Sam’s not sure at first, but he thinks he can hear the whine of sirens in the distance. He wants to ask Montgomery if Troutman is dead or alive, wants to know what Montgomery did to him, wants to know if Montgomery’s hurt. But all he can do is lie there and look at him until his eyes won’t stay open anymore.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Around three o’clock on Thanksgiving Day, Sam’s lying in his hospital bed, watching the Charlie Brown holiday special that airs every year on cable. He used to watch it on TV when he was a kid, and it makes him smile with nostalgia now. He forgot all about it until his nurse, who’s visited him more often than necessary today, mentioned it offhand. She feels sorry for him, he can tell. When she told him that her shift ends at five, she sounded apologetic, even though she’s got a husband and two kids at home with whom to have dinner.
Sam’s not unhappy, even if he should be. He spoke to his mother on the phone this morning, and to his sister and eight year old nephew. Lauren stopped by and spent a few hours with him, complete with a bottle of whiskey that she smuggled in and drank straight from after Sam declined to share it with her. Even now that he’s alone, it’s hard to feel blue when he’s got so many bouquets to look at, along with a cluster of GET WELL SOON balloons and a teddy bear that sits on his bedside table. Every other deputy at his station, his lieutenant, his captain, and the sheriff himself have all visited over the last three days, some of them with their wives in tow bearing the flowers, and he’s seen Jethro Beauty, Lauren, the guy who sells him beer at the liquor store, and a few others from around town who don’t know him well. His ex-wife Jen called the day after the shooting to check on him. He didn’t expect people to care so much.
Sam looks away from the television when somebody knocks on his open door.
Montgomery.
Sam smiles.
“Hey,” Montgomery says, lingering in the doorway. He’s gripping a canvas bag by the straps in one hand.
“Hey,” says Sam. “What are you doing here?”
Montgomery comes into the room, pulls one of the chairs up close to the left side of the bed, and sits down with the bag in his lap. “Brought you food from the Barbee table. Apparently, it’s Thanksgiving.”
“You don’t say.”
“I know it ain’t dinner time, so if you’re hungry again later, I can find you something else.”
Montgomery takes the two big Tupperware containers out of the bag, sets one on the tray that folds out of Sam’s bed, passes Sam silverware and napkins, and puts the second container in his lap. He lays a bunch of biscuits folded up in a cloth napkin on the bed in front of him.
“How you feeling?” he says.
“The same,” says Sam, lying there without touching the container of food or utensils. “Which isn’t bad. They still got me up to my eyeballs in painkillers.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts. Once they send you home, you’ll have to get along with pills, and even the prescription kind ain’t as good as whatever’s in that drip.”
“I’m not complaining, but I think I’m about ready to get out of here.”
Montgomery gives Sam a skeptical look and reaches for a biscuit.
The damage to Sam’s left shoulder is serious, and while the surgery to remove the bullet and repair the tissue was successful, he’s in for a long recovery. He was fortunate enough to escape bone and nerve trauma, which would’ve made things significantly worse, but he’s looking at months of rehab with no guarantee of regaining perfect function and mobility in the shoulder. The doctor told him he’ll need prescription pain meds for at least part, if not all, of his recovery time. His left arm’s out of commission for the foreseeable future, which means he’ll need help with basic tasks during the next several weeks. He’s on paid medical leave from work until further notice, but even when he’s ready to go back, he’ll be office bound until he meets the department’s standard of physical fitness—if he ever does. Being right-handed, he can still use his gun, which increases his chances of field reinstatement, but if he has a permanent disability, his law enforcement career is all but over, unless he wants to take an administrative position.
It’s too much to think about now, and he’s been ignoring it most of the time, since waking up from surgery three days ago. He’s just glad that he’s alive, that Montgomery’s unharmed, and that as far as gunshot wounds go, his is non-life threatening. Sam’s always been good at looking on the bright side, and this is one of those situations where the skill comes in handy.
