do tell.
“Uh, nothing, buddy. Just a little accident,” he explained awkwardly, before moving in with the distraction. “Hey, how about you go get the iPad and get set up in the living room. I’ll come and meet you when I’m done talking to your daddy.”
“Okay!” Shiloh said, running out of the room.
Sawyer nodded to himself as he watched his son go before turning to face Colt. “I gotta go. Talk to Remy, tell her where I’m at.”
“Thanks,” Colt said grudgingly.
Sawyer just gave him a tight smile and headed out. A second later, Colt heard the front door slam.
With his brother gone, Colt walked back to the master bedroom where he assumed Remy was, wanting to get the “telling” out of the way. He found her propped up on the bed, a pretty blonde angel surrounded by a sea of pillows.
Remy was also about eight months pregnant… and asleep.
No explaining for me today, he thought, quietly relieved. Colt silently backed out of the room and crept back down the hall. Maybe I’ll w
rite her a note or something…
He paused, taking a deep breath and rubbing a hand over his face before entering the living room for some quality time with his nephew.
He and Shiloh were still playing with the iPad when Sawyer returned an hour later. Colt looked up expectantly when Sawyer entered the room.
“Well, you’re not gonna be arrested,” Sawyer said by way of greeting, scooping up the iPad-absorbed Shiloh and sitting on the opposite couch.
“No?”
“Nope. I talked to the town judge before anybody else could.”
“And?”
“He says if there’s another incident, he’s gonna have to get the sheriff involved.”
Colt shoulders sagged. “Well… it could be a lot worse.”
“You need to take this seriously, Colt. I don’t live on the farm anymore, and Walker’s been out of town for almost a month; you're the only owner overseeing the ranch right now.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Sawyer ignored him, continuing his rant. “There’s a rumor going around that there are prospect developers on everyone’s land, looking for oil and god knows what else. I am not moving back to the ranch, and Walker hasn’t come back from working for the contractor yet, so that leaves you running the show.”
“I know, Sawyer.”
Sawyer squinted hard at Colt, then shrugged.
“You also have to do some community service.” Sawyer added, looking dubious. “He seemed to think it would do you some good.”
Colt looked at Sawyer, who was sober as a priest.
“Okay,” he said cautiously when Sawyer failed to elaborate on what this community service entailed. “What do I have to do?”
“You’re the one-man welcoming committee for the new veterinarian. First one we’ve had since old Mr. Larrett died, so… you know. Be nice.”
“Mr. Larrett probably died from meanness as much as old age,” Colt muttered defensively.
“So? He could be meaner than that, and you’re still going to help. You're also gonna fix up that old veterinarian’s office. Make Catahoula Creek really seem like a good place to live, okay? The town needs this. Unless you have a veterinary degree that I don’t know about, hidden away somewhere?” Sawyer raised his eyebrows in challenge.
Colt rolled his eyes, but shook his head. “No.”
“Well, then do what you can to help him. Or her, I guess,” he added, as if on second thought.
Colt arched a brow at his brother. “You didn’t get a name?”
“The judge only mentioned a Dr. Elliott, and I wasn’t asking a whole lot of questions, so...”
“Right. Got it.” He gave Sawyer a salute as he stood to leave.
“Where’s my wife?” Sawyer asked, nuzzling Shiloh’s head while his son squirmed to get free, not appreciating the distraction from whatever game he was playing on the tablet.
“She’s in the bedroom, asleep.”
“You talked to her?”
“She was already passed out. I didn’t want to awaken the dragon.”
Sawyer gave him a look at the comment, but nodded. “All right. Go on home, and try not to get into any more brawls on the way.”
Colt made a face, but didn’t argue it further.
“I’ll try. Bye, Shiloh.”
Shiloh didn’t say much, just nodded his acknowledgment. Colt got that.
Turning and leaving the house, he touched his swollen bottom lip and wondered what the veterinarian would be like.
Colt drove home, over the little stone bridge and up the incline. When the pavement fell away and the land flattened, he passed under the Roman Ranch sign.
Both sides of the road held grazing pastures, hemmed in by barbed wire fences. Colt pulled up in the circular driveway of the ranch, parking beside the facilities manager and the chef.
He climbed out of the truck, greeting a half dozen dogs as he did. The dogs all vaguely looked alike, brindled with shades of deep brown and gold, coming up to his knee or thigh.
He patted the dogs as he avoided the main house, a three story clapboard affair, that was probably abuzz with tourist activity right about now.
Instead, he headed next door to the bunkhouse he shared with his other brother, Walker. The bunkhouse had been renovated a couple years back, remodeled into four separate living areas, providing Colt and Walker each with their own studio apartments. It was all rough wood walls with a high clay roof, not nearly as fancy as the main house or guest lodgings. But it had the distinct benefit of being private, which he sought desperately at this moment.
