The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

  He cursed under his breath and hurried back in the house. He set his tea down and grabbed his Henry.

  Dropping the lever to cycle in a round, he bounded down the porch steps and toward the playhouse with determination. If that son of a bitch was hiding in there, Phin would—well, he didn’t know exactly what he would do, but it wouldn’t be pretty.

  He approached with caution, rifle raised. “I’m warning you, Mike,” he said loudly. “If you’re in there, you better come out with your hands up. I’m armed, and I will shoot you.”

  No answer.

  He inched closer to the door. The tiny hook to keep it from swinging open was fastened. He couldn’t be in there if it was locked from the outside.

  Phin lowered his gun and flipped open the hook with his foot so he didn’t leave a fingerprint. Not that he imagined the sheriff would run prints over a dead chicken, but one never knew.

  The door swung open.

  No one inside.

  Water guns lay on top of two tiny chairs and an upturned five-gallon bucket sat by the small counter. Several cigarette butts had been extinguished on the counter, bits of ash smeared here and there.

  Was that asshole sitting out here watching Scott?

  Phin needed to call the sheriff about this.

  After locking the playhouse, he returned home. He uncocked the hammer and set the rifle by the door, then called Sheriff Bentley. The man didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about running prints over a dead chicken, which set Phin on edge.

  “Sorry, Mr. Robertson, but I just spoke with Mike Howe’s parole officer, and he was with him this morning at eleven. You boys found the chicken at eight-thirty. Pretty unlikely he could make it back to Kentucky in that time.”

  “We don’t know how long she was dead,” Phin argued.

  “Yes, that’s true, but—”

  “So you need to run the prints on those cigarette butts.”

  “I know how to do my job, Mr. Robertson,” the sheriff said, sounding annoyed himself. “I’ll have a deputy come over and collect the cigarettes you found, but even if they belonged to Mike Howe, it’s not proof he killed your chicken. It’s circumstantial. It was his grandmother’s home, and you and I both know he’s been there before.”

  When the phone call ended, Phin was pissed.

  If the sheriff didn’t want to keep his Mouse safe, Phin would have to do it himself.

  His gaze fell on his rifle. He’d learned to shoot for self-defense after his attack. Living out here, he only ever shot at coyotes. But if Mike showed back up, Phin would use it for its intended purpose, of that he had no doubt.

  Determined, he placed the Henry within easy reach but tucked just behind the curtains. Then he went to the hall closet and took out the old 12 gauge from its nylon rifle bag and a box of shells. He’d only fired the shotgun a handful of times. But he made sure she was loaded and placed it by the front door, out of sight both inside and outside, behind the curtains. He checked to make sure the door was locked, then headed upstairs.

  Scott still slept, so he quietly removed a black plastic gun case from his closet. His Smith & Wesson .357 revolver was simple to use and extremely accurate. Phin used to enjoy going to the range for target shooting with some members of the Pink Pistols. But as with every hobby, he’d lost interest because he’d rather be in his garden.

  He removed the gun and took out a box of .38s. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he loaded the seven shots.

  “What are you doing?”

  Phin flinched. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  “What are you doing, Phin?” he asked more seriously.

  “Making sure I’m prepared if Mike shows up,” Phin told him, pushing the barrel back into place.

  Scott’s brows creased, and his eyes widened. “I’m not sleeping in here with that.”

  “With what? My gun?”

  He shook his head incredulously. “Yeah, with your gun. I told you I don’t like guns. I’m not sleeping in here with it.”

  Phin was a little taken aback by his firm tone. “Mike is unstable. He slaughtered a chicken and left it on your doorstep.”

  “We don’t know it was Mike,” Scott said, shocking Phin. “It could’ve been a coyote.”

  Phin resisted the urge to make an annoyed expression. “There were footsteps with blood. A person did that, and you know it. Plus I just found cigarette butts in the playhouse and an upturned bucket, like someone was sitting in there smoking and watching you write in your kitchen.”

