Thunder and Rain

by Charles Martin

  He was a mess. We both were. Downstream the river was red. I leaned against the rock and hugged him. The Cap Rock rose up out of the corner of my eye. Windmills spun slowly in the distance. Cottony clouds floated above. Blue everywhere. My eyes wandered upriver. A mile from here, we used to camp, fish, spend the day swimming and checking our trotlines.

  Distant sirens were getting closer. The river rolled across us. A whisper of red snaked from my leg with the current. Washing me to the Gulf. The sand beneath me sifted. Just hold on a few moments longer.

  I held him to my chest. “You okay?”

  He was crying, shaking, rocking in the water.

  I asked him again.

  He buried his head in my chest. The pain took my breath away. He was in shock.

  He pressed his cheek to mine and cried in my ear. The left one was working better than the right. His voice sounded like a thousand angels echoing off the clouds. He pulled on me, “I thought, thought you were—” He shook his head. I nodded. “But I thought you were—”

  My skin was on fire. Mourning doves sped overhead. F-18s headed to Mexico. The pain was making me nauseous. Sleep was heavy. If I could just close my eyes.

  I pulled him closer, resting him on my chest. Somebody was slapping my cheeks. I snapped my eyes open. He pressed his head to mine. I heard voices in the distance. My throat was dry. I think he was holding my head above water.

  How can my throat be dry if I’m lying in a river?

  I wanted to take his mind off all of this. Take him someplace safe. Where the fear wouldn’t follow. I spread his palm flat over the surface of the river. The current gentle beneath. My voice was hoarse, broken. He was bleeding from the nose. I whispered, “You know how the Brazos got its name?”

  He shook his head.

  Images of my father flashed before my eyes. “Spanish explorers. South of here. Lost. Dying of thirst. When they found it, they jumped in. Swam around a while. Kind of like us.” I palmed his face. His cheek was sticky. Tears had streaked down the smoke residue that had painted his face. Drippy, sidewalk ice cream seemed like another lifetime. I took a breath. “They called it—” My Spanish wasn’t too good. I dug up the words. “Río de los Brazos de Dios.” Clouds sped overhead. More doves cut streaks in the air above. I coughed.

  He shook his head. Tears were puddling along his lips. He closed his eyes. “I’m cold.” The ambulance skidded to a stop, slinging gravel into the river. She climbed out of the police car. Began running toward us.

  This would be the straw. Everything would change.

  I pulled him close. “It means—” Water splashed my face. The paramedics reached in. I pressed his ear to my lips. “It means the ‘Arms of God.’ ”

  I was right. Everything did change.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We got Sam and Hope settled in the house, showed them their room and gave them time to get cleaned up. An hour later, Sam walked to the fence and leaned on it. She scanned the horizon. The sun was going down. Hiding behind the mesquite. Blood red hanging on shades of gray. The river shone like molten silver rolling out of the smelting pot in the distance. “This is yours?”

  “All that doesn’t belong to the bank. Goes that way about a mile down to the river—where you see those treetops, then each direction about a mile. Give or take, it’s 640 acres.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “In Texas, it’s very little.”

  A shrug. “When you got nothing, it’s something.” Her attention turned to my cows. “Those yours?”

  “That’s Brodie’s college tuition and my retirement. Ninety-eight head.”

  “What are they?”

  “ ’Round here we call them ‘F1.’ Which means ‘first cross,’ or the first generation when you cross different animal lines. Maybe the best example is a mule, which is an F1 resulting from the cross of a horse and a donkey. These cows here are Brahman crossed with Herefords. We call them Tigerstripes for obvious reasons. Those there are Hereford and Angus. They’re called Black Baldies.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  It was a good question. “It gives us all the vigor of both breeds without the weakness. More milk. Better brains. Bigger cows. More framey. No pinkeye. More of the good. Less of the bad.”

  “You sound like you know cows.”

  “I know a little. Learning more all the time.”

  “You always had cows?”

  “No.” I shook my head. My Angus bull stood silhouetted on the hill. “My dad gave me his grandfather along with three Hereford cows when I was eighteen.”

