by Linda Berry
As he toweled dry, Justin’s thoughts turned to rodeo. He felt a keen longing to be back on the circuit where he didn’t have to put up with people’s bullshit. Only one thing prevented him from jumping into his truck and hightailing it out of there. Hank Sterling. In Red Rock, Hank had taken the time to single him out, give him some sage advice, and offer him a job, even though he was a total stranger mixed up with bad company. Hank had seen something in him that he didn’t see in himself, and had fronted him money when he was dead broke. Justin had given Hank his word that he wouldn’t bail. He aimed to keep that promise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After Whistler’s stampede Joe kept to himself, eating in his room, lying in the darkness watching TV, his expression sullen. Sully checked on him regularly and helped him make his slow journey down the hall to the bathroom. He insisted on using his walker. Click, scoot, click, scoot. Sully admired his father’s determination to build up his strength, but he resented taking an eternity to walk down the hall when he could be getting work done. Patience.
After dinner, Sully spotted his father’s anti-depressant prescription in the bathroom trashcan. He fished it out, spilled the pills on the countertop, and counted them. All thirty pills were there. It had been obvious that Joe was deeply depressed and now he knew why. He stopped by Joe’s room and found his father propped up in bed watching the news with the volume turned up high. Butch lay beside him gnawing on a chew toy.
After waiting for a commercial, Sully picked up the remote and muted the sound.
Joe glanced up, eyebrows coming together in a scowl. “Whatcha want?”
Sully held up the pills.
Joe glared.
“Why aren’t you taking them?” Sully saw the strong jaw and hardness around Joe’s eyes.
“Gimme back my remote.”
“In a minute. First, talk to me.”
“You the Gestapo now?”
“Dad, you can have bad side effects quitting these cold turkey.”
“I ain’t taking that shit.” Throwing the bedcovers aside, Joe stood, holding on to the edge of the nightstand. He snatched the container from Sully’s hand and threw it forcefully into the trashcan. Butch jumped to his feet at the sharp clatter, and watched them nervously.
Trying to keep his cool, Sully reached into the can, retrieved the container, and placed it on the nightstand. “Try taking a half tablet. I’ll cut them up for you.”
“You take those zombie pills yourself, if you like ’em so much,” Joe barked, voice vibrating. “Don’t try drugging me so you can take over the ranch.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You think I didn’t notice you painted the place?” Red blotches appeared on Joe’s neck, worked their way up to his face. “What was wrong with it before? Your mom ’n me picked that paint together.”
“It wasn’t white anymore. It looked dirty.”
“You didn’t ask me first, did you?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“I was surprised, all right.” His whole body tightened up, neck veins bulging. “Where’s Jasper? You think I’m crazy? You think I can’t see the bull pasture from the window? You think I can’t tell a bull’s missing?”
Sully’s gut tightened. “He’s sold, Dad. Sorry, but we needed to pay bills.”
“What else did you sell?”
“Bella, one of the brood mares.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty! You sold my Bella?” He looked stricken. “That mare throws perfect colts.”
“They got a good home. The sheriff bought them.”
“Why didn’t you ask me first?” Joe’s words were now almost indecipherable. Spit foamed in the corner of his mouth. “I call the shots around here, not you!”
Sully stood frozen.
“Don’t make any more fucking decisions about anything. You understand me?”
“It had to be done.”
“Get outta here.”
Sully stood there stupidly.
“Get out!” Joe jabbed him sharply in the chest, pushing him out of the room. The door slammed shut in Sully’s face so hard the walls vibrated. Butch started barking. He heard his father’s muffled voice consoling him and then the TV blared back on.
Travis rushed into the hallway from the kitchen. “What the hell?”
“Dad’s pissed that we painted the house and sold Jasper and Bella.” Sully suddenly felt twelve years old, blindsided by his father’s hair-trigger temper. Only back then the angry words were often accompanied by a cuff to the ear or a boot to the seat of his pants. His father’s idea of child rearing was to knock sense into Sully first, and ask questions later. Anger swelled in his chest. His hand balled into a fist. He felt like smashing something.
