by Hondo Jinx
Unfortunately, the story of the Callahan ranch was approaching its final chapter. Because Sandra, Mr. and Widow Callahan’s only child, a daughter some years older than Brawley, had gotten into acting and moved to Hollywood. Every now and then, Sandra would land a small part in a show or movie, and Widow Callahan would invite people over for a viewing party.
Sandra’s acting career was up in the air. But one other thing was certain. Sandra was never coming back. As in never. She hated the ranch, and during an interview after her only real role of note had landed her temporarily in the limelight, Sandra had disparaged West Texas as “a wasteland full of snakes and cows and drunken rednecks.”
Brawley reckoned she’d been right. Except she had said it like that was a bad thing.
From what he’d seen of California, he’d stick with his wasteland, vipers and all. At least the snakes in Texas rattled before they bit you. Most of the snakes in California, as far as he could tell, hid behind fake tits and designer shades.
Someday, when the widow eventually died, her Texas-hating daughter would sell the ranch. A pity, seeing how much the Callahans had suffered over the years, but it was what it was.
All Brawley could do was let Rodrigo know they had a hurt cow.
He crossed the low stone porch and rapped on the door of the old bunkhouse.
A voice answered faintly from inside. It sure didn’t sound like Rodrigo.
Shuffling footsteps approached. The door opened, and there stood Widow Callahan herself.
What was she doing in the bunkhouse?
“Hello, ma’am,” Brawley said, wrestling against the compulsion to sweep the non-existent hat from his head.
For a second, Widow Callahan looked confused, her face slack and her eyes out of focus.
Widow Callahan had always been very particular about her appearance. But now the woman’s red and silver hair was badly disheveled, as were her clothes. Her blouse was misbuttoned, and she had mismatched her earrings, a pearl in one ear, a gold hoop in the other.
She wasn’t an old woman. Not really. Maybe sixty. But today, she looked closer to eighty.
Widow Callahan smiled brightly, bringing her face back to life. “Brawley! What a pleasant surprise. Come inside, please. I was napping on the Davenport and had the most awful dream that something had happened to Robert.”
Widow Callahan laughed uneasily. “Just a horrible dream. Horrible. Some nonsense about a horse throwing him and… just horrible. I told myself if there’s one man who won’t ever fall of a horse, it’s Robert. But listen to me rattling on like a mockingbird. Come on inside and get out of this heat, young man. Care for some tea?”
“No thank you, ma’am,” Brawley said. “I can’t stay.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Robert had indeed fallen off his horse. Fallen off and broken his neck. Tough as nails ‘til the bitter end, Robert Callahan had held on for several cruel months, dwindling away like forage in an August drought. That had been ten years ago.
What was wrong with Widow Callahan?
“That’s a pity, Brawley, I do get lonely ever since Robert…” The Widow trailed off, her eyes going cloudy again.
“Some other time, ma’am,” Brawley said. “I stopped because you had some cows loose.”
“Oh my,” she said, raising a hand to her lips.
“It’s okay, ma’am. I drove them back in and closed the gate. I have to say, I’m kindly surprised to see you here. I was expecting Rodrigo.”
Widow Callahan grew suddenly cross. “Don’t even mention his name. I fired that good-for-nothing man.”
“Fired him?”
“He was stealing,” Widow Callahan said, her eyes burning with indignation. “Can you believe that?”
“No ma’am, I certainly can’t. Rodrigo, stealing?”
“Yes, stealing. For years. After all we did for him.”
“Any idea where Rodrigo is now, ma’am?” Brawley asked, figuring he had to track the man down and get some answers.
Widow Callahan shook her head. “Gone. That’s all that matters. Thank goodness Mr. Blanton Cherry came along and drove him off.”
“Mr. Cherry? I don’t know the name.”
Widow Callahan brightened. “Mr. Blanton Cherry is a saint. He and his men saved the ranch.”
“Well, I’m pleased to hear that, ma’am.”
Glancing over the widow’s shoulder, Brawley was shocked by the state of the bunkhouse. Dirty dishes covered the kitchen counters in haphazard heaps. Atop this range of unwashed plates and bowls, white Styrofoam takeout containers sat like a mantle of snow.