  “You started all this with four cows?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’ve done well.”

  I smiled. “They’re resilient. Feed them. Get a good vet. Treat foot rot when you get it. Trade actively. Pull calves when the mothers need help. Be honest about a cow that won’t calve. It works out.”

  We walked toward the house. “Tell me about the Bar S.”

  “My dad bought it for my mom before I was born. She left him before he finished the house so we moved in. The house is right at forty years old. A two-bedroom. Simple. Front porch. Front door and back door in the same line so you can see straight through the house and catch a cross breeze coming off the river. In August, there’s little difference between hell and Texas so any moving air is welcome. Dad liked to watch the sun rise and fall so he built a porch front and rear.” We walked around the side. “The barn is tattered, the wind rattles the tin on the roof but she’s sturdy and there’s a cellar beneath if Dorothy’s twister returns.”

  A small adobe, brick-looking building canopied by scrub oaks with bars over the windows sat beyond the barn next to the windmill. “And that?”

  I smiled. “That’s the oldest building in and around Rock Basin. The jail.”

  “Jail?”

  “Rock Basin was once a stop on the Pony Express. Given the river, people gathered, a town grew up and when people grow a town they need a jail. Bad always follows good. Fire burned the town, but those walls are three feet of brick. It scorched the walls a bit, but little else.”

  “Looks lived in.”

  “That’d be Dumps.”

  “Dumps lives in the jail?”

  I laughed. “It’s grown on him.”

  Dinner was quiet with all of us watching each other. Trying to get used to one another. After dinner, Dumps shuffled in wearing his reading glasses and carrying a cloth measuring tape and a small notebook. He looked at Hope, pulled up a stool in front of her, and patted his lap. “Little lady, I need to measure your feet.”

  Hope recoiled. Sam looked at me. I whispered, “It’s okay.”

  Sam sat behind Hope and whispered. “Go ahead, baby.”

  Hope slowly extended her foot toward Dumps. He held it in his hand, studying the curve, size, arch, instep, length of toes, something I’ve seen him do several times. Using the cloth tape, he measured Hope’s foot: across the ball, the arch, the top of the arch where that bone is on the top of the foot, the ankle around the heel, and three places up the calf. After each measurement he scribbled in his pad. His glasses hung off his nose. His big, gnarled hands swallowed her foot. He tried to tickle the bottom but she wasn’t having any and didn’t laugh. He checked his measurements then remeasured around her instep and followed that same procedure on the other foot. When finished, he patted her foot. “Okay, you’re done.” He looked at Sam. “Ma’am?”

  Sam shook her head. “Oh, my feet are really dirty and I haven’t done my nails and—”

  “Trust me, I’ve seen worse.”

  Sam pulled off her socks and extended her leg to Dumps. He cradled her foot in his hands, performing the same series of measurements. I watched him thinking of the prince holding Cinderella’s foot.

  He turned to Hope. “What’s your favorite color?”

  She said nothing. Sam spoke for her. “Pink.”

  His laughter came from way down deep. A belly laugh. I asked him one time about it. He said, “Prison
does that.” He nodded to Sam. “Well then, by God, we’ll put some pink in them.”

  Sam spoke. “In what?”

  “Your boots.” He raised his eyebrows. “And you, young lady?”

  Sam said, “I like turquoise.”

  He nodded. “Good call. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He made notes, then looked up from his book. “You two like brown or black?”

  “Black.”

  Dumps folded his notebook, stuck his glasses in his pocket, and walked off toward the barn. “Then black it is.”

  The wrinkle that had been sitting between Hope’s eyes disappeared as she watched him leave.

  The screen door squeaked, Sam sat on the swing. The breeze tugged on the ends of her hair. “She asleep?”

  “I think so. She had a pretty big day. Told me she wants a horse. ‘One just like Mr. B.’ ”

  I laughed. We could hear Dumps rattling around in the barn.

  “How long have you known him?”

  “He’s been here about eight years, but I’ve known him most my life.”

