by Linda Berry
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sully arrived at Ronnie’s at seven carrying a six-pack of Bud. Living with Joe and Travis left him sorely missing female company. Having Saturday night dinners with Ronnie and Sunday night dinners with Maggie was a bonus he looked forward to all week. He pushed open the screen door and stepped inside. “Mom, I’m here.”
“Back here.” Ronnie came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes flashing brightly.
“What smells so good?” He pecked her on the forehead.
“Grilled chicken.”
“My favorite.”
“I know.” She smiled.
He followed her into the kitchen and looked out at the patio. The table was set for two. Smoke was curling out of the grill. He popped open a Bud. “Beer?”
“I have wine in the fridge. Pour me a glass?” She started whipping butter and milk into a pot of mashed potatoes on the stove. “Flip the chicken for me, too.”
He went outside, set down their drinks and opened the grill, releasing a cloud of fragrant smoke. He turned over the chicken, waited a few minutes, and then liberally brushed on Ronnie’s homemade sauce. The tantalizing mix of citrus and herbs teased his nostrils. “Chicken’s done.” He forked the pieces onto a platter and sat waiting at the table, mouth watering.
“Your hat,” Ronnie said, coming out with a bowl in each hand.
He placed his hat on the extra chair and ran a hand through his matted hair.
“Your hair looks nice longer,” she said. “You don’t look military anymore.”
“Haven’t cut it since I got home.” Sully’s Marine training was ingrained, but in the last six weeks, he had settled into ranch life like a hand in glove. Ranching was his calling again. After piling chicken, mashed potatoes, and sautéed summer squash on his plate, he snapped his cloth napkin over his lap and bit into a juicy drumstick. “Hmmmm. You should bottle and sell this sauce, Mom. You’d corner the market.” For a minute he didn’t talk, just chewed, polishing off the drumstick and starting on another. In between bites he got Ronnie caught up on news at the ranch. “The first crop of hay’s shooting up in the fields. I’ve gotten a bunch of carpentry and plumbing done. Travis is tuning up the hay baler.” He took a long sip of beer. “Everything’s getting spruced up.”
“You’re working the horses, too?” she asked, her fork halfway to her mouth.
He nodded, chewing. “Every day. They’re coming up to speed. Chico’s going up for sale here pretty soon. That’s money in the bank.”
Her brow creased into worry lines. “You’re working too hard. Doing my job, too.”
“No worries.” He sawed off a piece of chicken, forked it into his mouth.
“I transferred money into the ranch account yesterday,” she said. “It’ll help pay property taxes.”
He looked at her, surprised.
“Michael, you forget, I write. Doesn’t pay much but I just deposit the money. What else am I going to do with it? I don’t go anywhere.”
He felt a stab of guilt, imagining what it must be like for his mother to be a prisoner in her own house. “Mom, why don’t you come home? You don’t have to live with Dad. The cottage on the creek is just sitting empty. I can get it cleaned up and painted.”
Her eyes shadowed and welled with tears.
“You can be with all the animals again. Do your gardening.”
She took in a deep breath. “Yes, I need to come home.”
“Just say the word. I’ll buy paint.”
“My lease is up at the end of May. Three weeks. I’ll start packing.” Her lips curved upward and her eyes were wide and bright. “I can’t wait to see Gracie.”
The grateful way his mother looked at him made his chest swell. He flushed with pleasure at the thought of having her home.
“How’s your dad?” She sipped her wine, watching his expression closely.
Sully wiped his mouth with a napkin. Three weeks had passed since Joe dropped the bomb about his secret family. The initial shock had worn off but now a wall of icy reserve stood between them. “He’s good. He’s put on some weight and muscle. Looks halfway back to normal. He replaced the wheelchair with the ATV. He zips around the ranch like a NASCAR driver with Butch on his lap. Dog’s an appendage.”
Amusement touched the corner of her mouth.
He scratched the back of his head. “I have to admit, Dad’s been a big help.”
“What can he do with a weak arm and leg?” She brought a forkful of potatoes to her mouth.
“Everything. Feed chickens, fill water troughs, groom horses, polish tack. He and Travis planted the vegetable garden.” Sully resisted telling her that Joe dragged himself to bed each night looking half dead. There was no point in Sully telling him to take it easy. He wouldn’t listen.
“Does your dad ask about me?” she asked, voice cautious.
He shrugged, wanting to say yes, but in truth, Joe was too damned self-centered to think of anyone but himself. “Mom, I gotta be honest. I don’t talk to Dad unless I have to.” Joe and Travis on the other hand, were as tight as two sausages nestled in sauerkraut. Sully came upon them laughing sometimes and their expressions instantly sobered, like he was the bad guy. “Dad and Travis go into town together a couple nights a week.”
“What do they do?”
“Drink beer. Eat pizza.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear you two don’t talk. He’s your father, Michael.”
“Yeah, well …”
They both ate in silence listening to the music of her wind chimes.
“Do you have room for dessert?” she asked. “I made cinnamon buns.”
He groaned, happily. “You’re killing me, Mom. I’m stuffed. I’ll have one later with coffee.”
“Take the rest home. There’s plenty for Travis and Joe.”
