I left, grabbing cleaning supplies from the kitchen, and giving the study a thorough going over. The wood shone brightly in the sunlight streaming through the window. The floors were clean and I moved the old rugs outside to air out. I pulled the faded drapes, once a royal blue, now dull and worn in places, and threw them away.
Finished, I stood in the doorway a second time, remembering watching Dad as he filled out paperwork, made endless phone calls, and prepped cattle to be shipped. Yet always willing to let me come in and play, or talk, or sit and read while he worked. The room held memories of scoldings, and talks, of good times, and his tears when he’d sold the ranch to Paul Barnes to save us. Something clicked. Why did he sell the ranch to Paul? He’d said it was because of the price drop of cattle, and to keep food on the table. But I remembered the books¸ we’d been fat with cash.
Going to the filing cabinets, old metal ones from the fifties, I found them locked. Turning to the desk, I searched the drawers. It yielded nothing.
I started to leave and stopped. Back at the desk, I pulled the drawer on the bottom left. Old files, dusty and faded, filled the drawer, and I took them out. Following instinct, I knocked on the bottom and smiled at the hollow sound. Shaking my head, I pushed on the bottom and a latch unlocked. The wood popped up and I gently removed it.
Under the false bottom were two thin, long boxes, three keys, and papers with writing from the Victorian era.
“What the hell, Dad?” I sat in the chair, and started to go sift through the pile.
An hour later, I sat back, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Fuck.”
The papers contained letters from the 1880s, from my great-great-grandfather, Alistair Middleston, to a girl named Corrine Beauchamp, from New Orleans. They were love letters, filled with longing. He’d had a penchant for the dramatic, but between the lines was love.
I went to the bedroom, snagging Fozzy from the pillow and the laptop from the closet. I had Wi-Fi, barely used. In the office, I fired up the laptop, logged into the secured Wi-Fi, and started looking for one Corrine Beauchamp from New Orleans.
The sunlight faded, and I turned on the lamp. My family’s history was filled with darkness, light, and everything in-between. According to a website created by the current owners of her childhood home, Corrine was the daughter of a prominent Louisiana family, fading from the ravages of the Civil War, and looking to auction her off to the highest bidder for the best business merger. My great-great-grandfather was a wandering hobo at the time, and not good enough. Corrine was supposed to marry one Ralph Smythe, a plantation owner out of South Carolina whose fortune survived the war.
But Corrine ran away with Alistair Middleston, immigrant from London, no roots and no real money. They moved to Montana, taking advantage of the Homestead Act, and grabbing onto the one hundred sixty acres I currently defended.
My eyes ached, and I closed the laptop, carefully put my grandfather’s love letters in the drawer, and brought the two thin boxes close. I opened the newer one, made of pine and not as weathered. Inside was the key to the filing cabinets, and a letter. Opening it, I held the emotions at bay, recognizing my father’s writing.
Dearest son,
The day will come when you have to know the things I wanted desperately to keep from you. For your safety. If you haven’t already, in the box made of mahogany, you will find another key, the true reason I sold the ranch to Paul Barnes. We needed his security, his ability to hide us from the world.
Beware the Smythes, for they have never forgiven the Middlestons. They want what your great-great-grandmother took, over one hundred years ago, as revenge for what Ralph Smythe did to her.
In the filing cabinets you’ll find our history. Never believe Alistair Middleston was a thief, or a bad man. He did what he had to do to protect his wife, and his family. Without his actions, or Corrine’s in South Carolina, we would never have been born.
I knew Alistair and Corrine. They lived until I was ten. You are like my great-grandfather – steadfast in your loyalty, a protector, a warrior. All things I wish I had been, for your sake. I hope you can forgive an old man his cowardice.
But no matter what you learn, what you find, what you decide, know I was always proud of you, you were my greatest gift, my only love. You were always the man I wanted to be.
I love you, son.
Adam Middleston, your father.
