The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

  He drew up short.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, freezing in his tracks, one hand on the door when he saw someone in the kitchen.

  Then Scott recognized him from the pictures that had been hanging in the stairwell.

  “You’re back a little quicker than I thought you’d be,” Mike sneered, closing the pantry door.

  “Get out of my house.”

  The man’s face wrinkled up, and he reached behind him in one smooth move and drew a gun.

  Scott took a step back and bumped into the doorframe.

  “Your house?” Mike growled, his Kentucky accent strong. “Your house?”

  Scott fumbled over his words, heart racing. “Get out.”

  Mike pointed the gun at him, then gestured to the kitchen table. “Sit down, faggot.”

  In an absolute panic, Scott didn’t know what to do other than obey. “Hey, look man—”

  “Shut up!” Mike shouted, waving the gun. “You stole everything from me, you fucking faggot!”

  “I didn’t steal anything from you,” he tried again. “I was as shocked as you were when Nancy left me the house.”

  “Nancy,” he spat. “You can’t even call her Grandma.”

  Scott didn’t have a reply for that one.

  Mike laughed. “Did you like the little gift I left you?”

  “Gift?”

  “The chicken? It sent you runnin’ like a baby, crying to your cocksuckin’ boyfriend, didn’t it?”

  His blood went cold. Mike had still been there when he’d discovered the chicken. How long had he been hiding there? Had he been there all night? Was he the shadow Scott saw? Worse! Had Mike seen them making love in Phin’s garden?

  Burying bile, Scott asked, “What do you want?”

  “I want the money.”

  “What money?”

  “The money Grandma hid around this house,” Mike said, waving his gun when he gestured. “Everyone knew she didn’t trust banks. Said she had all her money in this house.”

  Scott scrunched up his face. “Do you think she meant all of her money invested in the value of this house?”

  He regretted trying to be logical with the chicken-killing sociopath the second Mike emptied three bullets into the refrigerator.

  “Shit! What did you do that for?”

  Mike pointed the gun at him, and Scott’s hands flew in the air. “This house is worthless. Look around. She got a monthly check from Grandpa’s teamster pension, and she obviously didn’t put it into this place. So where’s the money, faggot? You posted on Facebook that you found money, so don’t lie to me now.”

  Okay, so maybe Scott did overshare on social media. Shit! How did Mike end up on his friends list? Did he have a fake account or something? Scott never would have friended him.

  “I found a couple hundred bucks in a Bisquick box. But that’s it.”

  Overall Scott had discovered about almost four grand hidden in random weird places around the house. It wouldn’t surprise him if Nancy had a bigger stash somewhere, but he had yet to find it.

  “You’re a liar. There’s money in this house. I’ve searched for it, and I’ve only found a couple hundred bucks. But there’s more.”

  “You’ve been in my house?” he whispered. “When—”

  “It’s not your house,” Mike snapped.

  Suddenly all the moments when he’d “misplaced” things around the house and in the barn came back to him. The shovel and sledgehammer in the wrong place. The playhouse door unlocked. That creepy doll gone, only to miraculously return. The missing cast-iron skillet. The OJ being empty when he’d sworn it was full. The dirty dishes in the sink….

  Had Mike been snooping in the house and the barn when Scott was out on a run? Or worse, while he was sleeping?

  “Were you moving that doll?”

  Mike laughed. “I always hated that thing. Its eyes watch you wherever you go. Did it scare you, fag boy?”

  No, but it scared him now.

  His heart raced, and he hoped Phin had heard the gunshots and called the sheriff.

  But what if he came over wielding guns like in a Wild West shootout?

  They all could die.

  “Now fork over the money.”

  Scott’s pulse pounded, and his hands went slick with sweat. “Mike, I honestly don’t know where she kept any money.”

  “You’re full of shit, ain’t you? Must be all them assholes you fuck leaving the shit stink.”

  Scott shook his head, flabbergasted by the twisted mind of a homophobe, despite the situation. They were obsessed with butts and anal sex.

  “I know you have the money,” Mike insisted.

