"You need new stories, Dad. I don't know if you've noticed or not but, when you tell a story, I’m usually sitting there beside you mouthing the words along with you. I know exactly how they all go. But I guess sitting there making fun of you also counts as bonding."
Conor looked smugly at his daughter. "I had a new story for you when I went over to Damascus and helped that girl Grace and her family. You were on the edge of your seat."
"Yes, but as much as I’m tired of the old stories I don’t want you putting yourself at risk just to bring home new material. Besides, you're getting too long in the tooth for those kinds of adventures. You’re not an operator anymore. Your days would be better spent puttering around the garden in a cardigan, half-drunk on Guinness, cursing at the beetles and weeds."
"Don't be so quick to put your old dad out to pasture, Barb. I've got plenty of good years left in me. And plenty of good fights."
Barb raised her cup of tea toward him in a conciliatory toast. "Well, here's to hoping those fights die on the vine. I hope you never have to use them."
"I'll toast to that," Conor said, raising his coffee mug.
"So what's on your agenda today, dear father?"
"I spoke to a man the other day who lives down in the valley near the Buchanan County line. Since the shit hit the fan he's been taking in horses people could no longer feed. Now he's got more than he wants to take care of over the winter. I told him I might be willing to trade for a few so I’m going to go look at them."
"Ah, a horse would be nice. It could take me an hour to walk to JoAnn’s house this morning. It would be half of that on a horse and a lot less effort."
"It will damn sure be easier to carry a load on a horse than on a bicycle," Conor added.
"So you've given up on your bicycles, have you? I’m shocked. I thought you were training for the Tour de Bojangles, twenty-one days of bicycles and biscuits?"
Conor shook his head. "I’ve not given up on bicycles but my tender arse has. It’s become delicate in my golden years."
Barb smiled at that. Despite her banter with her father, she loved him dearly. It was just the two of them in the world and that was fine with her. One day she may have room for a husband and children but she was in no hurry. She would try to wait the world out and see if things got back to normal one day.
"An hour is still a long walk," Conor said. "Take your full load-out."
Barb rolled her eyes. "You know I don't go out without my gear."
"It doesn't hurt to remind you. We check and we double check. That's what we do and that’s how we stay alive. Not just your rifle and your pistol, but your go bag and your radio.”
She gave her dad a thumbs up. "Got it, Dad."
“You better,” he warned. “Some things are joking and bullshit. This is not. This is life and death. Every single day.”
“Roger that.”
“Plates too,” he insisted. “Plate carrier and armor plates.”
Barb groaned. “It’s too hot, and it’s heavy.”
Conor gave a conciliatory smile. “Well, if you’re too weak to carry the weight…”
“I’ll take them,” Barb said, getting up from her seat. “You’re driving me nuts with this.” She went into the house to get her gear together. She had no intention of carrying those heavy plates. She would have to find a way to slip out without him seeing her.
This story continues in
The Mad Mick by Franklin Horton
Available on Amazon
Compound Fracture Page 28