by Linda Berry
From the window, Sully watched the morning sun glint off the sheriff’s windshield as he backed up his patrol truck. Feeling like he needed to smash something, Sully strode out to the porch barefoot and shirtless, barely noticing the cold. He was greeted by honks echoing across the yard from the nearest pasture. Heads thrust skyward, the two donkeys, Gus and Whiskey, were braying like drunken sailors cut off from liquor. This was a cue for the horses to buck, squeal, and gallop at breakneck speed through the pasture, kicking up snow. Chickens came fluttering out of the coop, cackling and scurrying around the yard, flapping wings, feathers flying. Pistol, the mule, rattled the locks on his paddock and thumped his body against the gate, his lips pulled back in a yellow-toothed grin.
Sully felt the urgent need to mount up and join Travis to track the rustlers, but the animals were letting him know they were hungry. They should’ve been fed hours ago. His anxiety rose. Pressure built in his chest and his heart started racing. He had a sudden strange sensation of being detached from his body. He sank back against the steps, barely able to catch his breath. Long minutes of anguish crawled by and he tried to calm himself by training his eyes on the cumulus clouds slowly shifting shape in the blue sky above. After a long while, the hammering of his heart started to ease. He drew in a thin, ragged breath, released a tendril of frozen air.
What the hell? He was losing it. Must be the stress of coming home. The doctor at the hospital told him it would take time to adjust. Take it slow. The world he left behind was centered around order and protocol. He clearly understood the rigors of military life and his place in the chain of command. He did his duty and followed orders. In return, everything he needed—clothes, food, housing, a paycheck—had been military issue, handed down from the powers above. Solid. Unbreakable. Reliable. He returned home to chaos.
He was now responsible for the care of these animals. He needed to pull this ranch back together, with limited labor and dwindling capital. And here he was, spiraling out of control, paranoia gnawing at the edges of his confidence. He had to push through this wall of anxiety—like he did every time he sat on a wild bronc before it cut loose in the arena, like he did when he went out on patrol in hostile territory—and get his job done. His breathing was almost back to normal. He was freezing.
He peeled himself off the icy planks, went inside and dressed in his old work clothes and started his chores. After piling hay bales onto the flatbed truck, Sully dropped off feed to the equines, heifers, and bulls. He filled the water troughs and threw feed to the chickens, watching their beaks peck the earth like pistons.
Finally, Sully was free to head out to the stable behind the barn to inspect Gunner’s stall. All through high school, he had saved a portion of his rodeo earnings to buy a quarter horse from a champion bloodline. At sixteen, he brought Gunner home. A leggy four-year-old stallion with perfect conformation, agility, and willingness to learn. Full of pride of ownership, Sully spent hundreds of hours training him. The stallion came to respond to his commands seemingly by instinct, and he was electrifying to watch in the arena. The dozens of reining competitions Gunner won made him invaluable, sealing the reputation of Dancing Horse Ranch as a top breeder.
Fuming, Sully grabbed a pitchfork and sifted through the pine shavings in Gunner’s stall looking for any small clue left by the thieves. Nothing. He opened the stall door, went out into the paddock, and saw that the snow had been packed down hard by the boots of the lawmen who conducted their own search yesterday. A maze of tracks led out of the paddock across the fields to the north end of the property. The sheriff said the tracks continued for several miles and ended at the river. Hopefully, Travis would find something that was missed yesterday that would lead to the capture of the thieves and get Gunner back. Sully heaved out an angry sigh. Stealing a man’s horse was stealing his livelihood. He fished out his cell phone, called Travis and got his voicemail, and left a message. There was nothing to do now but get back to work.
For the first time, Sully paused to take note of his surroundings. It was a crisp March morning. The sun reflected brilliantly off white hillocks and snowdrifts rippling across the fields. He pulled down the brim of his hat and put on his shades to protect his eyes from the glare. To the west, fingers of timber reached down from the Cascade Range into the desert sage. To the south and north, the ranch was bordered by ponderosa forest. It was good land. Beautiful country. Now his family was in danger of losing it.