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “He was the first man my dad arrested forty-five years ago. Put him in jail. A jury put him in prison.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Shot a man.” Her eyes widened. “He was eighteen, with a bunch of drunk kids. He wasn’t the triggerman, but by his own admission, he didn’t do anything to stop it. He got out of prison about nine years ago and I found him sitting on the curb in town. Had the clothes on his back.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “I stopped and asked him what he was doing. He was staring up at the clock tower and said he was thinking about jumping out of it. He didn’t have anybody or anything. Nowhere to go. No options. He said he’d have gone back to prison but he was pretty sure they wouldn’t let him in. Asked me if I had any ideas how he could get his old cell back. I drove him to a diner, bought him coffee and eggs and asked him if he minded living with a Ranger and his family. He gave it some thought and said no, he didn’t mind. Least not with me. We gave him ‘the jail,’ which he was real happy about. He’s been there ever since.”

  “And the boots?”

  “He learned to make them in prison. And in thirty-five years, he had a lot of practice. The warden gave him a shop, locked him in there during the day, frisked him at night to make sure the tools stayed inside the cage. He made boots for the warden, all the guards, my dad, me. Once we got him set up in the barn, he started making the rodeo circuit, fitting cowboys. Now, a lot of cowboys come from a long way to get him to make them a pair of boots. He’s not Paul Bond, but he’s close. Makes a good working pair of boots.”

  She looked at my feet. “He make those?”

  I nodded.

  “How long will it take to do whatever he’s doing?”

  “There are about two hundred steps involved in making a pair of boots, but if he keeps his head down and shortcuts a few of the custom items… a couple of days.”

  She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “I’ll bet when you were young, that you were the kid in the neighborhood that cared for all the stray cats.”

  I shook my head. “I hate cats… but I’ve cared for my fair share of calves and horses.”

  She studied me. “That’s a wicked scar on your neck.”

  “Yep.”

  “You don’t offer much do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I said, ‘that’s a nasty scar.’ You should’ve said, ‘Yep…’ and then told me how you got it. But, you only answer what you’re asked.”

  I nodded. “It is a fault in my person.”

  “Everybody’s allowed one.” She leaned forward. “So…?”

  “You know… sometimes people don’t answer a question ’cause the answer is painful.”

  “In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve told you that my daughter was sexually abused by a man I was dating and that he’s got naked videos of both of us. You think any part of that is not painful?”

  She had me there. “I was in an explosion.”

  “Explosion?”

  “A man threw a flaming bottle at me, it blew up, splintered me with glass slivers, set much of my right side on fire.”

  “You look like you’re doing okay.”

  “A good doctor and lots of skin grafts.”

  “And the limp?”

  “The man that threw the bottle then jumped out of the car, and shot me with my own gun.”

  “That had to feel good.”

  “Yep. But not quite as good as the five times right here.” I tapped my chest.

  Her eyes grew. “What were you doing?”

  “Taking Brodie to get some ice cream.”

  “Why’d they do it?”

  “Four kids jacked up on crystal meth don’t need a reason to do much of anything.”

  She shook her head. “How come you’re not dead?”

  “I’ve asked that question many a time.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I was wearing a vest.”

  She looked surprised. “You always wear a vest when you eat ice cream?”

  It was time to come clean. Put my cards on the table. I stood. “You feel like going for a walk?” I glanced at the house. “She’ll be fine. We’re not going very far.”

  She stood, and I led her through the moonlight and cottonwoods to the pasture out back. We skirted cow patties, one of our seven rusted oil derricks that had long ago quit pumping, and up the hill dusted with live oaks. From there we could look south toward the river. North down toward the house. It was my father’s favorite spot. Even in the moonlight, you could make out the shade of blue. “What is that?” A large, charred tree that had been struck by lightning a decade ago stood barren and alone. The cows now used it to scratch their hides.

  “That’s ‘the marrying tree.’ ”

  A smirk. “The what?”