“Easy, Sully.”
Sully unclenched his hand.
“Follow me. You need a beer.” Travis led the way to the kitchen.
The room still smelled like the onions, fish, and potatoes they’d had for dinner. Travis had done the dishes and they were stacked high in the dish rack, an intricate balancing act. He didn’t like using the dishwasher. Sully sank into a chair, eyes studying the worn tabletop as he resurrected a slew of past injuries inflicted by his father. “I’d like to pack him up and dump him off at the nursing home. Let him rot there.”
Still dressed in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, Travis opened the fridge, pulled out two Millers, twisted off the caps, placed one in front of Sully, sat down with the other. “Drink.”
Sully took a long pull of beer. The act of doing something normal had a neutralizing effect on him. He met the old Paiute’s patient brown eyes. Fatherly concern. No judgment. He felt his anger taper off a notch.
“Your intentions were good Sully, bringing Joe home. But I agree, we brought him back too soon. We shoulda given you more time to adjust, to make your own imprint on the ranch.”
Sully listened, his fingers picking at the corner of the label on the bottle.
“Joe’s always been top dog, demanding everything be done his way, pretty much ignoring anyone else’s opinion.” Travis shifted in his chair, his expression solemn. “Probably one of the reasons you left home and joined the Corps.”
Sully nodded.
“You’ve changed, Sully. He hasn’t. You became a Marine. Moved up the ranks. Commanded men. Made all the decisions.” Travis sipped his beer, his manner thoughtful. “Now you’re home, and you’re not going to go back to being second man down.”
“Maybe I should’ve consulted him before I sold the livestock,” Sully said, feeling a stab of guilt. No one could push him into a tailspin of insecurity like his father.
“You were trying to spare him grief. Tough decisions had to be made. Bills had to be paid. This ranch strayed off course. You’re getting us all back to center.” Travis leaned back in his chair, his brown, knotty fingers relaxed around his bottle. “Your dad’s gonna be messed up for a while until he kicks that medication. Ignore him. Keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t back down.”
Travis had always been the voice of reason in the chaos of every storm, Sully thought. This was their pattern. Joe hit. Travis healed.
“You and Joe are gonna butt heads from now on. Get used to it.” There was a touch of humor in his eyes. “Joe needs to learn to share the power.”
Travis was right. Things had changed and would never revert to the old ways. “He doesn’t know about Gunner yet. All hell’s gonna break loose when he finds out.”
“He’ll blame me for that. Not the first time, not the last.” Surprisingly, Travis smiled, his eyes crinkling into deep lines. “I’ll tell him about Gunner. You just stay clear of the fallout.”
Joe’s wrath never fazed Travis. As far back as Sully could remember nothing much ever fazed Travis. Only once had he seen the old Paiute break down. It took a hell of a tragedy. After twenty-one years of marriage, his wife Chenoah died in a car crash while returning home from the reservation after visiting her family. It had been a snowy
night. Icy roads. Steep grades. An eighteen-wheeler veered across the highway into her lane and hit her head on, crushing her Jeep into an accordion. The news of her death devastated everyone, especially Travis, who turned into a dead man walking. He hid out in his cottage by the creek, looked like hell when he emerged with a few packed bags. With no explanation, he left the ranch and went to live with Chenoah’s family on the rez. Sully was thirteen. Without Travis to act as a buffer between himself and Joe, it proved to be the toughest year of Sully’s young life. Joe’s abuse knew no bounds. Travis returned a year later with no fanfare and moved into the old bunkhouse. He had changed into a solemn man but his Teflon shield was fitted back in place, repelling “bad vibes” like water off polished glass.
Travis’s words broke into Sully’s thoughts. “Wanna play cards?”
“Sure. Why not.” Sully got up to get the cards out of the junk drawer. Next to the paperclips and pencils sat a stack of worn postcards held together by a rubber band. He removed the rubber band and sorted through them. They were the cards he’d sent home during his two deployments. The edges were dog-eared and frayed as though they’d been read countless times. “Who put these in here? Mom?”