  Scott’s face paled. “The bucket had water guns in it when I was in there last. And I threw away a cup with cigarettes.”

  “Damn,” he muttered. “He was in there.”

  This was worse than he’d thought.

  Scott’s eyes filled with panic. Feeling bad, Phin reached out to place a hand on his leg. “Mouse—”

  He jerked away. “I’m not sleeping in here with that.”

  “You heard what I just said? Mike was in the playhouse. Watching you.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not sleeping in here with a loaded gun.”

  Phin studied him. “All right. I’ll unload it.”

  Scott climbed from the bed, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “Fine! Do whatever you want! My opinion means nothing!”

  Then he stormed out of the room.

  Phin stared at the empty doorway, flabbergasted by the turn in the conversation. Scott had had no problem when Phin raced to his aid with a rifle, but for some reason a handgun in the nightstand drawer was obscene?

  Phin didn’t even know what to say.

  Calmly he removed the rounds from the chamber. Not feeling comfortable with a useless unloaded gun, he took the speedloader out of the case and inserted the seven bullets into it so if he needed to, he could drop the bullets in with one twist and be ready to roll in less than a few seconds. After setting the speedloader and the pistol in his nightstand, Phin returned the gun case to the closet and went downstairs.

  He found Scott standing in front of the refrigerator with the door wide open.

  “Hungry?” Phin asked. “I can make us lunch.”

  He shut the refrigerator and turned to glare. “How can you completely ignore how I feel?”

  Phin flinched but recovered quickly. “How can you completely ignore how I feel?”

  Shaking his head, Scott walked over to the picnic table and threw up his hands again. “This isn’t about you. You took care of calling the sheriff and decided I should stay here, and I’m grateful for that, I am. But I’m the one who got threatened. If I don’t want to resort to violence, you should respect that.”

  Scott had said he wanted to be more assertive, but this didn’t seem like the time. And his temper tantrum was starting to piss off Phin. “No, you’re wrong. This is about me too. This is about us. If someone threatens you, that’s a threat on both of us. I’m sorry you’re not comfortable with my gun, but I’m not comfortable knowing there’s a psychopath out there who’s watching you at night and leaving dead chickens on your doorstep. Now I unloaded the gun but, dammit!” He slammed his hand on the counter. “It’s staying in my nightstand. I love you, and I’ll be damned if I let somebody hurt you.”

  Scott gaped at him.

  Fuming, Phin turned away, his entire body vibrating with anger as he went to the refrigerator. He pulled out stuff to make a salad. He knew he was slamming things around, but if he didn’t do something to keep his hands busy, he would say something he would regret. He’d spent the greater part of his twenties speaking before thinking. The morning Tom died, Phin had bitched him out about leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor. The last words he’d said to his first love had been, “Why can’t you pick up after yourself?”

  Not I love you.

  Not thank you for loving me.

  Phin had been angry about stupid towels.

  A terrible lesson to learn, but when Phin was mad, it was best just not to say anything.

  “Did you just say you love me?” Scott
asked softly.

  Phin placed both hands on the edge of his countertop and squeezed, not turning around. “Yes, I did,” he said through gritted teeth. He chose his next words carefully. “I love you, and I’m scared that Mike could hurt you. I know you’re not comfortable with guns, but I’m not comfortable with someone threatening the man I love.”

  With that, he turned and looked at Scott, the anger, fear, and frustration watering his eyes. He brushed at his face roughly. Scott wore a blank expression Phin couldn’t read.

  Then Scott put a hand on his hip. “You know it’s not fair to say I love you for the first time when we’re fighting.”

  “I don’t care if it’s fair or not. I love you, Scott Howe,” Phin snapped.

  Scott raised his chin in the air. “Well, I love you too, Phineas Robertson.”

  He let out a choking sound and rushed Scott, yanking him into a hard embrace. “Dammit, I don’t want to lose you!” His entire body shook. “I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved. I can’t live through that again. I-I just can’t!”