The sun warmed his back as he examined the livestock, and he was gratified to find them in good condition. He applied antibiotic ointment to minor cuts on an Appaloosa and the mule, and took note of horses needing farrier work. Like oversize dogs, the donkeys and horses followed him through the pastures, nudging him for attention. There was no greater privilege than to be in the company of intelligent animals who gave their affection freely and never judged you. Sully felt his blood pressure drop as the hours passed. He mucked out stalls, took inventory of the farm equipment, and started working on repairs.
The melting sun cast streaks of red and gold across the snowcapped mountains. Sully was thankful he wasn’t a working stiff holed up in an office missing the shows nature put on for free. Despite his exhaustion, he scrubbed down the kitchen, including all his mother’s dusty pots and pans hanging over the work island. He called Travis again. No answer. The foreman should be home by now. Travis was one of the toughest men he knew, but he was getting older, and Sully felt uneasy that he was alone in the freezing cold after dark.
By the time he polished off two cans of chili for dinner, his whole body ached and his right arm was throbbing. He swallowed his pain pills, peeled off his work clothes, and took a hot shower, letting the force of the water pummel his tight muscles. He wrapped himself in the tight-fitting flannel bathrobe that had been loose on him in college. He had stayed lean as a bronc rider. Every extra pound of weight on the back of a horse was a deficit. But as a Marine, Sully worked out hard. His muscles got bigger, his shoulders broader. In hand-to-hand combat, strength could make the difference between life and death.
He turned on the light in the ranch office. Everything was coated in dust. Looked like no one had turned on the computer since his mother left. A financial whiz, she ran the household on a tight budget, stretching every dollar, and justifying every expense. In the growing season, they ate fresh food from the garden. They canned in the fall and ate homegrown food throughout the cold season. His mom did most of the cooking. He, Joe, and Travis provided outdoor labor—training horses, keeping up the tack and machinery, planting and harvesting hay. It was a good life. They worked hard and steadily built up savings. But now?
Sully got on the computer and started going through the books to see where their accounts stood. Not good. Unopened bills sat in the inbox. He sorted through six months worth. Anger simmered in his gut. How could his mother coldly walk away from her responsibilities, from the family that depended on her, from the animals? No food had been canned last year. The pantry was empty. Travis was living on pizza. It would take a lot of hard work to get the ranch right side up again.
The pain pills, combined with exhaustion, made his brain fuzzy. He shuffled into his bedroom and was sorely tempted to get under the covers and pass out, but his duffel still sat on the floor where he left it last night. The prospect of confronting its contents made his gut tighten, but he’d made a promise to Eric. It had to be done.
Opening the bag released the dusty smell of canvas and he was momentarily transported back to his Marine compound. He pulled out resealable plastic bags containing toiletries. The middle was filled with clothing, rolled up to take less room. Socks and underwear were tucked into the sides, filling up the cracks. He stacked everything neatly on the floor, then pulled out his medical kit, air and water tight, small enough to fit in a pocket. It contained antiseptic, a needle and thread to sew wounds, and a maxi pad to soak up blood. It had come in handy on many missions. Last, he lifted out the sturdy cardboard box sealed with packing tape he’d placed on t
he bottom. Grains of desert sand spilled onto the carpet. The address and phone number of Eric’s mother was scrawled across the top. Maggie Steeler. Sully would have to call her tomorrow.
He checked his cell. No message from Travis. He planted the phone on the nightstand and burrowed under the covers, sleep pulling at him like a rope on a calf.
CHAPTER FIVE
Justin sat hunched over the scarred bar at Chester’s Bar ’n Grill working on his second cold beer, struggling to keep his patience in check. His gaze darted from the yellowed rodeo posters curling on the walls to the marbled mirror behind the counter, where he saw himself reflected with the entire room behind him. Beyond a pair of drunks leaning into their drinks by the window, the neon sign splashed color across the sidewalk. The headlights from an occasional car flooded the bar with light. A buzzing metallic fan moved hot air from one side of the room to the other but did nothing to keep his shirt from sticking to his back. The rotten turn of the day had his nerves on edge. As a consolation, he had treated himself to a steak dinner with all the trimmings. The best meal he’d had in weeks. He glanced at the clock and cursed under his breath. Smiley, Red Rock’s version of a bookie, was an hour late.