“Joe. He took them out all the time. Read them over and over.”
Confounded, Sully replaced them as they were. He felt a touch of resentment that his father was incapable of showing affection openly. The dog-eared postcards testified that he had a tender streak hidden beneath the gruffness, but finding it was like drilling for oil. Hit or miss. Sully got out two more Millers, passed one to Travis, and took his seat at the table. After shuffling the cards, he and Travis played gin rummy for an hour or so, drank more beer, and shared some laughs. Sully’s mood lightened. Neither won at gin.
“I’m done,” Sully said, slapping his cards on the table. The beer and the weight of the day brought on a heavy feeling of fatigue. He tossed the empty bottles in the trash, slapped Travis on the back, and shuffled down the hall to get cleaned up. He heard loud noises erupting from his father’s TV. Guns shooting, tires squealing. Every night, Joe fell asleep with the TV blaring. Sully made it a habit to turn it off and take Butch out for his last potty run. Pausing outside Joe’s door, he felt a hardness creep into his heart. He was tempted to go to his own room, let Travis take over Joe’s caretaking. He recognized that he was indebted to his father. Though their temperaments were vastly different, he had inherited traits from Joe that had served him well in life. A strong work ethic, a commitment to duty. Floating beneath his anger and resentment, he knew he loved his father, and respected him. They were as intertwined as the roots of a gnarly old tree.
Sully opened the door. Butch jumped off the bed and frantically pawed his legs, tail wagging at high speed. Sully turned off the TV and took Butch out into the crisp night air. They hiked above the hayfields following the trail along the edge of the forest. Hillocks of snow glistened in the darkness, the sky was choked with stars, and the luminous moon winked at him through tree branches. From the deep velvet tunnels between the trees, the forest gave off a blue-black chill. Sully heard the scuffling of animals and wondered what creatures were silently watching. Deer, owl, raccoon, skunk, fox?
Butch scurried on top of the snow like a bird, barely making an imprint, while Sully’s boots crunched deeply. The wind carried the soft sound of horses neighing, and he could hear the rush of Wild Horse Creek cascading over rocks. The peace of the country seeped into his soul, and it felt healing to be out of the house, away from his father’s sense of ownership. His lingering feelings of resentment shifted to pragmatism and his thoughts turned to projects needing his attention in the morning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hard-working men needed fuel and Justin was happy to see that the hands at Silver O were well fed. Standing in line at the buffet table in the dining room he covered two plates with eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes, pancakes, fresh fruit, biscuits and gravy. Carafes of strong coffee waited on the table.
“You’re allowed to get seconds,” Roth chuckled, sitting down across from him.
“Wanted to save myself another trip.” After smothering his pancakes in butter and syrup, he ate heartily, listening to the small talk of the cowhands. He was scraping the last bite off his plate when he heard the jingle of bracelets, caught a whiff of cinnamon, and felt a hand land firmly on his shoulder. Feeling his muscles tense beneath her fingers, he looked up at Sarah’s painted-on face. Today she had the good sense to camouflage her sexy figure beneath a baggy work shirt, and he didn’t have to work so hard to keep his eyes above her neckline. He scanned the room but the hulking foreman was nowhere in sight.
“Morning, boys,” she said, chipper.
“Morning,” Roth and Nelson responded. Billy nodded, cheeks packed with food.
“You done, Justin? Dad wants to see you.”
“Sure thing.” Justin gulped down the last of his coffee, placed his hat on his head and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. He walked with Sarah through a spacious lodge-style living room that featured a cavernous fireplace, oversize furniture, large western paintings, Navajo rugs, and an antler chandelier that must’ve weighed a ton. Sarah wasn’t kidding when she said Hank liked things big. She walked him down a polished hardwood hallway, opened half a double door, and motioned him inside. With a flirtatious smile, she closed it behind him.