PS – forgive the citizens of our small town for what they did.
I held the letter, the penmanship scratchy, flowing. Dad had been a hard worker, but an academic at heart. I desperately needed to talk to him, to hug him, to ask forgiveness for not coming home, leaving him to die alone.
Carefully folding the paper and returning it, I pulled out the key and laid it aside. I gently grasped the mahogany box, with a crest on the top, and opened it. Inside lay an old fashioned key, a threadbare ribbon attached to the end. The smell of lavender and vanilla surrounded the red velvet interior. I lifted the key out, made of brass and black from age.
What the hell was Dad talking about? I used the file keys to open the cabinets, the smell of old paper assaulting my senses. A couple of sneezes later, I began to rifle through the files, finding old bookkeeping accounts, bank statements, letters from a great-uncle, dead long before I was born. I took the letters and set them on the desk.
I went through all the drawers, and it wasn’t until the bottom drawer of the second cabinet I found something interesting. Twenty files filled with legal briefs from the late 1890s and early 1900s, medical records, tintype photos, glass negatives, the original deed to the ranch, and behind it, a map.
The cellphone vibrated in my back pocket. I jumped, pulling it out and chuckling.
“’Ello?” I pulled out the pictures, shut the cabinets, locked them, and went to the desk.
“Hey, butthead. I made it. Rogue is happily playing in the fields, Five is munching on some well-deserved hay, and I’m heading to bed.” I could hear Karen yawn.
“I found some interesting stuff in the study. I’ll have to tell you more later. Get some sleep.” I put the key in the box, putting the boxes and letters in the drawer, carefully hiding it. “And Karen?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Anything for you, Aiden. Love you. Get some rest, you sound tired.” She hung up.
I returned all the file folders to the desk drawer, and shut it. Turning off the lamps, I stopped, my peripheral vision picking up a movement outside the window.
Damn it, when would they learn?
Chapter Six
I locked the desk, and the door to the study. The windows in the house were triple glazed and shatterproof. They’d have a hard time jumping through, or breaking them. I went to the front of the house, grabbing the Sig from the kitchen and checking to ensure it had a full clip, and slipped it into a holster at the back of my jeans. I grabbed a twelve gauge, put in five shells, and held two more.
Concealing the shotgun against my side, and walking nonchalantly through the dark house, I went through the front door, around the side of the house and found a burly male squatting next to the study window, talking into a cell phone.
“No, sir. I don’t think he saw me. But he’s locked the study,” he whispered. “I can’t break the window, but I can break in the house. Do you want me to dispose of Middleston? Yes, I can do it without waking him. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” He slipped the small device into his jacket’s interior pocket.
I raised the shotgun, and nudged him with the barrel. “You’re not as good as you think you are.”
He raised his hands, body tense.
I backed away several feet, “Stand, turn, and face the house. Put your hands on the wall. Slowly.”
He did as ordered, moving lightly on his feet. He’d had some kind of training, but not enough.
I pulled the phone from my pocket, calling 9-1-1. They were on speed dial. Describing the situation, and explained I had a loaded shotgun, willing to pull the trigger. I hung up
, and slid the phone into a pocket.
I waited. He was unmoving, his breathing even. The sound of a siren pierced the early night, and a smile spread.
Blaze gingerly stepped around the corner ten minutes later, gun raised, walking easily on the balls of his feet. “Are you okay, Aiden?”
“Yep. And I didn’t shoot. Just caught this mofo at the window, and overheard a phone conversation you might find interesting.”
“Back down, son, let us secure him,” his voice even, and I turned to find three more deputies coming around the corner, guns drawn.
I fell easily to my knees, put the shotgun on the grass, and pulled the Sig from the holster, setting it next to the shotgun. I assumed the familiar position.
The man whipped around, pulling his 9MM and aiming at a deputy, pulling the trigger. I dropped and rolled out of the line of fire, a second bullet hitting the soft ground where I’d been kneeling.