He unlocked his quarter of the bunkhouse, letting himself into the dark, spacious room beyond.
He didn’t bother flipping on any lights as he locked the door behind him and blindly tossed his keys onto a side table. Feeling suddenly exhausted after the events of the last few hours, Colt headed straight for his bed, stripping down as he went. Thinking all the while about the punishment he had coming, and whether or not it would be awful.
He fell into bed, sleep pulling down on him until he willingly succumbed moments later.
3
Rose Elliott woke in an unfamiliar room, bathed in sweat and terrified.
It took her a moment to regain her senses, her brain sluggishly pulling together the facts: This was her new bedroom. She’d been dreaming. She was safe.
Rose repeated these things like a mantra inside her head, until her body stopped trembling and she felt her heart rate subside to a much more normal state. Rose took a shaky breath and closed her eyes as her body began to relax.
This was nothing new to Rose; she went through this process every morning, more or less.
Rose gave a tired sigh and sat up in her bed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a decent night’s sleep. It was a wonder she hadn’t mentally cracked yet.
Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, Rose.
Ignoring the unhelpful thought, Rose looked groggily around her barren bedroom. Most of her possessions were still trapped in the boxes piled high in the next room, leaving the space as stark and impersonal as a soldier’s quarters. The only things she’d bothered to unpack that added any sort of life to the room were her festive quilt and the hand-braided rug on the floor next to the bed.
Just thinking about all the unpacking that lay ahead of her was enough to make her want to pull the covers over her head and go to sleep again…
But she already knew what awaited her there. In the waking world, at least, she could try to escape the nightmare of her past.
Extracting herself from the tangle of sheets around her legs, Rose shivered when the fall chill hit her bare feet as she placed them on the floor. She stood, shuffling into the bathroom to assess the damage.
As she entered, she turned on the light and faced herself in the mirror. Long dark hair and permanently sun-kissed skin greeted her, gifts from the Native American side of her ancestry. The white side hadn’t given her much, aside from the potential for heart disease.
The dark bags that had taken up residence under her eyes didn’t escape her notice either. They made her look hollowed out, haunted; a physical reminder of what she relived every night.
As if she were ever in danger of forgetting.
Rose turned on the taps and splashed her face with cold water, feeling better once the remnants of sweat from her nightmare had been washed away.
Rose made her way from the bathroom, back through her bedroom, and into the spacious main living area of the house. Or, at least it would’ve been considered spacious if it weren’t for the copious amounts of moving boxes and animal crates everywhere.
As soon as she entered, her ears were full of barks and whines and meows. The cacophony made Rose smile, her spirits lifting a little.
The room boasted an open floor plan, which she liked. The kitchen was situated off to the left, leaving the rest of the space evenly split between living room and animal area. Rose traversed the boxes in the center of the room, heading for the large metal kennel
s that dominated the entirety of the right wall. Her pets greeted her enthusiastically as she approached.
Though the cats refused to stay in crates, that didn’t mean her dogs wouldn’t. She let out Dasher, the miniature pinscher; Elvira, the sheepdog; Maniac, the cocker spaniel; and Alexis, the pitbull.
“Hi!” she said to them all, squatting down so they could sniff her and lick her face. “Did you guys sleep well in your new house?”
The crates had become necessary after the fifth nighttime fight over a favorite toy, which almost scared her to death. She was pretty sure Maniac had started it, and he likely was the only one who needed the crate, but she was egalitarian about it. If one dog got the crate, they all did.
Especially now, with the stress of moving to take into account. If one of the dogs got overwhelmed, they could just go in their kennel and be left alone.
The twin ginger cats, Jury and Freckles, rubbed against her ankles.
“I suppose you’re all ready for breakfast, huh?”
Rose set about feeding them, then fed herself an English muffin with peanut butter. She absentmindedly petted the dogs as she ate, moving the curtains aside to peer out the windows.
Catahoula Creek might only be an hour from where she grew up, but it was a world away as far as she was concerned.
Far away from him, she thought. That’s what counts.
Then again, the towns did share the same sheriff.
Should I have moved farther?
She sighed and dropped the curtain. She saw a message blinking on her machine, whose volume was all the way down. She turned it up.
“Hi, it’s Mom. Calling from sunny Florida—”
She stopped the recording, checked the time on her phone. 7:15 a.m. That was central time, which put her mother at 8:15 a.m.
She called her mother.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Oh hey! Listen, listen.”
There was a long period of quiet in which Rose could hear the crash of waves.
“Nice, Mom.”
“You hear it?” her mom asked enthusiastically.
Suni Ellen Thompson, once Elliott, had moved to Florida recently with her new husband. She never quite got tired of surf and sand, or hadn’t yet anyway.
