by Hondo Jinx
The cows quit cropping switchgrass and stood stock still, staring up at him. He could feel their awe, a heavy blanket of reverence stitched in fear and longing.
The bulls voiced their complaints, scraping their hooves and digging dusty furrows with the sharp tips of their wide horns. But they didn't put much into it. They sensed his size and power and dominance.
If Brawley rolled down there and started mounting their females, the bulls would give him a fight. Well, some would. Those who fought would die. They knew that. And yet they would still fight for the cows. Now they stood, waiting.
Brawley released a loud bellow that echoed off the far walls of the arroyo. That deep, primordial blast voiced his strength and his claim.
The herd recoiled as one, like a huge super organism flinching from the threat. Cows cried out, eyes rolling. The beasts wheeled and shoved. For a second, Brawley thought they might stampede.
Which would be a major pain in the ass. And since he didn’t want to spend his evening rounding up a spooked heard, he gave a deep, commanding grunt that carried his will out over the valley.
The cattle stilled, looking up at him. There would be no stampede.
You are my herd, he told them, using not words but imagery and emotions and holding whole concepts in his mind. You belong to me and will not question my rule. Therefore, you need not fear me.
Slowly, he descended into the arroyo.
The cattle lowed and parted, making way for a huge bull the likes of which they had never seen. As Brawley swaggered across the valley floor, the herd grew braver, creeping forward to brush against his massive shoulders like a pack of wolves welcoming its long-lost alpha.
He rewarded them with a constant transmission of benevolence. Reaching the old bull, Brawley stood tall and looked down upon the faithful, unflagging defender of the longhorns.
The old bull was nearly twenty years old and had sired a good many of the young now quivering beside their mothers. Though he was less than a quarter of Brawley’s size, the old bull held his head high. His lean face stared boldly up at Brawley not in challenge but with the resigned, understated pride and unshakable confidence of a combat veteran receiving a well-deserved medal.
The old bull’s hide had faded over the years and was crosshatched with scars he had earned while foraging among cacti, putting down the challenges of younger bulls, and driving off predators. He was a grizzled old campaigner, and Brawley addressed him as such.
Old bull, you are strong as granite, fierce as a tornado, and wise beyond your breed. You are not less for my presence. You are more. You are greater. I recognize your strength and hold it up to this herd. You will continue as you have, protecting these cows and calves in my absence. And if ever you falter, I will crush your enemies, drive them from the plain, and mount their cows.
The old bull snorted, finding this good.
If I call you, Brawley told him, the herd will thunder to my side.
The old bull threw back his head and voiced fierce allegiance.
Brawley turned, leaving the herd to their habitual half wildness.
As he climbed out of the arroyo, foreboding tickled over him, his danger senses jangling faintly like wind chimes in a soft summer breeze.
There was no immediate threat, but enemies had come in his absence and done damage.
Significant damage.
Redbone.
If anyone hurt his horse…
He sprinted up the arroyo slope, his heart full of murder. Cresting the ridge, he whipped his great head back and forth, scanning for threats.
Redbone was nowhere to be seen.
Brawley moved forward, ready to charge.
As he approached the water tank, the sense of dark events hung in the air, thick as the smell of a decaying carcass. Overhead, the windmill spun doggedly on, squeaking its rhythmic and unceasing complaint. A slight breeze shivered across the surface of the water tank, carrying the scent of strangers.
Human strangers.
Coming around the windmill, Brawley saw narrow motorcycle tracks twisting like snakes across the westward range.
Three dirt bikes, he reckoned, judging by the knobby treads.
They had visited the shed in his absence then driven off moments ago. In fact, he could still hear the faint whine of their engines as they sped away toward Widow Callahan’s ranch.
Blanton Cherry’s men.
Brawley snorted with rage, stomped the ground, and glared across the scrubby acreage.
Then he drew up to the shed and saw what they had done. The sons of bitches. The dirty, low-down, no good sons of bitches.