I grabbed the Sig, sighted while laying on my side, opening fire and hitting him in the chest. Several more bullets riddled his chest, and one pushed through his forehead, leaving a mess on the side of my house as it exited the back of his head.
I sat up, and found the deputy he’d aimed for, dead on his side. Blaze was on the ground, holding his thigh, and the other deputies were frantically talking into the mikes attached to their shoulders.
I lived in the static foam. Standing, I went to help Blaze, ignoring the two dead bodies. Nothing could help them now. Taking off my t-shirt, I created a tourniquet, helped him lay back and elevated the leg.
More cars arrived, several ambulances, and more police.
It was a long night.
Dawn was pushing over the horizon when the circus left. The static foam vibrated in my head. The last officer left, I went inside, marching to the living room where I’d deposited Fozzy as I’d left the study, and grabbed him close.
I buried my nose in his threadbare fur, inhaling years of good memories, but knowing I was too late.
Jogging to my bedroom, I kicked off my boots, fell on the bed, and let out a hoarse yell. I cursed and screamed, wanting to destroy something, anything to kill the emotions raging as the last of the foam left. Hoarse, out of breath, I curled around the teddy bear, and grateful for the privacy of my house, I let the tears fall.
Chapter Seven
A hand slid across my skull, gentle and cool. I opened swollen eyes, to find Jillian sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hair, shining a bright copper in the sunlight streaming through the window, sliding across the blonde and auburn strands. It created a kind of halo effect, and I was entranced.
“I heard.” She put a hand on my cheek, and I turned into it.
“I think I need more sleep.” I pulled away, rolling onto my back, and feeling the stiff muscles. I must have slept in the fetal position.
“Want to talk it?” She didn’t sound insulted I’d moved away.
Putting an arm across my eyes, “Not really. How is Blaze?”
“He’s going to be fine. Probably discharged in a week. Luckily he’s a healthy guy.” She left the bed.
I peeked, seeing her standing with arms crossed under her breasts. “Thank you for telling me. I’m afraid I wasn’t in shape to call and ask after him.”
She picked up Fozzy, staring at the worn toy. “I doubt you were.”
“What can I do for you, Jillian?” I wanted her to leave.
“I came to check on you, see if you needed anything. You know, Squirrel, it’s okay to talk.”
I sat up, meeting her jade green gaze. “What’s to talk about? I’m sure you have the report.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, and sighed. “That’s just facts, it doesn’t tell how it affects you. The other deputies are in shock and having a hard time. The one killed was well loved, with a family. Violence always has an effect on those who witness it.”
“I’ve been watching violence for twenty years, Jillian.”
“And you’re not psychotic, yet. So when you’re ready, I’m here.” She leaned over, kissing my forehead and leaving.
I watched, refusing to call her back. To beg to be able to hug her waist, feel her hands on me, soothing the pain. The cry last night burned my man card to cinders.
I heard the front door close and got out of bed. Padding to the bathroom, I took care of needs, brushed my teeth, and went into the kitchen. Sitting on the counter was a Starbucks smelling of dark, rich coffee, and a bag. I opened it to find two thick slices of pumpkin bread. Lying next to it was a note, Call me when you’re ready.
I stared at the note, and sipped the strong Americano. How’d she know it was my favorite? Shaking my head, and finishing the coffee, I gulped down the morning treat. I had to clean off the side of the house.
Memories rose, unbidden and unwanted. I gripped the edge of the granite. I tried to push them to the side, ignore them. I lost the battle.
Eleven years were lost and I stood outside the hut, listening to the Colonel give orders. Intelligence said the home hid several insurgents, responsible for a recent bombing and killed twelve troops. He’d promised it would be bloody, messy, and tight.
We had no idea a small contingent of soldiers was already at the back door, the communications screwed up.