“What the hell are you watching?” Montgomery says, looking at the TV set. “Charlie Brown?”
“It’s the Thanksgiving special,” says Sam, smiling.
“You’re not a football man?”
“Nah. Not really.”
“Me neither. Though I have been known to watch a Cowboys game, on occasion.”
“Wait, that’s right. You’re from Texas. How are you not crazy about football?”
“Always been partial to the rodeo,” Montgomery says. “And high school football’s a bigger deal statewide in Texas than the NFL anyway.”
Sam grins. “Were you on the team? In high school?”
“Nope. Were you?”
Sam snorts. “Do I look like a football player to you?”
“No,” Montgomery says, looking at Sam with a sudden soft affection in his eyes and his face.
Sam looks back at him, caught off guard by the other man’s expression.
Montgomery ducks his head and pops the lid off his container of food, placing it on the bed.
Sam redirects his gaze to the TV, not knowing what to make of the moment. He still doesn’t touch his food on the fold-out tray table. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite. He glances at Montgomery’s food, then back at the TV. “What did Mrs. Barbee send you away with?” he asks.
Montgomery clears his throat and says, “Turkey, mashed potatoes, little bit of cranberry sauce, stuffing, and some green beans.”
“She a good cook?”
“You tell me.”
Sam doesn’t reply. He doesn’t move to start eating either. He watches the television for half a minute, then looks at Montgomery again and says, “I have questions. About what happened with Troutman.”
Montgomery gives him an uneasy expression. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, talking about all that when you’re healing up.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“All right,” Montgomery says, after a pause. “What do you want to know?”
“Why did you go there alone? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to talk to him?”
“Because I knew you’d have objections and I didn’t want you there. I didn’t want you in harm’s way.”
Sam softens at that and doesn’t reply.
Montgomery continues: “I went to see if I could convince him to turn himself in. You told me that the Sheriff’s department was going to go get him soon, and I didn’t want that to turn into a situation if he decided to fight you. I figured if I could convince him to turn himself in peacefully, it’d be a whole lot easier for everybody.”
Sam shakes his head. “I could’ve told you the odds of a guy like him agreeing to do that were crap.”
“Yeah. I guess I should’ve known better. I thought I’d go there and scare him and if it didn’t work, I’d just walk away and let you and your boys deal with him. I didn’t think I’d end up being the reason for the whole thing going sideways. Been feeling pretty stupid about it.”
“Don’t,” says Sam. “You had good intentions, even if they were misguided.”
Montgomery hangs his head and runs a hand through his hair.
“How did you end up a hostage?” Sam asks. “That was your gun he had on you, wasn’t it?”
Montgomery nods and swallows. “I threatened him when he refused to turn himself in. He still wouldn’t listen, so I decided to leave. Something I said must’ve got to him—because when I turned my back and started out the door, he jumped me
with his knife. Pushed me out of the camper. We wrestled around outside. I was trying to fight him off, trying to take the knife away from him, and somewhere in there I lost the gun. He picked it up. I think maybe I dropped it on purpose, just so I wouldn’t kill him.” Montgomery pauses. “I wasn’t sure if I could get away with that. Or if I wanted to.”
Sam’s looking at Montgomery with all the focus he can muster, his shoulder throbbing through the haze of morphine.
“I don’t know why he attacked me,” Montgomery continues. “Why he didn’t just let me leave and take off after. Maybe he wanted to show me something, after I threatened to shoot him. Maybe he was just pissed off I killed Ed Decker. I guess I can’t blame him for wanting revenge. I’d want it, too, if someone killed a friend of mine.”
He looks up, right into Sam’s eyes.
Sam maintains eye contact until he can’t stand the vulnerability of it anymore, then looks away and wrinkles the blanket and sheet in his hands.
“Anyway,” Montgomery says. “He took me back into the camper once he had the gun. I don’t know what he would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up when you did. I don’t think he knew either.”
