by Tim Washburn
“Of course. Their country would return back to the rice paddy days if American markets were closed to their products.” President Harris walks over to one of the bookshelves and pulls a lever. The bottom portion swings open to reveal a well-stocked bar. “Now, I’d say we’ve had a decent week. What’ll you have, Scott?”
CHAPTER 82
The Peterson home
Ruth takes an immediate liking to Summer. Zeke doesn’t know if it is because of Summer’s reaction to his return, or simply a woman thing. Ruth has been by his side through all of the devastation and he knows she has a very tender spot in her heart for her big brother. Whatever the reason, he feels—hell—he doesn’t know how he feels. Happy, maybe. For the first time in a long while Zeke feels some type of connection with a woman. Or the situation might be more complex. Maybe he misunderstood the look on Summer’s face when she opened the door. He’s starting to get a headache from all the thinking.
He leads the horses over to the barn to occupy his mind. He unsaddles Murphy and removes the makeshift saddles from the mares before ripping open a bale of hay. Zeke steps outside to the old hand pump to rinse the golf course residue from the canteen. He refills the canteen, then ducks his head under the chilly stream to wash the road grime from his face.
When he returns to the house he tells Ruth about the water pump and she immediately takes the children out to wash them up. Zeke hands the full canteen to Carl and he eagerly slurps the water through his straw.
“Are the turkeys still around?” he says to Summer, who is standing in the kitchen. Zeke walks closer to her, and she wraps her arms around him from the side.
“I’m glad you came back,” she whispers.
His heart is hammering as if he had crossed the finish line of a marathon. “Me, too,” he says, glancing down into her green eyes.
She tiptoes up and brushes her lips across his for the first time, sending his heart perilously close to redline. “The turkeys are still around, or they were yesterday. They should be out and about around sundown. I just hope they’re not too skittish, having lost a member or two of their flock.”
“I guess I’ll just have to be extra sneaky.” Zeke lowers his head for another, longer kiss but the spell is broken when Carl enters the kitchen.
“Orry.” Carl smiles sheepishly, or as much of a smile as he can muster with a broken jaw. “Zee, any more jery?”
“You bet. I forgot you didn’t get anything for dinner last night. I’ll put a pot of broth on for you.”
Carl waves over his shoulder as he slinks out of the kitchen.
“What happened to him?” Summer whispers, leaning into him again.
“He went looking for water and ran into some young boys with baseball bats. Broke his jaw and busted a couple of his ribs. But he’s tough. He’s been a trouper through all the travel.”
Summer turns and pulls a pan from the cupboard as Zeke’s brain cartwheels with emotion. His hand trembles slightly as he pours water into the pan and adds several strips of the jerky before carrying it outside to the fire.
The laughter of the children splashing in the cold water drifts on the breeze. Zeke turns in that direction and catches sight of his sister naked from the waist up. He turns away, feeling the blush in his cheeks. Even though Ruth is his sister, he hasn’t seen that much of a woman in a very long time.
He moves the jerky around in the pan with an old wooden spoon as his eyes search the field for any sign of the turkeys. Off in the distance he hears an old tom gobble, and his mouth starts to water. While the broth simmers, he slips back into the house.
“Summer, where’s the shotgun?”
“Behind the front door. Did you see the turkeys?”
“No, but I heard them.” Zeke retrieves the gun and cracks open the breach to make sure a shell is seated. “How many shells?”
“There should be five in there. If you don’t bring us a turkey with five shots, you may be sleeping in the barn after all.”
Zeke smiles. “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping in the barn.” He quietly makes his way out the door, easing the screen shut so he won’t spook the soon-to-be dinner. He slides through the barbed wire fence and stalks across the pasture, pausing every few seconds to listen. He works his way to a small ridge where the land falls away to a small stock pond in the distance. At the peak, he squats down and peers over the ridge. About a dozen turkeys are picking at the acorns under a large oak tree about a hundred yards away. Too far to do any damage with the 12-gauge. Slowly, and as low to the ground as possible, he creeps closer. Turkeys are blessed with incredible eyesight, able to pick up the slightest movement.