“If you need to speak with Mr. Cherry,” Widow Callahan said, “he might be up at the main house. He stays there when he’s on the ranch.”
Brawley was surprised afresh. “He stays in your house, ma’am?”
Widow Callahan nodded. “Of course, it makes no sense for one person to occupy that big old house. Mr. Cherry’s a very important man, and he travels in the company of several associates.” She glanced behind her at the cluttered bunkhouse. “This place is all I need.”
“Hold on, ma’am,” Brawley said, trying to rein in his rising anger. “You mean to tell me this guy Cherry has your house, and you’re staying here? In the bunkhouse?”
The sound of approaching engines interrupted their conversation, and Brawley turned to see a pair of shiny double-cab pickups coming from the direction of the ranch house.
One truck was black. The other was white. Both were jacked up and had tinted windshields, light racks, and cow catchers.
Four men crouched in the bed of the black truck, which led the way.
“This would be Cherry, then?” Brawley said, watching the trucks pull to a stop.
“Yes,” Widow Callahan said. A change had come over her. Blushing like a schoolgirl, she patted at her hair and tried to straighten her cockeyed blouse. “Oh dear. I fear I look a mess.”
“You’re pretty as a peach, ma’am,” Brawley said, and he left her to face the men jumping down from the truck bed.
The driver opened his door and got out. He was a short, mean-looking guy with a wrestler’s build and a lot of dark hair spilling from his black hat. The man stepped forward, glaring at Brawley.
The other men followed. They wore pistols on their hips, open carry. One held a pump shotgun across his beltline.
They looked more like roughnecks than ranch hands.
“Who the hell are you?” the driver said.
Brawley wasn’t interested in answering this asshole’s questions. “You Cherry?”
“No,” said a man only now emerging from around the white truck. “I am Blanton Cherry.”
Cherry was of an age with the mean son of a bitch. Mid to late thirties, Brawley reckoned. But Cherry was cut of an altogether different cloth.
His face was pale, the skin looking as soft and smooth as a manicured fingernail. His eyes were pale blue, and his blond hair was cut short beneath a big, tan cowboy hat, from the band of which jutted a large, colorful feather.
Cherry was of average height with narrow shoulders, a slight pot belly, and small hands that terminated in slender, almost womanly fingers glittering with rings. He wore a spotless beige suit and exotic boots. Ostrich, unless Brawley was mistaken.
In his spotless beige suit and expensive boots, Blanton Cherry didn’t look like he’d done an honest day’s work in his life. He sure as hell didn’t look like a ranch manager. He looked like a politician or maybe an oil executive.
In other words, the sort of man not generally welcomed with open arms around these parts.
Which made Brawley wonder again what was wrong with the widow. How had she fallen for Cherry’s scam?
As Cherry came around the truck, the driver’s door opened, and an enormous man stepped into the open, looking no more like a rancher than Cherry. What he looked like was a professional wrestler who’d spent a long stretch in prison, pumping iron, using black market steroids, and collecting shitty tattoos.
The gi
ant was a couple of inches taller than Brawley and thick as a Miami Carnal. The stubble atop his shaved head glistened with sweat. He wore a sleeveless black t-shirt and wraparound shades and bloused his desert multi-cam pants over half-laced combat boots.
In one hand, the man held a sledgehammer. In that big fist, the crude weapon radiated more menace than the other men’s pistols or even the scattergun.
“Howdy,” Brawley said, turning toward Cherry. His danger senses were firing now. He drew down tight and cold and ready.
He hoped to avoid violence. But if shit did go pear-shaped, he reckoned he could waste all seven of these assholes.
Unfortunately, littering your neighborhood with corpses tends to complicate life in unfortunate ways.
“Mr. Cherry,” Widow Callahan said, “this is my good neighbor, Brawley Peckinpah Hayes. Brawley, this is my dear friend, Mr. Blanton Cherry.”
“Pleasure,” Cherry said, striding forward. His gait was bold, almost hurried. He moved with the unmistakable manner of a city man. His hulking chauffeur shambled after him like an ill-tempered shadow.