Hank stood talking on his phone in front of a huge picture window that offered a spectacular view of his property. In the distance, the white peaks of the Cascades cut into a turquoise sky. Trying not to eavesdrop, Justin removed his hat and gazed around the room. Masculine. Stone fireplace, big leather chairs, bookshelves lined with rodeo trophies and buckles. Photos on the walls depicted Hank riding bulls and posing with famous cowboys and politicians, while his daughters, from toddlers to adults, were posed mostly on horseback dressed as cowgirls. Hank’s desktop held two computer monitors, a sculpted bronze stallion, and stacks of folders and books. A framed photo of a beautiful woman with long red hair and green eyes commanded the space in the middle of the desk. From her resemblance to Cody and Sarah, Justin knew it was Olivia.
“Good to hear from you, too, Chuck. See ya in Boise.” Hank stuffed his phone into his breast pocket and shot Justin a dazzling smile. A deep blue chambray shirt brought out the steel gray of his eyes, his silver hair was brushed in a youthful style, and he moved with an air of easy authority. Hank was that rare man, Justin thought, who looked comfortable in his own skin.
“See you made it here in record time,” Hank said.
“I’m a goal-oriented guy.”
“How’s it feel to be back in Oregon?”
“Good.”
Hank rounded his desk and sat on the edge. “Have a seat.”
Justin sank into a mahogany-colored leather chair and admired Hank’s hand-tooled boots.
“I talked to Cody this morning. Seems she stripped away your alias last night.”
Justin sized him up. The man looked relaxed and cheerful. He decided to go with the mood, matching Hank’s light tone, “Yeah, looks like I’ve been busted.”
“I don’t know what you’re dodging, Justin, but your secret’s safe here.”
Justin studied him, suspicious.
“It might surprise you that I already knew who you were back in Red Rock.”
“No way.”
“If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have offered you a job. You were messing with some real slime. I imagine from your long stay in Arizona, Porky caught up with you.”
Hell. Justin felt the heat rush up to his face. Crossing one ankle over a knee, he picked at the frayed hem of his jeans. He was thankful when Hank started talking again.
“As a matter of fact, the first time I saw you, you were just a freshman in high school.”
Justin looked up, surprised. He waited to see where this was going.
“Someone with your athletic ability isn’t easily forgotten. I went to most of the games at Beaverhead High with the girls. From
the very beginning, you stood out. I watched your skill as a sprinter progress through high school.”
Wow. Hank had been at his track meets.
“You were fast. You had that special quality that separates winners from losers.”
Justin’s coaches said as much. They called it drive. Justin called it desperation. A need to pull himself out of his hardscrabble existence and cast a good light on his family name. He owed his mother that much.
“You put in a helluva lot of practice,” Hank said. “Not many young people have focus at that age. They party, scrape by.”
“My life was pretty much ranch work, homework, and sports. I didn’t have time to hang out much with anyone beside my teammates.”
“Good discipline. Builds mental toughness. Hones your instincts.”
Justin worked his fingers around the brim of his hat, feeling self-conscious under the glow of Hank’s warm praise. Since the beating and his forced departure from rodeo, he’d felt demoralized. Hank’s words were like a shot of oxygen, pumping up his deflated ego. A world-class champion himself, Hank understood what it took to be a winner. The personal sacrifice, long hours, and pushing himself beyond the point where his body wanted to quit.
“Let’s take a walk, Justin. I’ll show you around.” Hank grabbed a denim jacket off the coat rack, wrestled into it, then settled a black Stetson on his head and adjusted it to the correct angle. Justin followed suit. They left the house and walked up the dirt road leading to the barn. Immediately their path was crisscrossed by the four dogs, their noses alternately sniffing the breeze and mowing the earth. The crisp morning air was seasoned with sage and juniper, and the braying of cows and twittering birds provided melodic background music. Nut-job personalities aside, Justin determined there was no ranch on earth more beautiful than Sterling O.
“After high school, you dropped off the radar screen,” Hank said, picking up the conversation where it had left off. “I heard you went off to college on a sports scholarship.”
“That’s right.”
“I was pleased to hear that. Then I’ll be doggoned if you didn’t start popping up again last year at small rodeos throughout the west.” Hank glanced over at him, watching his expression. “You decided to drop out of school. Turn pro.”