The door opened, but it wasn’t Smiley. In the mirror’s reflection, Justin recognized the silver-haired man he’d seen standing in the shadow of his fancy motorhome who had witnessed his beating by Porky and his misfit amigos. The man’s style looked more Jackson, Wyoming, than this hick town lost in the Sonoran Desert. His boots were hand-tooled and his well-shaped Stetson was free of stains. His straight posture and confident expression gave him an air of authority. The stranger looked right at him, crossed the room, and straddled the stool next to his. He removed his hat, met Justin’s eyes in the mirror, and nodded.
“Howdy,” Justin said, barely polite. He didn’t want company.
The stranger ordered a Corona and sat in silence until the bottle and a frosted mug were placed in front of him. A slice of lime was hooked to the lip of the mug. He poured the beer, squeezed the lime, and took a long pull, then wiped the foam from his mouth. “Man, that’s good. Cold. Hell of a rodeo today.”
“I seen better, seen worse,” Justin said.
“Going to Boise next?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout Boise. Just staying local.”
The man looked at him long and hard. “You can cut the act, cowboy.”
Justin glanced at him, sizing him up. “Whatchu gettin’ at, mister?”
“Lose the cowpoke vernacular. You’re way too smart to use English that poorly.” He swiveled in his seat, half facing Justin. “Those cowhands who roughed you up today may have fallen for your bumpkin act, but it doesn’t fly with me.”
“What’s it to you?” Justin finished his draft beer and signaled the bartender for a refill.
“Let’s say I’m an interested party. I’ve seen you on the circuit.”
Justin said nothing, waited. The bartender placed a fresh mug in front of him.
“You’re good,” the man said. “But you could be better.”
“I’m learning.”
“You’d learn faster with a trainer.”
“Trainers cost money.”
“You travel alone?”
“Yep.”
“Most cowboys travel in groups. Support each other. Share the costs.”
“I like my own company.”
“That may be. But you’re playing a dangerous game getting mixed up with Porky and Waters.”
“Bad losers.” Justin met the man’s piercing gray eyes. “They took it out on me.”
The man took a swig of beer. “Men like that don’t take kindly to losing money. Leading them to believe you were a rookie was a con.”
“I am a rookie.”
The stranger’s eyes locked on his, unflinching.
“This was my first PBA rodeo,” Justin said, suddenly feeling defensive.
“How many amateur shows you do this year?”
“Too many to count.”
“You earn money?”
“Half the time.”
“You’re a pro.” The man’s intense stare unsettled Justin and he looked into his beer. “You think you got it all figured out, Alex? No accountability? The last guy who messed with Porky ate through a straw for six months.” A ghost of a smile. “I’d hate to see anything happen to your pearly whites.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah? What if Pastor Bob hadn’t saved your ass?”
“That con man?” Justin scowled, shifted in his seat. After a moment of reflection, he added, “Guess I’d be drinking this beer through a straw right about now.”
“Damned straight.” The man finished his beer, pushed away his empty bottle. The bartender set down another Corona. “You paid a high price for the pastor’s salvation. Half your earnings.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Got a name besides Alex Hamilton?”
“That name’s working just fine.” Justin tightened his jaw. He was using the name and accent for a semblance of protection from his hidden past, but that was no one’s business but his own.
“As in Alexander Hamilton, founding father?”
Justin was feeling his alcohol. “He may be someone I admire.”
The man laughed, loud and confident. “Funny that you’d pick the name of some old coot from the dawn of American history.”