The D8 dozer tractor’s engine was cracked clean in half and covered in a thick layer of frost that was only now beginning to melt. Brawley could feel the cold from several feet away. At a glance, he saw burst lines and shattered cylinder heads. A steady drip started, meltwater and oil and other fluids raining down from the ruined engine.
The D8 was Pa’s most vital piece of equipment. And his most expensive. He would never be able to afford a replacement.
Brawley didn’t need Seeker senses to connect the dots. Pa had refused to sell the ranch. Brawley had stood up to Cherry and his crew. Now, Cherry was trying to put them out of business.
Brawley wanted to follow the motorcycle tracks and trample the responsible men to pulp. His heart thudded, aching with bloodlust.
But vengeance must wait. He couldn’t strike now, with everything hanging over him. Especially after what Jamaal had told him.
The FPI had pulled out all the stops and was focusing its efforts on Texas. Meanwhile, the Order was on high alert, and every psionic bounty hunter on the planet was chasing the big-ass price tags Janusian had put on his and the girls’ heads.
Rural West Texas wasn’t exactly psi mage central. Any big psionic explosion would draw attention. It wouldn’t matter who showed up first. Because even if Brawley whipped the first responders, other enemies would follow.
Among them would be the Tiger Mage.
And that would be the end of Brawley, his women, and his folks. His ranch, his animals. His hopes and dreams and everything he had ever worked toward. His whole world, gone in a flash of purple lightning.
Brawley couldn’t risk that.
Besides, this whole thing smelled like more than sabotage. It smelled like a trap.
The saboteurs hadn’t even covered their tracks. Perhaps they hadn’t bothered because of Cherry’s hold over the police.
Or maybe Cherry had told them to leave the tracks. Maybe he expected Brawley to give chase. Maybe Cherry and his outfit were lying in wait.
With what firepower?
Brawley had no clue. And he couldn’t let his anger invite any underestimation.
Based on the state of the D8’s engine, Cherry clearly had a cryokinetic on his payroll. Along with a telepath and Carnal and who knew what else. Not to mention a whole roster of heavily armed fuggles, any one of whom might fire a bullet straight through Brawley’s brain, putting out the lights forever.
He would not charge blindly into an ambush.
And yet his blood was boiling. He tossed his huge head, bellowing with rage as he slashed the air with his horns, spinning and kicking like a bucking bull.
He would kill them all, stomp them to jelly, and feed the thistles with their blood.
For now, however, he must bide his time.
He shifted back into human form, which lightened the yoke of rage atop his shoulders. As he reined in his anger, he remembered his horse.
Reaching out with his mind, he detected Redbone hiding in the near distance, hunkered among the sage.
The horse was afraid, Brawley sensed. Afraid of the strangers and terrified by the thing they had done in the shed. But mostly, Redbone was afraid of Brawley’s super bison form and its great rage.
Brawley called to the horse, but Redbone would not come, so Brawley reached out and hitched the stallion to a line of soothing goodwill. He coaxed no further, just maintained the connect
ion as he went about the business of donning his clothes and gathering his rifle and ammunition from the water tank.
He felt Redbone rise from the brush, felt the horse walking cautiously in his direction.
As Brawley settled his ball cap on his head, the big red horse whinnied and drew close, eager for his reassuring touch and voice.
Brawley took a few seconds to put Redbone at ease then mounted up and headed for home.
Halfway there, a loud explosion boomed in the distance.
He and Sage had both failed to discern why Cherry was blasting. The man had hidden his activities beneath a deep psionic cloak.
Which must have been an awful lot of work.
For the first time, it occurred to Brawley that maybe Blanton Cherry was trying to drive them off for something other than the ranch.
Another explosion sounded to the west.
Maybe Cherry was buying up ranches just for the privacy. Maybe the man was worried about someone figuring out what he was up to.
What was Cherry hiding?
Brawley didn’t know. Couldn’t even guess. But he was damn well going to find out.