Cherry offered his hand.
Brawley shook it briefly, trying not to show his revulsion. Cherry’s hand was soft and warm and damp, like half-baked dough.
“Phew,” Cherry said, and flicked the brim of his big hat, tilting it back on his sweating head. “Hot one today. Hayes, huh? Would you be kin to our esteemed neighbor, Mr. Lawton Hayes?”
“Yes, sir,” Brawley said. “Lawton Hayes is my Pa.”
“Outstanding,” Cherry said. “A man of integrity, your father, a real credit to ranchers everywhere.”
Brawley nodded. Something about Cherry’s words kindly bothered him, though he couldn’t say exactly what.
“We had some cows loose,” Widow Callahan said. “Brawley here was nice enough to round them up.”
“Cows loose, you say? Why, we can’t have that. No, sir. Surely not.” Cherry’s accent was smooth and syrupy sweet. More Tennessee than Texas. “Roscoe, you go look into these stray cows and make sure they’re okay.”
The mean-looking son of a bitch who’d been driving the black truck nodded. He gave Brawley a cocky smile then gestured to his crew, and they piled back into the pickup.
Brawley had no idea who these assholes were, but one thing was for sure: there wasn’t a cowboy among them.
“Thank you kindly for rounding up our cattle, Mr. Hayes,” Blanton Cherry said. “That was mighty neighborly of you.”
Brawley nodded. “One of them cows is hurt in the hind quarter. She needs a vet pronto, or she might could die.”
“Again, we thank you. And I assure you that we will see that this injured cow receives immediate medical care.” Cherry smiled brightly then made a show of scanning the driveway. “But you appear to be without transportation. May I offer you a ride home?”
“No thank you,” Brawley said, “but you can tell me why you’re staying up there in the big house while Widow Callahan’s down here in this little old bunkhouse.”
Widow Callahan tittered nervously. “I’m fine.”
Cherry smiled and ran his tongue in a slow circle inside his cheek. Suddenly, his eyes were cool and appraising. “Would you excuse us for just a moment, Mrs. Callahan?”
“Of course, Mr. Cherry. Anything you like. But please know I wasn’t complaining or anything like that.”
Cherry patted Widow Callahan’s hand and gestured to the surly giant, who led the widow back into the bunkhouse, ducking to avoid bumping his shaven head.
When he was alone with Blanton Cherry, Brawley said, “Just what in the hell are you trying to pull here, Cherry?”
Cherry’s pale blue eyes flashed with anger, the man apparently unused to being confronted so directly. But Cherry recovered quickly, resurrecting his politician’s smile and reaching up to lay a hand on Brawley’s shoulder.
Which is a thing you never do to a stranger in West Texas. Not unless you want a trip to the dentist.
But Brawley didn’t slug the weasel. Instead, he said, “You ain’t from around these parts, are you?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I am not. I hail from California, truth be told, but don’t hold it against me, young man. I vote red and stand for the anthem and love my tea sweet just like y’all.”
Brawley winced a little. It is painful for any Texan to hear an outsider say y’all… and especially if that outsider is a slick-talking Californian.
Cherry laughed. “Now, I can see the surprise on your face, Mr. Hayes.”
Which was bullshit, Brawley knew. Because there wasn’t one iota of surprise on his face.
“You’re wondering how a Californian came to develop a Southern drawl. Well, when I was—”
“I don’t give a damn about your drawl,” Brawley interrupted. “I only care about Mrs. Callahan.”
Cherry’s smile tightened slightly. He patted Brawley’s shoulder. “As do I, son. In case you missed the memo, I am helping Mrs. Callahan. You might have noticed that she seemed a little… confused?”
“To say the least,” Brawley said. “She’d have to be confused as hell to fire Rodrigo, move into the bunkhouse, and hand her ranch over to a pack of wolves.”
Cherry smiled cordially as if Brawley’s words hadn’t penetrated that big, tan hat of his. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Mrs. Callahan has most unfortunately been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh,” Brawley said. The news was a punch to the gut.