  “I don’t have any money!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Scott spied movement near the back porch.

  Phin.

  He had that wooden-handled rifle.

  Refusing to look at Phin, Scott kept Mike talking so he wouldn’t notice Phin sneaking onto the back porch. “C’mon, Mike. What are you gonna do? Put that gun to my head and take me down to the bank to sign off this deed to you? Is that what would make you happy? Would that get you out of my life?”

  Mike crossed his arms, thankfully pointing the gun elsewhere. “Not a bad idea, faggot. But I know there’s probably thirty grand in this house, and I want it. I’ve searched the entire barn, and nada. I think you already found the big stash.”

  “Thirty grand?”

  The sneer returned to his face. “Oh yeah. A sneaky little cocksucker like you would hold on to that money. Hide it somewhere.” Mike pointed the gun at Scott. “You and me are gonna go through every inch of this place, and I’ll take all the money we find.”

  “Fine!” Scott threw up his hands.

  Phin was on the back porch now.

  Scott stood, kicking back the chair with a clatter, hoping Phin would use the opportunity to make his move.

  Thank God Phin was smart.

  Just as a chair hit the ground, Phin burst through the back door.

  “Get down, Scott!” Phin aimed his rifle at Mike. “Don’t move!”

  Scott did.

  Mike didn’t.

  His cousin spun, blindly firing off three rounds.

  Phin rushed him and swung the rifle butt. It hit Mike’s face, knocking him to the ground, his handgun skidding across the kitchen floor.

  “Phin!” Scott crawled to his hero.

  Mike stirred on the ground, reaching for his gun.

  “Grab something to knock him out,” Phin yelled, clutching at his side.

  Blood.

  In a panic, Scott leaped to his feet and grabbed the first thing he saw. The nonstick skillet on the stove.

  As if in a twisted dream, Scott clutched the handle and swung in Mike’s direction. He hit his shoulder before he could reach the gun. Mike landed on his side. Then Scott swung a second time and struck his head.

  Mike collapsed in a heap.

  “Oh God, I killed him!” Scott dropped the pan with a loud clatter.

  “Who cares?” Phin snapped, clutching at his side. “The son of a bitch shot me!” He hobbled to the table and collapsed into a chair. “Bring me his gun.”

  Obediently he picked it up and set it on the table without thinking, his eyes on Phin. “You’re shot!”

  “Get a towel, Mouse. I’ll be fine. I’ll be okay,” Phin insisted though his tan face had gone ashen.

  He called him Mouse again, not Scott. That had to mean he was calm, right? He wouldn’t be calm if he was really hurt, would he?

  Hands trembling and tears pouring down his face, Scott grabbed the towel from the stove handle and rushed over.

  Phin raised his shirt. “Just a graze, see?”

  Choking on a sob, Scott went to press the towel to his side but hesitated. His stomach heaved at the sight of blood oozing from a six-inch slice against Phin’s rib. Phin took the towel and pressed it into the wound with a hiss of pain. The hateful weapon that caused the wound was sitting right there on the table. Scott rubbed
the palm that had just touched it on his thigh, fighting back vomit.

  “When I heard the gunshots….” Phin’s voice tapered off, and the fear in those blue eyes was evident.

  “I’m fine,” Scott assured him.

  “What happened?”

  “He knew Nancy had money in the house, and he wanted it. He’s been snooping around when I’m gone. He moved the doll too. And he searched the barn.”

  “What doll?” He went to sit up, then buckled over and started coughing painfully. “Oh, damn that hurts.”

  “Be careful!”

  “I’ll be fine. The sheriff’s on the way. I called him when I heard the gunshots.”

  On cue, the sirens of a police car echoed outside.

  “Thank God!” All but sobbing with relief, Scott ran onto the back porch. When he spied Sheriff Bentley, he waved his hands around. “Hurry! He shot Phin! Get in here!”

  He rushed back inside, knowing they would follow.

  Guns drawn, Sheriff Bentley and a deputy entered the kitchen.

  “What happened?” the sheriff demanded.

  “He came back, just like I said he would,” Phin gritted out. He gestured to the handgun. “Bastard shot me.”