22
They gathered at the picnic tables outside Mama’s house, talking and eating ice cream as the firepit crackled and the world reminded them that there is nothing so sublime, so fiercely celestial, as a West Texas sunset.
With darkness gathering, daylight made its lurid last stand along the western horizon, setting the evening sky ablaze in a raw and radiant light show of vivid blues, shocking crimsons, and churning clouds of purest gold. Far to the south, the mountain peaks of Mexico caught the light and were transformed, shifting from gray to yellow to pink.
Nina wept.
“Why bless your heart, Nina,” Mama said, putting an arm over the crying girl’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nina sniffed. “It’s just… so beautiful.” She gave an embarrassed laugh and tried to blot her tears on her shoulders. Her hands were occupied with Tammy’s children.
Hannah had cuddled in with “Aunt Nina” and was now fast asleep, her little mouth happily smeared with Blue Bell ice cream.
Ty, on the other hand, hadn’t touched his dessert. He sat grudgingly beneath Nina’s other arm like a tied-up watchdog and glared at the other picnic table, where Tammy sat facing Brawley.
“Same price?” Brawley asked.
“No charge for this,” Tammy said. “Your parents are putting us up and feeding us.”
“Bull,” Brawley said. “That’s just being hospitable. Besides, they like having you and the kids around. Hazel, too. And if you do decide to stay, you can have my trailer once we get the house built.”
“Well,” Tammy said, “you sure are generous, and I appreciate it, but let’s just take it one day at a time, okay? I need to catch my breath before I go making any long-term decisions. But I appreciate it. I really do.”
“No problem, darlin. I appreciate you doing this for me.”
“Happy to help,” Tammy said, and smiled.
She sure was pretty. Her attractiveness was different than his wives’. Less girlish, more striking. She wasn’t beautiful for her age; she was beautiful because of her age. A difficult life had left her lean and alert and had filled her soulful eyes with cagey intelligence and tough hope.
Thanks, Tammy’s voice spoke in his head, surprising him out of his private thoughts. She lifted her hands to his face. Her fingertips brushed across his cheekbones and slid up into his hairline to press into his temples. But I sure don’t feel beautiful.
Well, you are beautiful, darlin. Now, hurry up and shield me before I make a fool out of myself again.
Don’t be embarrassed. Tammy stared into his eyes. I appreciate the compliment. But do yourself a favor and don’t start thinking of me in that way. I’m just a tired, old widow with two kids.
Old? Twenty-seven ain’t old.
Maybe not by your lights, hon. You just wait and see how young you feel when you get to be my age. Then Tammy leaned back, smirking. Oh, wait. Lucky you. You’re a Carnal now, so you don’t have to worry about aging.
No, but I sure gotta worry about dying.
Tammy’s smiling face collapsed into a pained expression, but she didn’t share her feelings with him.
To change the subject, Brawley thought, Your boy over there is downright vigilant. He’s watching me like a hawk.
Tammy laughed and glanced toward the other picnic table. Ty still remembers his father. Hannah was just little when Charlie died, but Ty was five. He remembers, all right. Losing his daddy really hurt him.
I reckon so.
Tammy glanced again at her son. I’ll never forget Ty sitting at Charlie’s bedside in the hospital. There he sat, five years old, and promised his daddy that he’d take care of me until Charlie got better. Charlie couldn’t answer him, of course, couldn’t even hear him, he was so far gone. But that didn’t matter. To Ty, a promise is a promise.
Brawley nodded at that.
And of course, his daddy never got better, Tammy’s voice continued. You don’t get better from brain trauma like that. I tried going in, talking to Charlie. But he wasn’t in there anymore. They had him hooked up to a respirator, and his heart was still beating, but Charlie was gone. The brain bleed was severe, like he’d had a major stroke. We were twenty-five.
“I’m sorry, Tammy,” Brawley said aloud.
She nodded.
Brawley wondered fleetingly how she was managing to hold in the tears.