He drops to a crawl and after ten minutes of crawling on his stomach through the tall grass he’s within shotgun range. He eases the barrel through the waving grass and sights in on the closest birds. The shotgun explodes and the bird drops to the ground as the others start racing away. Zeke jumps to his feet and quickly jacks another shell into the chamber. He sights down the barrel at the fleeing turkeys and squeezes the trigger. Another bird drops. He jacks another shell, but the turkeys have raced out of sight, taking cover in the thick underbrush along the tree line.
He scoops up the two dead birds and begins field dressing them. With two quick slashes of his knife, he reaches in and pulls the entrails out. The warm blood coats his hand, making his grip slippery. He grabs the two birds by their feet and snags the shotgun from the ground.
Summer meets him at the fence and he hands off the shotgun. “No barn for me,” he says as he parts the barbed wire and climbs through.
Summer smiles. “I was just providing a little incentive.”
His knees weaken at the thought.
Noah and Emma are waiting for him in the backyard. Emma walks up close and stares at the birds in his hand. “What’re those, Uncle Zeke?”
“Turkeys. Like what we have at Thanksgiving.”
His comment confuses her. “Aren’t they s’posed to be white?”
“These are wild turkeys. But they’ll taste better than those white ones, I promise. Do you and Noah want to help pull the feathers off?”
She shrugs and puts one small foot atop the other. “I dunno. Are they dead?”
“Well . . . yeah, they are. C’mon, I’ll show you how.” The children follow their uncle toward the fire.
Summer returns from the kitchen with a large pot and hands it to Zeke. He carries it to the well and fills the pot with water and returns it to the fire. When the water is warm enough, almost boiling, he quickly dunks each turkey to help loosen the feathers. Ruth steps outside and he can tell she’s none too happy about Noah and Emma getting dirty again after she had already cleaned them up.
“C’mon, sis. We could use your help.”
“Yeah, Mommy, come over,” Emma says, already covered with feathers.
Ruth walks over and begins plucking at the feathers. It’s not long before all three are giggling and feathers are swirling in the breeze.
Zeke steps away and wipes the feathers from his shirt. “If you guys have this under control, I’m going to wash up.”
“Go, Zeke, we’ve got this handled,” Ruth says.
As he’s passing the back door Summer reaches out to hand him a bar of soap.
Zeke stops and puts his hands on his hips. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing, sir.” She giggles as he grabs the soap.
Zeke ducks into the barn and strips down to his boxers. At the pump, he fills a bucket with water. Though the water is freezing cold, it feels good to put some soap on his body after nearly two weeks. He soaks the rag that Ruth had used and carries it into the barn to wash his more private areas and pulls on a pair of jeans and a shirt he’s worn only a couple of times. After slipping into his boots he grabs the only luxury items he packed for the trip—a toothbrush and toothpaste. When he finishes washing the road grime from his mouth, he rinses out his filthy clothes and hangs them on a rusty nail in the barn to dry.
From the barn he
watches the scene up at the house. Ruth and the kids are laughing as Summer works around the fire. He fingers the locket around his neck, struck momentarily with remorse. He sighs and tucks the enclosed picture of Amelia back under his shirt. By the time Zeke returns to the house, the birds are plucked and Summer is sliding two heavy sticks through each one to hang over the fire.
Ruth blows a feather from her face. “Does Uncle Zeke want to take his adorable niece and nephew back to the well?”
He stammers for a moment, looking at his boots.
“I’m kidding, Zeke. Did you leave the soap down there?”
“Yeah, right at the base of the pump.”
As she walks by, she leans in and gives her brother a peck on the cheek. “You smell clean, Zeke. Summer’s going to like the new you,” she whispers in his ear. She pats him on the butt like he’d just scored a touchdown, then leads the kids back to the well.