  The sheriff, eyes wide, took in the scene—Phin bleeding, Scott brushing at tears, and Mike unconscious on the floor. He gestured to his deputy, and they holstered their weapons. “Better radio for two ambulances.”

  “Is he dead?” Scott whispered, looking at Mike.

  The sheriff placed two fingers on his neck and shook his head. “Nope, he’s alive. What in the Sam Hill happened?”

  Scott explained that he’d been on a run but decided to return to the house sooner. He’d discovered Mike in the kitchen. “He’s been looking for the money all along. Coming in the house when I wasn’t here.”

  “What money?” the attractive deputy asked when he returned from calling for the ambulances.

  “Nancy stashed her money in the house, and I’ve been finding some here and there,” Scott explained, dividing anxious looks between Phin and the officers. “I kinda mentioned it on Facebook.”

  “You millennials get too personal on Facebook. It ain’t right. You need to keep stuff to yourself,” Sheriff Bentley scolded. “I tell my son all the time to stop putting everything out on the interweb. Whatever happened to respecting privacy? You know, if you hadn’t posted about finding money, Mike probably wouldn’t have even come up here.”

  In light of everything, Scott knew he did need to reevaluate what he put on his online profile, but now was not the time for it.

  “Well,” he went on, gripping Phin’s hand tight, “Mike got angry and shot three holes in my refrigerator when I told him I didn’t have any money. Then Phin burst in and knocked him out with his rifle, getting shot in the process. And I hit him with the skillet.”

  The sheriff had more questions, writing it all down. Then a shrill siren sounded outside.

  “Finally!” Scott gushed, concerned about how pale Phin had become. “It’s gonna be okay now. It’s gonna be okay.”

  Phin nodded, and Scott wasn’t sure which of them he was really reassuring.

  The deputy went onto the porch and gestured the paramedics inside. The sheriff quickly pulled Scott back so the professionals could work. The male EMT checked Mike’s vitals while the woman tended to Phin.

  “Is he gonna be okay?” Scott asked, arms crossed tight against his body. “Please tell me he’s gonna be okay.”

  “Told you it’s just a graze, Mouse.”

  The woman smiled at Scott. “He’s pretty lucky. It only grazed him. We’ll take him to Mercy General in Shiloh to run some tests to be sure.”

  Once Phin was stabilized, they loaded him into the ambulance, and Scott followed. “I’m going with him,” he announced.

  Thankfully, no one argued.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  SCOTT NEVER thought of himself as a person with a weak stomach—after all, he could read, write, and watch the goriest stuff out there. But it was a completely different thing when someone he loved was wounded and bleeding. When the nurse in the ER began to stitch Phin’s burned, sliced flesh, Scott had to walk away, stomach churning.

  The sheriff was in the waiting room and drew up short seeing Scott. “Is Mr. Robertson okay?”

  “He’s fine,” he said at once, wiping his face. “He’s getting stitches. All that blood was making me queasy.”

  The sheriff nodded, relieved. “Good to hear he’s gonna pull through.”

  “Um, how’s Mike?” His cousin had been sent for an MRI to make sure his criminal mind hadn’t been ruined any worse than it already was.

  “Doctor said he’s fine.” The sheriff sounded displeased.

  “Am I gonna get in trouble for hitting him?”

  He laughed. “Kid, he came at you with a gun, threatened you, and broke into your house. He killed your neighbor’s—um? Your boyfriend’s property. This is America, and you got every right to defend yourself. I’m just glad you used a pan instead of shooting him. Gunshots are so much paperwork.”

  Scott let out a relieved breath. Though Mike was totally unstable, Scott was grateful he hadn’t killed the guy and Phin hadn’t shot him. He doubted his tenderhearted lover would hold up psychologically if he’d actually killed someone, even in self-defense.

  “Mike’s headed to county lockup until the state decides what to do with him.” Sheriff Bentley gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad this matter’s settled. And nobody got hurt too bad.”

  “Me too.” Scott frowned. “How did he trick his parole officer? I mean, he was at my house, but he had an alibi?”