Tears dry up, Tammy’s voice said, surprising him again. But believe me, I’m crying on the inside. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped crying. I just stopped showing it.
Her fingertips started to massage his temples as her voice said, Realizing I would never talk to Charlie again, never laugh with him again, that was… still is… hard. I mean, when you say ‘til death do us part,’ you don’t really think it’ll come to that, not until you’re both old and senile. And you sure as hell don’t think it’s going to happen when you’re twenty-five. You know what I said to Charlie before he went out the door that morning?
Brawley shook his head.
That makes two of us, then. I was still half asleep when Charlie left for work. I remember talking for a minute then going back to sleep. You don’t know how much I wish I could have that minute back, to know what we said to each other. It was probably nothing, you know? But oh, I wish I had that minute back. I’d give my left arm just to remember what we said to each other.
Tammy laughed abruptly, and for a second, she sounded like she might cry after all. “Hey, look at me being Debbie Downer. And here you are trying to have a party.”
“Hell,” Brawley said, showing her a smile. “Don’t worry about it. And this ain’t no party. We come out and sit around the fire quite regular.”
Thank you for taking us in, Brawley, Tammy’s voice said in his mind.
I’m sorry I got you into this, darlin.
Tammy shrugged. I could’ve said no.
Maybe. But money talks.
It sure does, honey. It sure does. Now, are you ready to do this thing?
I thought that’s what we were doing.
Tammy grinned. Nah. So far, I was just checking your head for soft spots.
Very funny, he said. Go ahead and lock me down. I got work to do.
Tammy nodded. I know. But I’ll miss these little talks.
Well, you want to talk, darlin, you just say the word.
It won’t be the same. People never say exactly what they think. I like it better like this.
I tend to say what’s on my mind. You don’t believe me, ask my wives.
I know, Tammy said. That was one of the first things I noticed about you. Most men, they don’t say word one without considering what people will think about it. But you just open your mouth, and here comes the truth. She looked thoughtful for a second, then frowned and said. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Brawley felt a strange, slight pressure at
the back of his mind, as if an invisible hand was pressing lightly down on the rear quadrant of his brain. The pressure rolled slowly forward, arched over the front of his mind, and wrapped underneath. Then it was done.
Tammy looked at him intensely for a second. “That’s it,” she said. “You’re shielded.”
“Thanks, darlin,” Brawley said. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out the money he’d rolled up for her. Three grand in tens and twenties, bound with a rubber band. He rolled it across the splintered tabletop.
Tammy touched the money and started to push it back in his direction. “Brawley, I told you, no charge.”
He laid his hand over hers and looked straight into her eyes. “Darlin, you will take that money. It’s worth every penny not having to worry about people messing with my head.”
For a second, he just sat there. He didn’t move his hand.
She didn’t move hers, either.
“Okay, then,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Never thank anybody for a paycheck,” Brawley said. “I’m not doing you a favor. You earned the money, and I’m just paying what I owe.”
“Okay.”
“And darlin?” he said, getting up. “I meant what I said about talking. Anytime, night or day. I’m your man.”
“Thanks, Brawley.”
He left her and went to say his goodbyes. It was time to head back over to the shed and check on Frankie, who was already working on the D8. Remi had gone with her on security detail. Brawley didn’t expect more trouble from Blanton Cherry’s crew tonight, but you never knew.
“Need a hand?” Pa asked. He had been visibly rocked by the sabotage. And understandably so. But after a few short seconds of gaping at the devastating damage, Pa had masked his emotions. And when Frankie said she might be able to fix it, the old cowboy had even managed to feign optimism.
“No, sir, but thank you,” Brawley said.
He went down the row, kissing Nina, Sage, and Callie goodbye.
Tammy asked Nina if she wanted to sing together like old times, and Nina lit up. “I’d love to!” She handed Hannah to Mama, who beamed at the prospect of holding a child. Ty remained where he was, looking small and tough and lonely.