  “Marrying tree. My dad bought this place as a wedding gift for my mom. My grandparents, my folks, and Andie and me, got married out there.” I laughed. “But, the tree must be cursed ’cause my mom left my dad, and you know about me and Andie, so if you’re looking to get hitched, I’d steer clear of that tree.”

  “And those?”

  “Bluebonnets.”

  Her voice softened. “They’re beautiful.”

  We didn’t speak several minutes. “Speaking of beautiful, how’s she doing? I mean with the…?”

  She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets, elbows close to her sides. “She’s okay. The physical discomfort has passed.”

  “How’s the rest of her?”

  “She’s afraid.”

  “Of?”

  “Billy Simmons.”

  Somewhere a whip-poor-will spoke. “I thought you were going to say me.”

  She looked surprised. Shook her head. “What makes you say that?”

  “Sometimes, when evil stuff happens to kids, they associate that across a broad spectrum. One bad man soon becomes all men are bad.”

  “If she was afraid of you, she’d never have gotten on Mr. B, or for that matter, gotten on the couch with you in New Orleans.”

  “When you two get up in the morning, I won’t be here.”

  She crossed her arms, sort of holding herself. “Can I ask where you’re going?”

  I stood. “I’ll be back late tomorrow night or the next morn, if all goes as I’m hoping.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I asked Brodie to show you around. Maybe take you down to the river. I think it’s best if you all stay around here. Lay low. I don’t really expect him to find you here, but—”

  “You did it again.”

  I didn’t look at her. “Yes, I did.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “If it involves me, I’d like to know.”

  “I’m going to San Antone.”

  “He’s not going to let you just walk into his house and put his hands behind his back while his buddies arre
st him.”

  “It won’t come to that if things go as I hope.”

  “So, what? You’re just gonna march down there and tell the San Antonio’s chief that one of his best officers isn’t who he thinks he is.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Would you please answer my question?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And you think he’s going to believe you?”

  “The word of a Texas Ranger still means a lot in this state.”

  She looked confused. “You play baseball?”

  I laughed. It wasn’t the first time that’d happened. “I’m not that kind of Ranger.”

  Her expression changed. “You’re a Ranger-ranger?”

  I made no response.

  Her eyes darted back and forth and her mouth slowly fell open. She was starting to put the pieces together. When they settled somewhere in her brain, she sat back, crossed her arms, leaned her head against the chain of the swing and stared at me. “That explains the vest.”

  I nodded. “It does.”

  “And New Orleans. You were there working as a Ranger?”

  “I was working security detail for the governor. It’s a crap detail, but he liked me and it seems governors like to conference in the Big Easy. So, we were there a lot. Several times a year over two terms.”

  “The explosion—is that part of this, too?”

  “I’d tracked a man a few years. José Juan Chuarez. Finally caught up with him, put him in prison. He and his minions didn’t like that.”

  She nodded. “You really are a cowboy.”

  “I grew up loving everything about them. The romance. Ethic. The code—most of which is unwritten. Marshall, sheriff, Ranger. They were the Titans of Texas. I even admired their shadows.” I smiled. Remembering. “I dressed like them. Mimicked their walk and the cadence of their spurs. The way they spoke. Their measured response. I spent long hours out back of my house where I, alongside Jim Bowie, Davie Crockett, and William Travis, turned the tide at the Alamo screaming, ‘Victory or death!’ I carried the mail for the Pony Express. Rode shotgun atop a stagecoach filled with people and payroll. Tracked down ruthless rustlers and hung the horse thieves. Turned the stampede with a shot from my Colt. Foiled the bank robbery. Rode at full gallop with the reins in my teeth and a Winchester 94 in each hand. Tipped my hat to the ladies. Never spit on the sidewalk. I cried like a baby when John Wayne died in The Shootist.” I laughed. “At night, my father would read to me. Great stories about great men. My favorite was a little book called The Brave Cowboy by Joan Walsh Anglund.” I shook my head. “How I dreamed of being one.” I tapped my chest. “A man who wore the star.” The sum of the last thirty seconds was more unsolicited words than I’d spoken to a woman in a long time.