Maybe it’s the morphine, but Sam feels almost sick as his throat tightens and his stomach clenches. He doesn’t speak because he’s afraid of choking. The image of Montgomery dead in that Airstream, his head blown open and his blood on the wall, flashes through his mind. He remembers the terror he felt when Troutman had that gun pointed at Montgomery, right in front of him. The dream he had weeks ago, of Troutman killing Montgomery in the diner.
After a minute filled only with the sounds of Charlie Brown, Montgomery says, “I been doing a lot of thinking since Monday.”
“Yeah? That makes one of us,” says Sam, his voice raw and raspy. He smiles a little, trying to make light of the situation. He’s spent most of the last three days unconscious.
Montgomery pauses. “When we were out there at Troutman’s hideaway, waiting for the deputies to come back, I’m pretty sure I knew you were going to live—but there was a split second, right after Troutman shot you, I didn’t know where you’d been hit. I didn’t have time to dwell on it because I had to get him, but I felt… well, I can’t really put into words how I felt. And then once you were here and they took you in to surgery and I had hours to myself, I kept wishing it was me in your place.”
Sam’s looking right at him now, and Montgomery’s looking back, grey eyes and blue holding each other steady.
“I figured you’d make it,” Montgomery says. “But I didn’t want you to be in pain. Still don’t.”
Sam swallows, his throat tight with emotion. He doesn’t even try to speak because he knows he’ll choke up if he does, and he can’t think of anything to say anyway.
“Maybe if I hadn’t gone out there when I did, none of this would’ve happened, and if that’s true, I’m sorry. You gettin’ hurt is part on me. That’s one thing I’ve wanted to say the last few days.”
“What else?” Sam says, his voice hoarse and quiet.
Montgomery looks away from him, down and off to his left. He doesn’t answer at first, and Sam waits, watching him. Sam takes in the softness of Montgomery’s face, the lines creased into his skin at the corners of his eyes, the weather worn skin still young and clean shaven for once. It was violence and death that brought them together in the first place, and Montgomery was the most vivid part of the most traumatic experience of Sam’s life.
But Sam doesn’t want to see him that way. When he closes his eyes and thinks of Montgomery, he doesn’t see a man with a gun in his hand. He doesn’t see blood or feel pain. He sees the cowboy on a horse in the desert. He sees him in a field with the mountains behind him, the sky dusty pink with sunset. The last good and pure thing in the world, just beyond him in the distance.
“I thought I was used to being alone,” Montgomery says. “But some time these last few months, I got to liking your company. Now, I don’t want to go without it.”
Sam stares at him, and Montgomery meets his eyes again.
“I don’t know you well enough, but I want to.” Montgomery swallows. “I want to, Sam. I want—” He stops, maybe because his voice was about to crack, but he doesn’t look away.
“What?” Sam says, before he can stop himself. “What do you want?”
Montgomery pauses, his gray eyes clear but the rest of him wrung out. He doesn’t speak for a long minute, as if he’s gathering his thoughts and trying to figure out how to express them. “You ever watch the old Westerns? The classics? You remember in a lot of those stories, the hero was a man who didn’t have a family, no wife, nothing to tie him anyplace—but he had a partner, another man who rode with him? And they’d go from town to town or just stay in the nowhere between towns, looking for the next adventure and living simple in the mean time? Didn’t matter if they were outlaws or cowboys or deputies. They had each other to the end.”
Sam feels heavy on the bed and the pillow, lying there and looking at Montgomery. Maybe it’s the opiates coursing through his body, but the weight of Montgomery’s loneliness hits him like a foul ball to the gut. He finally understands the other man, even if he can’t describe what he knows, and it breaks his heart some kind of way it hasn’t been hurt since he was a boy.
Montgomery’s looking at him with more earnestness than Sam’s ever seen, waiting to hear whether or not Sam gets him.