The aroma of cooking turkey lures Carl out of the house. “Amn a mells ood,” he mumbles. “Ere’s Ru?”
Zeke nods toward the barn. Carl walks down to join his family and he’s soon down to his boxers, splashing water on the kids. After a short time all four trudge toward the house, shivering.
Summer giggles at the sight. “There’s a couple of clean towels in the bathroom. Help yourself.” She turns to Zeke. “I think I’ll wash up before dinner, too.”
Zeke tends the fire, burning through reserves of self-control to not sneak a peek of Summer washing up. He mindlessly stirs the coals and pokes the breast of one of the turkeys to check for doneness. Summer returns, her curly hair dripping water onto her T-shirt.
“I’m going to dry off and set the table.”
“Your hair always this curly?” he says for something to say.
Summer holds the screen open and looks back over her shoulder with a playful smile lighting her face. “You don’t have a straight-hair fetish, do you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m kinda partial to curly.”
“That’s good.” Summer steps through the door and the screen slaps shut behind her.
A short while later Zeke removes the turkeys from the fire and carries them into the house. Summer and Ruth had set the table with real plates and real cutlery. He slides the turkeys off their spikes and onto a platter. As he carries the platter to the table he tries hard not to stare at Summer, who is dressed in a red, sleeveless dress that hits about midthigh. Ruth is wearing a similar dress, but in navy blue.
Zeke places the turkeys in the center of the table. “I’m sorry, ladies, for not packing a tie. I must say, it’s nice to have two beautiful women at the table.”
Noah makes a gagging sound and everyone laughs. Summer leans across the table to light the candles and Zeke steals a glimpse of her well-toned thighs only to get caught by his sister. She wags her finger and smiles.
Darkness descends on the plains as the wicks flicker to life, creating a homey scene, complete with shadows dancing along the far wall. Ruth does the honors of carving up the turkeys and she fills everyone’s plate, including Carl’s. He feeds small pieces of the turkey into his closed mouth, savoring every small, succulent piece. He can’t chew but he does move it around in his mouth with his tongue. Emma and Noah dig into the tender breast meat and eat until they can eat no more. Ruth and Summer eat more slowly, savoring every bite. Zeke tries to eat slowly, but his fork is in constant motion between his mouth and the plate.
When everyone has eaten their fill, Zeke strips the remaining meat from the bones and grabs a wire rack to put over the fire. He arranges the turkey meat on the rack so that the fire can evaporate the moisture. Back inside, he places the carcasses into a large pot, empties his canteen over them, and puts the pot on the fire to simmer all night. A broth for Carl’s breakfast, with enough to last the rest of the trip.
Ruth clears the table and the kids carry the dishes outside to the wash bucket by the picnic table.
“Leave ’em, kids. We’ll wash them up in the morning,” Zeke says.
He follows them back into the house, and Summer carries the candles into the living room, where they all collapse into the chairs around the fireplace. The weather has been unseasonably warm, but a chill arrived with the dark. Zeke mounds up some kindling and puts a match to it.
Emma crawls into Ruth’s lap and within minutes she’s fast asleep. Noah makes it just a bit longer. Ruth and Zeke carry them back to the spare bedroom and tuck them in.
Not much later, Ruth and Carl make their exit, picking the second bedroom next to the children. That leaves one bedroom for two people who don’t know each other very well.
“I’ll take the couch,” Zeke says, sliding over to it. Summer surprises him when she stands from her chair and lies down beside him, propping her head on his chest.
“How are you holding up?” Zeke whispers.
“I miss Aubrey every minute of every day. But I know she’s okay with my father and sister.” She sniffles and swipes away a lone tear. “I couldn’t have chosen two better people to look after my little girl.”
Zeke wraps his arm around her. “This can’t last forever. I’m sure there are people all over the world experiencing the same thing—a loved one far from home. They’ll come home just as soon as they can.”
“I know . . . I know. I’ve told myself the exact thing a thousand times. But that doesn’t make the situation any easier.”