  Sheriff Bentley chuckled. “All he had to do was be on time for his appointment. It’s not like the state can watch guys like Howe all day.”

  So this is what my taxes pay for….

  When the sheriff left, Scott took a seat in the waiting room. Heart heavy with worry for Phin, he noticed everyone around him was in a family group of some kind. Couples, parents, and friends, all of them waiting together for someone on the other side of the swinging doors.

  Suddenly he felt very alone.

  He wished his family could be here, holding his hand and waiting with him while the man he loved was being stitched up.

  He withdrew his iPhone, then scrolled through his contacts with shaky hands until he saw Mom’s name. Despite all the times she annoyed him, said things she shouldn’t, and even after the fight they’d had last month, he wanted, needed to hear her voice.

  He hit Send and took a nervous breath, holding the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice, and then it connected.

  “Scott?”

  The sound of her voice sent a tremble of relief through him, and he closed his eyes. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Wow,” she said, heavy with sarcasm. “I’m shocked you called me.”

  His eyes flew open. “What? Why? I’m having a horrible day, and I needed to call you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had a horrible summer, not that you care.”

  A jolt of defensiveness went through him, and he sat up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said in a singsong voice. “My son didn’t bother to come to my birthday, and then my boyfriend decided he didn’t like me being depressed about it, so he got drunk and ruined it.”

  “What?”

  “Yup. Me and Davis and the girls had to find our own way off the island because Joe and his buddies got drunk and ditched us.”

  Scott curled his lip, not fully absorbing what she said but registering all of her misguided blame. “And that’s somehow my fault?”

  “I didn’t say that, but if the shoe fits.”

  “Look, Mom,” he began, struggling not to get angry. He’d wanted succor and love, not this guilt trip he should’ve seen coming. “I’m sorry about your birthday, but I didn’t call to argue with you. Why are you being so confrontational?”

  “I’m not being confrontational,” sh
e declared. “I’m simply being a mother whose feelings are deeply hurt because her son’s been ignoring her because he’d rather take the side of a dead kidnapper over his own mother who gave him everything.”

  Mouth open, Scott shook his head. Apparently she’d only let the whole Nancy thing drop if he told her she was right and he was wrong. Well, Scott was done taking the blame for things when he hadn’t done anything.

  “Okay, Mom. I didn’t mean to bother you. Maybe I should let you go.”

  “That’s it?” she said incredulously. “You called me because you had something to say, and now you’re not going to say it?”

  A million things ran through Scott’s mind. He wanted to tell her that he felt pity for what she’d experienced when he was a toddler. He wanted to tell her she was a great mom but she was self-absorbed and narrow-minded too. He wanted to say that no, he didn’t approve of what Nancy did but, dammit, he would never hate the woman who brought Phin into his life. And most importantly, he wanted to tell his mother how much he loved Phin and how happy he finally was.

  But now was not the time.

  Itching to be off the phone and back in the room with Phin, Scott took a deep breath. “I was just having a rough day and thought I’d call to say hi. So hi. But I gotta go now.”

  “Are you okay?

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  No. My boyfriend just took a bullet for me, he almost said, but he didn’t want to argue with Mom anymore about Joe or Nancy or justify his relationship with Phin. If that meant another exhausting round of pretending, so be it. “Yeah, I’m just tired. Had a long day.”

  There was a long pause, and then Mom said, “All right, well, get some sleep, then. I’m sending you Mama Love.”

  “Thanks. Love you too.”

  “So are we all good now?” she wanted to know. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

  “We’re good,” he lied. Once more the elephant in the room was turned into just another armchair. Maybe not the healthiest behavior, but at the moment, Scott didn’t care.

  “Are you gonna call again?”

  “Of course I will, Mom. I gotta go. Bye.” He hung up.

  Scott stared at his phone, shaking his head.

  Unbelievable.

  What had he expected anyway? A rational conversation that wouldn’t be all about her? But no, instead of accepting that someone else had a right to their feelings, Mom simply wanted Scott to shoulder all the blame. As if she’d done nothing—