And Sam says, “Do I get to be Butch?”
Montgomery blinks, then breaks into a God honest smile.
“Because I think you’re more of a Sundance.”
“Things didn’t end well for those two,” Montgomery says. “Maybe you should pick a different pair.”
They’re quiet for a little while, letting time and silence take the heat out of the conversation as their smiles fade away.
Then Sam says, “I think I could do that.”
He’s looking at Montgomery with warmth in his eyes, and Montgomery lifts his head to meet them.
“I think I could be your partner one day. Trade a normal life for something better with you. I’m not any good at normal anyway.”
Montgomery stares at him, and Sam smiles deep and wide with the pleasure of making the decision out loud.
“I’m not asking you for anything,” Montgomery says.
“I know,” says Sam. “But I’m offering.”
Montgomery pauses, looking not so brave or cool in the chair. “I don’t think I can believe you yet. I can’t trust that you won’t change your mind.”
“That’s all right. I have time to prove myself.”
Sam looks back at the TV, satisfied with the talk. Charlie Brown’s almost over.
Montgomery sucks in a breath and stands up like he’s been sitting too long and his joints are stiff. “Better find us a microwave,” he says and grabs the container of food off Sam’s tray table, holding his own in his other hand.
“Montgomery,” Sam says.
Montgomery stops in the doorway and looks over his shoulder.
“I promise I won’t hurt you.”
Montgomery gives a slight nod and walks out of the room.
Maybe he doesn’t trust that either, but for the first time since he proposed to his ex-wife, Sam feels like he knows what he wants and where he’s going. For the first time since his divorce, he feels like he has something to look forward to.
EPILOGUE
They’re sitting in a pair of rocking chairs on Montgomery’s front porch, watching dusk stain the sky orange, pink, red, and purple. Montgomery’s drinking a cold beer from the ice box on the floor between them, and Sam, who’s still on prescription pain killers, has a cup of hot coffee between his thighs on the seat of his chair. They don’t say much, the sound of their chairs creaking on the porch boards filling the silence.
Montgomery glances over at Sam and says, “You gettin’ cold?”
“No, I’m good,” says Sam, whose left arm is in a sling instead of his jacket sleeve.
“Le
t me know when you wanna go in.”
Montgomery pulls on his beer, then sticks the bottle between his legs and lights a cigarette. The smoke smells good in the cold air, and Sam smiles to himself, content next to the other man in the beautiful remoteness of Skull Valley.
Ever since Sam got out of the hospital, Montgomery’s been looking after him whenever he can, spending weeknights at Sam’s house and bringing Sam to his place on weekends. He cares for Sam with the same kindness that Sam imagines him showing to the animals on Barbee’s ranch, the same quiet humility. Sam didn’t ask him for help, didn’t expect him to do as much as he’s doing, and the one time he thanked him, Montgomery told him he didn’t need to hear it again.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sam says.
“Yeah?” says Montgomery, his chair still now as he smokes.
“I’ve been thinking about what I’ll do if I have to leave the force.”
“Who says you will?”
“It’s a real possibility. If my shoulder doesn’t heal right, if I can’t use my sidearm right, I can either take an admin position or retire. And I think I’d rather just leave if it comes to that. But I don’t know what I’ll do if I quit. I’ve been a cop since I was twenty-four. I’ve never really imagined anything else, all these years.”
Montgomery doesn’t reply for a minute, the two of them looking out at the landscape. There’s snow on the mountains in the distance, but they haven’t seen any yet in Skull Valley or Prescott, even though December is already half gone.
“You want to keep being a deputy?” Montgomery asks.
Sam looks at him. “Yeah.”
“Then don’t waste your time trying to figure out alternatives.”
Sam doesn’t argue.
But after a moment, Montgomery says, “I could probably make some kinda cowboy outta you, if you put your mind to it.”
Lone Star on a Cowboy Heart Page 11