He wraps one of her hair curls around his finger. “I know it doesn’t. I wish that we would all wake up in the morning with the power back on and everything functioning like it has for every other day of our lives.” Zeke spiders his fingers through her hair. “Aubrey will come home.”
They lie side by side, staring at the fire. After a few moments, Summer stands and reaches for his hand. No words are spoken and no questions are asked as she leads him into her bedroom.
CHAPTER 83
The Peterson home
Zeke bolts up in bed. Summer reaches her arm out to comfort him. But it isn’t a nightmare that wakes him this time.
“I heard something,” Zeke whispers. For a moment he’s disoriented in his new surroundings.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Summer whispers back.
The windows are cracked open and a chill has invaded the space. He slides from beneath the covers and pads toward the window. Months in Afghanistan had trained him to be aware of abnormal noises in the night. He slips on his jeans and shirt. In the darkness he fumbles for the hard polymer handgrip of the Glock. Not wanting to risk a flashlight, he searches the floor with his hands. In their haste to remove clothing, Zeke, usually a stickler for proper handling of weapons, can’t recall where he placed the gun.
“Where did I put my pistol?” he whispers to Summer.
“Check the nightstand.”
One of the horses trumpets a nervous whinny.
“Somebody’s after the horses,” Zeke says in an urgent whisper. He yanks the nightstand drawer from off its tracks and the heavy gun clumps to the hardwood floor. He snaps up the pistol and tucks it into his waistband. In two quick strides he’s digging through his jacket for the extra magazine and a tactical flashlight that mounts to the bottom rail of the gun.
Summer jumps naked from bed and quickly dresses. “I’ll cover you with the rifle.”
“Fine, but do it from the house. I don’t know how many there are or what the hell they’re up to.”
Zeke gently raises the window to the stops. Afraid the front and back doors are being watched, he slides through the window and drops to his feet. He creeps toward the front of the house and peeks around the corner, but his visual range is limited to about ten feet. His senses, not as razor sharp as they had once been, but still sharp enough, suggest no one is present. There are none of the telltale signs: no rustle of fabric or the impatient shuffling of feet. The gate hinges to the barn squeal in the night. Zeke ducks low and races to the opposite corner toward the back of the house.
In the anemic wash of the moon, he makes out the silhouette of t
he three horses being led through the gate by two people. The darkness prevents him from guessing their ages, their sex, and even their size—just two forms leading away his horses.
His body surges with anger as he takes the Glock from his waist and seats the flashlight. He stands to his full six foot three and steps around the corner.
He makes it to within ten yards of the horse thieves before they notice that a gun barrel is tracking their escape. Zeke triggers the powerful flashlight and points it directly at their faces. The two men are in their early twenties and, from their appearance, they hadn’t bothered to bathe or shave even when the power was on. Both are big and broad, nearly as tall as Zeke, and each is carrying about forty pounds of extra weight. The one on the left has a shotgun riding on his shoulder. Zeke pans the flashlight down and discovers guns tucked into the waistbands of their ragged jeans.
Zeke stalks closer, the Glock held at shoulder height and locked in a two-hand grip. “Let the leads hit the ground and step away from the horses.”
The one holding the ropes releases them from his grasp, but neither makes a move to step away. Zeke wants to shoot them where they stand, but the safety of the horses is paramount. With his pistol never wavering, he steps over and gathers up the ropes. With a cluck of his tongue, he leads Murphy and the mares away from the men. There’s not much he can do with the horses one-handed, but he quickly wraps the ropes around a fence post.
He takes three steps forward, the pistol fanning a small arc between the two men, the cone of light from the flashlight blinding them with each swing. “I want that shotgun on the ground.”
The young punk shrugs and bends down to toss the shotgun on the ground. Something about the shrug seems out of place to Zeke. These guys haven’t said a word and they are nonchalant for having a gun aimed at their heads.
A niggle of worry tickles the nape of his neck. “Now, using two fingers, I want you to very carefully remove those pistols and toss them over the fence.”
Neither man moves.