  “You’re not gonna lose me,” Scott assured him. “The sheriff is taking care of it. He said the deputies will drive past the house more. And I’m staying here with you. And we have door locks.”

  “We also have a loaded rifle and shotgun at the doors.”

  Scott stepped away. “Jesus Christ, Phin.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  Putting his back to him, Scott crossed his arms and shook his head. “Guns make me nervous. I don’t know anything about them other than they can kill people. If Mike breaks in, what if he takes the gun and uses it against us?”

  “I got eighty pounds on the guy. He’s not gonna overpower me.”

  Scott spun around with an incredulous expression. “You can’t know that. You can’t know that for sure! The very thing you want to protect me with could end up killing me!”

  Phin shook his head. “No, that won’t happen.”

  He threw up his hands. “Fine! Do whatever the hell you want, regardless of how I feel about it.”

  Phin studied his frustrated boyfriend. Scott had told him his feelings had always been dismissed by previous men. He did not want to be that kind of man, but he couldn’t see sitting by idly and allowing a psychopath to get anywhere near them either.

  “I don’t know what to do about this,” Phin admitted. “There wasn’t a damn thing I could do when Tom died, but I can do something about this. I want to—no. I need to protect you. Why won’t you let me?”

  “And I need you to hear me when I tell you I’m not comfortable with sleeping with a loaded gun.”

  “I unloaded it!”

  “That’s not a compromise!”

  Trying not to shout, he gritted out, “Yes. It is.”

  Lips pursed tight Scott moved his jaw around, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Then he nodded. “Fine, I guess you win.”

  “It’s not about winning. I’m trying very hard to see your point of view and make you comfortable,” Phin pleaded. “But this just seems illogical to me.”

  “Oh, I’m illogical?”

  Yes, right now you are…. Rather than say that, Phin took a fortifying breath, not wanting this conversation to escalate any further. Though it went against everything in his being, he did not want to force Scott into a situation where he felt uncomfortable. “What if I put the gun back in the case in the closet? Will that make you feel better?”

  “Will that make you feel better?” Scott countered with attitude Phin did not appreciate.

  “Yes and no,” he answered honestly. “No, because it’s not logical for me to lock something in the closet that could keep you safe. But yes, it does make me feel better if you feel better.”

  Scott studied him for a long moment. “And the ones by the door?”

  “No.” He made a sweeping gesture of finality. “I’ll make our bedroom a gun-free zone, but I’m keeping the rifles by the doors. They’re both hidden behind the curtains, so you don’t have to worry about Mike using them against us.” He added that last part, praying he kept the irritation from his tone.

  “So this is our compromise?”

  “This is what adults with different opinions do if they respect each other. I’m making a concession, and you’re making a concession. I think it’s fair.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  Phin wasn’t buying that Scott was pleased, but hell, he didn’t like it either.

  They stood in awkward silence for a moment, and then Phin returned to chopping vegetables. He was done fighting, and as far as he was concerned, the subject was finished. “Would you like chicken on your salad?”

  “Sure, you want me to help?” Scott came up beside him, his smile just as awkward as Phin’s.

  “You can get out the plates.”

  Nodding, he went to the cupboard and took out plates, then silverware from the drawer and set it on the table. Phin stopped chopping and placed the knife down. “I do love you, Mouse.”

  The smile cracking Scott’s facade traveled to his eyes this time. “I know you do. And I know you just want to keep me safe. But keeping me safe and making me feel safe don’t have to be two different things.”

  “I want to do both.”

  “Okay, I guess. But I don’t like fighting with you.”

  Phin faced Scott, desperately wanting to touch him. “I don’t like fighting with you either, Mouse. But we’re two different people. With two different opinions. If this is gonna work, we’ll have to learn to compromise. This won’t be the first one we’ll have to make. I’m willing if you are?”

  Scott placed his hand on Phin’s stomach. “Yeah, I’m willing. And I love you too. Even if you are a lunatic gun-toting Republican.”