“Hamilton was a great man,” Justin said with a touch of indignation. “Possibly the most misunderstood and under-appreciated of all the founding fathers. He was a heroic leader in the American Revolution, he was George Washington’s chief of staff, and our first secretary of the treasury. He helped form a strong central government, which united the colonies when they were floundering. Just a few of his many, many accomplishments.”
The stranger looked impressed. “You like history?”
“Yeah.” Justin could win a quiz show he’d read so much history.
The man’s face sobered. “It’s ironic you chose that particular handle, considering Hamilton was preoccupied with matters of honor and decency.”
Justin felt the back of his neck flush. The stranger had no right to judge him. Justin used the name because he and Hamilton had eerily similar childhoods. Both had been born bastards, were abandoned by their fathers, lost their mothers early in life, were raised in foster care, and faced lives of hardship and struggle. Hamilton developed his mind, worked hard, and pulled himself out of an anonymous, impoverished existence. Justin intended to do the same.
“This the life you want, Alex? One step ahead of men who want to beat your brains in?”
“Hell no,” Justin said, frowning. Presenting himself as a rookie to Porky had been an act of desperation. It just happened. It wasn’t planned. “What do you care? You got a guardian angel complex or something?”
The man laughed. “You could use one. You’re a smart kid, but you need to be smarter. You won some money today, which should’ve put you halfway to Phoenix by now.” The man shook his head. “But here you are.”
Justin was more curious than annoyed by the stranger’s interest. Roaming solo, eating fast food, and doing second-rate rodeos was taking its toll. It’d been a long while since he’d had a real conversation with anything but a horse.
“You sticking around means only one thing. You’re waiting for Smiley.”
“I intend to get my money,” he said fiercely.
The stranger’s eyes narrowed momentarily. He rubbed his jaw. “It’s a damn shame you’re too young to see your potential. I own that bull you rode today. You’re the first cowboy that wasn’t thrown off him. I don’t know where you learned how to stay on a bull, but you’re a natural. Good instincts.” He met Justin’s gaze. “You’re also a hothead. That’s going to get you into trouble.”
Justin stared into his beer, troubled by the man’s prediction.
“If you decide to stop throwing your talent down the toilet, I could offer you some honest employment.�
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Justin shrugged.
“Self-worth is about finding out what you do best, and working hard at it.”
“Some great philosopher say that?” Justin asked.
“Hell if I know. It’s just a little something I learned myself by doing things the hard way.” The stranger placed a card on the bar with a few bills, covering Justin’s tab. “If your attitude changes, call me.” He settled his Stetson on his head, placed a hand on Justin’s shoulder, and walked out.
Justin stared at the card for a long time before picking it up.
Hank Sterling, Sterling O Ranch, Beaverhead, Oregon.
He blinked hard. The man was a legend.
It was after eight before Smiley slithered into Chester’s. A little glassy-eyed and smoldering after two hours of sipping beer, Justin watched him from his perch at the bar. The man was oily, from his small eyes, pockmarked skin, and greasy hair to the insincere way he conducted business. Justin figured he’d repel water if he bothered to shower. The bar was now clouded by cigarette smoke and full of tough-looking cowboys who drank hard and played hard at the card tables in back.
Smiley slouched on the barstool next to Justin and motioned for the bartender. A shot glass appeared and was filled with cheap whiskey. The bartender left the bottle. Obviously, Smiley was a regular. The bookie gulped back two shots before gracing Justin with his full attention. “Sorry I’m late. Got your goods.” He patted his shirt pocket.
The obvious bulge made Justin’s heart pick up a beat. “Hand it over.”
Smiley scowled. “In here? You crazy? Let’s go out back.” He motioned to the bartender. “Watch my bottle for me, Murry.”
Built like a sumo wrestler, the bartender eyed Justin with an unreadable expression and went about his business.
Justin’s balance was off when he got to his feet. He’d drunk too much. He followed Smiley through a dark passageway past the restrooms, looking over his shoulder twice. He didn’t like the setup, but his truck was on the other side of that exit door. He’d grab his money and run. They stepped into the dimly lit alley and the heavy door clanged shut behind them. Quiet. No movement.