We’d stormed inside, expecting men. We found men, women and children. A firefight broke out, the confusion hard to decipher, and bullets flew. A small figure ran around a corner, and I could see she was hit. She cried out briefly, fell down a wall, and lifted an M16. Just as two men surged from a room, shooting at my small unit. We couldn’t see. The Colonel fell, and more men in long robes flowed into the room, including several children, holding old rifles.
The small woman on the floor opened fire, sighting the ones with the rifles. I saw a flash of her face. It was frozen. As if lost to the emotions. Until a child fell to a bullet.
I shook myself, seeing Karen’s face before the scarring, and last year’s fiasco. So young, so brave. She’d never forgiven herself. But if she hadn’t, we’d all have died. We’d been in tight formation, unable to maneuver, unable to get shots off. The men in the hut were mowing us down.
I sat on a barstool. Elbows planted on the countertop, face buried in my hands, I hoped to stop it. Stop the replay. I’d been shot four times, spent months in the hospital and recovery. Turned right around and joined the Colonel. To wade into more blood and death, from the jungles to the desert.
I sat there, wrangling the memories into the black hole, willing them not to return. Jillian was right, I should talk about it. Violence had many consequences, not all of them physical. But it wouldn’t do any good right now. At the moment, I had to gather my courage, and get the side of the house cleaned of the blood and bits of flesh.
Taking a deep breath, I gathered a pail, filled it with hot water and distilled vinegar, a long handled brush, gloves, and went out the back door. Setting it close to the area, I grabbed the hose, turned it on and returned.
I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get the blood out of the siding. I’d had aluminum siding installed four months ago, making for easier clean up. I could even ignore the smell.
Rinsing the pink suds from the siding, I pushed back the memories. So many, and I knew one day, I was going to fall to them, and get lost. The static foam would either lead to insanity, or the release of the memories would.
Finished, I rinsed out the bucket and went inside for a shower. Changed into clean clothes, I left, heading to visit Blaze first.
The hospital smelled of illness and death, mixed with antiseptic cleaners. The quiet sounds of machines and whisper soft footsteps of medical personnel echoed on every floor. Blaze was on the third floor, at the end of the hall. I knocked softly, and peeked around the door.
“Hey, man, come in. I’m bored,” Blaze invited.
I let the smile loose. “Glad to know you’ll survive.”
I sat next to the bed, in a worn out chair, and leaned forward. “I see you came through the surgery okay, surprised
you’re not passed out on some great drugs.”
“I do love the Percocet. But don’t like the constant sleeping. How are you doing?”
I looked at him, trying to formulate a response. “Okay,” I shrugged, “cleaned off the siding, saw Jillian, and came here. Was going to head to the library, but didn’t realize the time until at the hospital to see you.”
“Library?” he frowned.
“Some research to do. But don’t worry, I promise to leave everyone alive.” I smirked.
He laughed. “You’re definitely the talk of the town.”
I chuckled, “Of that I have no doubts.”
“Rumor has it a certain gorgeous brunette of a rather famous reputation visited you.” He waggled bushy, brown eyebrows.
“Well, you’ve always been well-known.” I didn’t mention the pasty complexion, or that his normally full, dark brown hair was flat and oily. Being in a hospital meant the beauty contests were put on hold.
“Smart ass. Karen Barnes? They saw her filling up on the way out of town, even rumored to have that famous horse of hers in a trailer.” He raised an eyebrow, a glint in his dark blue eyes.
“Yeah, she came to take Rogue back to Laramie. Five goes where she does right now. I got to finally pet him. You forget how big he is until up close.”
We spent an hour talking, and I relaxed. He was doing well, probably going to be discharged in a few days instead of a week. He asked about the renovations, if I’d found anything of interest, and made jokes about the history of cattle barons in the area.
I stood, stretched, shook his hand, and promised to stop by the next day. The day was gone, and I had to come into town anyway.
Twisted Iron Page 3