“And she still lives in the main house, of course. Some of my men live in the bunkhouse. They’re not very good housekeepers, it pains me to confess. We also have some trailers set up on the range. I myself mostly stay on a neighboring ranch that I also happen to manage. It was Mrs. Callahan’s daughter, Sandra, who got in touch and asked for our assistance during this difficult time.”
Cherry smiled and shook his head. “Now, before you go nominating me for Boy of the Year, yes, I’m being paid. Handsomely, in fact. Apparently, there’s money in picture shows. Who knew? And yes, I do have an interest in eventually purchasing the ranch. Down the road, you understand.”
Brawley nodded, not liking the idea. But at the same time, he felt a load lift from his shoulders. Widow Callahan was confused. She was still living in the house as she always had. And Cherry was a ranch manager.
Somehow, it all rang true.
Cherry patted Brawley’s shoulder again. “Thank you for rescuing our cows. You sure I can’t give you a ride?”
“No thank you, sir. I’m parked just down the hill.”
“Fine, fine,” Cherry said. “Pleasure meeting you, son. Don’t you worry. We got a real good team of nurses who check in on Mrs. Callahan every day. Oh, and Brawley, you talk to that Pa of yours for me, you hear?”
“Sir?”
Cherry’s voice ripened with good humor. “I offered to buy his ranch. But he won’t hear of it. The man is stubborn as a cross-eyed mule on Tuesday.”
Brawley drifted partway downhill. “My Pa will never sell that ranch, sir.”
“So he says. But you yourself seem like a reasonable man, so I’ll share my pitch. I’m offering twice what’s it worth. Hell, more than twice. Do me a favor and try to talk some sense into your Pa for me, all right?”
“Yes, sir,” Brawley said, starting downhill again. “I surely will.”
It wasn’t until Brawley passed through the gate and latched it shut again that he thought, Now, why the hell did I say that?
He glanced uphill.
Blanton Cherry lifted his hat in farewell.
Brawley waved and started walking again. He would never try talking Pa into selling, but he was glad things were okay here.
It was a crying shame about Widow Callahan. But at least she had Blanton Cherry and his crew looking over her.
5
“How long has it been since you brought a woman here?” Nina said, as Brawley led her into his double wide.
Brawley shrugged. “Been a while.”
> “That’s what I reckoned,” Nina said.
“You reckoned, huh?”
Nina grinned up at him, sweeping a purple lock from her forehead. “When in Texas, do as Texans do, right?”
“That’ll work. How come you reckoned I hadn’t had a woman in here lately?”
“Um, everything?” Nina said, gesturing broadly. “I mean, this place doesn’t exactly scream woman’s touch.”
Brawley tried to see his house the way his women would. There was no decoration, no finery. His home was nothing if not plain. But he kept it clean. And it suited him.
“The air is stale in here,” Frankie said, carrying an armload of tools into the room.
“It’s been mostly shut up for a long time,” Brawley said. “I spent a lot of time on the road. Then I was laid up in the hospital for about a thousand years or so.”
“I’ll rig up a sweet air conditioner,” Frankie said. “You’ll be able to leave it on all the time.”
“AC is expensive,” Brawley countered automatically.
“Not anymore, it isn’t,” Frankie said. “Your ranch is about to become energy independent.”
“That’s music to my ears, darlin,” Brawley said, and figured that would be even sweeter music to the ears of his parents, who had long struggled to make ends meet. Eliminating their power bill would surely help.
Sage and Remi came in, carrying armloads of stuff.
Sage studied the trailer, panning her gaze, every blink a shutter click.
Frankie dropped her tools and stared up at the clock over the sink. It was stopped at 8:57. Without a word, she climbed onto the counter and pulled down the clock, giving Brawley a nice view of her voluptuous ass.
Thanks to the Gearhead’s driving and modifications to the RV, they had crossed the state in only seven and a half hours, shaving two hours off Brawley’s expectation.
For a good stretch of that drive, they had wrestled with the implications of what they had learned from Beecham. The FPI wasn’t just hunting and testing psi mages. They were employing them now. Alongside mercs, no less.