  Phin threw his head back and laughed, squeezing Scott in a tight hug. “And I love you too, ya liberal tree-hugging Democrat.”

  “Hey, you’re the gardener. That makes you the tree hugger.”

  Stepping away, he returned to preparing lunch. “True. I’m totally a tree hugger.”

  Scott shook his head at him. “And a dork.”

  Phin gave him a grin. “But you love me, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Don’t ask me why, but I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “WHAT ARE you looking at, babe?”

  Hands on his hips, Phin stared at a big tomato plant in the garden. “I’m trying to find tomato bugs.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a tomato bug?” Scott downed the last bit from his water bottle, his body thrumming after running the country block.

  Phin glanced at him, then pointed to some bare stalks on the tomato plant, high on the top. “Something’s been eating those, see?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “A three-inch, fat, juicy worm the exact same color as the plant,” he said with no small amount of disdain. “But I just can’t find it.”

  Scott popped his sunglasses on top of his head and studied the greenery. Something slightly brighter than the plant caught his eye. It had tiny white eggs on its back. “Gross! Is that it?”

  Phin made a triumphant fist bump and moved in with the plastic cup and stick he had in his hand. He flipped the big worm into the cup and it curled up into a ball about an inch and a half around.

  Scott frowned at the cup. “That thing looks prehistoric.”

  “Damn thing is eating my tomatoes,” Phin grumbled. At least he wasn’t as angry as he was when he bitched about earwigs. Scott had never seen or heard of an earwig, and the first time he did, he got the heebie-jeebies because all he could think of was Chekov getting that bug in his ear in the movie Wrath of Khan.

  Scott studied the plant. “Is that another one?”

  “Mouse, you got a good eye,” he said excitedly, flicking the worm into the cup.

  They both examined the plant for a few more minutes, and Phin finally found a third one. “How was your run?” he asked.

  “Same as usual. I saw Obermeyer at his mai
lbox, and he told me to tell you hi. Do you think he knows we’re a couple?”

  Phin shrugged, the sun glistening off the sweat on his bald head. “Maybe. I have my suspicions about him myself.”

  Scott chuckled. “Never would’ve thought Gilead was as gay as Ferndale.”

  “You know what they say? We’re everywhere. Did you take your pepper spray?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  It had been three and a half weeks since Henrietta had been killed. Sheriff Bentley said the prints on the cigarettes did belong to Mike, but it was circumstantial because he’d been to the house many times. The hardest thing to refute was Mike had a strong alibi—his parole officer.

  But Phin didn’t think it was over, so he insisted Scott take pepper spray with him when he ran. The compromise about the guns hadn’t been so easy. The revolver went back into the closet, which Phin was none too happy about. Scott wasn’t happy about its very existence, but at least he didn’t have to look at it. But the two rifles stayed. Phin wouldn’t budge on that one, and Scott had conceded after his victory over the handgun. He supposed it was a good compromise if both of them were somewhat appeased yet neither of them happy.

  It was a new experience, dating someone who stood his ground on his own convictions yet deeply respected Scott’s. It wasn’t like any of his previous relationships. Phin never once told him he was stupid or ignorant for disliking guns. So Scott didn’t bother to tell him he thought he was the same for having them.

  They had stayed sleeping at Phin’s house, mostly because it was easier for Sister Mary Katherine. The poor baby hadn’t eaten in two days, and Scott worried how Phin would take it if she passed away in the night.

  Or worse if they had to put her down.

  He supposed they were living together, even though they had two houses. During the day, Scott went back to his place to clean, rearrange, and lift weights after his run. Sometimes Phin joined him but not often because August was the beginning of his busy canning season, which was fine because Scott was busy working on his book. Sharon had hit it out of the park with her editorial suggestions, finding the flaws in the manuscript Scott had been unable to see. He felt better about book four and even found time to write that short story about the alien with three cocks.