“They’ll be appreciated.” He stacked the dirty dishes and followed her into the kitchen. “Gin rummy?”
She smiled her beautiful smile. “You bet. I haven’t forgotten you owe me three dollars.”
“Watch out,” he said, limbering up his fingers. “I feel lucky tonight.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sully walked down to the house from the hay fields. Sunshine warmed the earth, the apple trees were covered in blooms, and Ronnie’s perennials sprouted everywhere. Phlox, daffodils, tulips, hyacinths. It was good to see splashes of color after the stark months of winter. He went in to get lunch, hungrier than a bear coming out of hibernation. Travis sat at the table drinking coffee, an empty plate in front of him. Groceries were low and the men had resorted to eating sandwiches for lunch and dinner. Sully rummaged through the fridge. All the cinnamon buns were gone.
“You finish the turkey?” He opened the dairy drawer. “And the cheese?”
“We finished it last night. I just had peanut butter and jelly.”
Sully pulled strawberry jam and Skippy out of the cupboard. “Time for a grocery run.”
“Or we could get pizza.”
Travis could live on pizza. “We’re going out for groceries, Travis. We’re not turning into frat boys.” He put a pad and pen on the table. “Start a list.” While standing at the counter making two sandwiches, he ticked off grocery items. “Milk, bacon, bread, tuna, butter.”
“Slow down.” Travis scratched the pad with the pen.
Sully sat at the table with his food and coffee and waited for him to catch up. “Add vegetables.”
“We can buy all the groceries you want,” Travis said. “Doesn’t mean I’m cooking.”
“I’ll cook. How about salad and spaghetti tonight?”
“How about meat?”
“I’ll put beef in the sauce.”
Travis grunted. “I can eat spaghetti.”
Halfway through his second sandwich, Sully heard the sound of gunshots coming from behind the barn. “What the hell?”
“That’s Joe,” Travis said calmly.
“What’s he doing with a firearm?”
&nbs
p; “Trying to shoot the damn thing.”
Leaving his sandwich on his plate, Sully stumbled into his boots, hurried out to the meadow behind the barn and spotted Joe standing next to the four-wheeler reloading his Winchester rifle. Twenty-five feet across the clearing, a dozen tin cans were lined across two old lopsided picnic tables.
As Sully watched, his father tucked the butt of the rifle into his right shoulder, tried to support the stock with his weak left arm, and fired. He got off six shots, the barrel of the gun jerking each time. The shots went wild, splintering chunks of wood off the tables. “What’re you doing?”
Joe glanced over his shoulder, eyes shadowed by a ball cap with a Rodeo Bum logo stitched on it. “What’s it look like? Shooting a damn rifle.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? There’re murdering thieves on the loose. They stole Gunner. They killed Monty. I intend to be ready when they make their first mistake.”
“That’s the sheriff’s job.”
“Not if I find them first.”
His father’s thinking was delusional.
Ignoring him, Joe reloaded and fired off six more rounds. The tables splintered. Clumps of earth exploded.
Sully’s ears were ringing. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. “A handgun would be easier.”
“I’m a rifle man.”
“Yeah, but with a handgun you could shoot one-handed, using your good arm.”
“You know I don’t have no handgun.”
“You can use one of mine.”
“Which gun?”
“The Glock 19. I’ll show you how to use it.”
Looking impatient, Joe stood the rifle against the seat of the two-wheeler. “Get the damn thing.”
Sully wanted to get back to eating, then horse training. “Can we do this later? I’m busy.”
“Whenever you want. In the meantime, I’ll practice with my rifle.”
And wear yourself out. “I’ll get the Glock.” Sully went back to the house, grabbed his sandwich, and took bites while walking to the office. He unlocked the gun cabinet, took out two earmuffs, several magazines, a holster, and his G19. A safe, reliable gun. The Glock was like a lawnmower, needing little cleaning or maintenance. It had worked one hundred percent of the time with the ammo he put in it. He went outside. Joe was leaning against the two-wheeler but stood up straight when Sully approached. He already looked exhausted.
“Lift up your right arm.” Sully clipped the gun and holster to Joe’s belt. “Each magazine holds fifteen 9mm hollow points.” Sully inserted rounds into a magazine then took the Glock from the holster and showed him how to insert the magazine and rack the slide. Joe had been around guns his whole life. He only had to demonstrate once. He put on the earmuffs, put a pair on Joe, brought the pistol up to target with his right arm and shot off six rounds. Across the clearing, six cans jumped off the table. He crossed the clearing, stood the cans back up and returned to Joe, handed him the Glock. “Here. Try it.”
“It feels light,” Joe said with skepticism. “A gun this light can’t control recoil.”
“It’s accurate, has little recoil.”
Joe imitated Sully’s stance, raised his right arm and fired off a shot. Missed the can. His face was set, his focus intense. Sully watched him fire off fourteen more rounds, missing every time, but his shots were coming within a half-foot of his target.
Joe pushed his earmuff back and looked at Sully, his blue eyes squinting in the sun. “Thanks, son.” His voice was actually pleasant. “Tell your ma thanks for the cinnamon buns.”
“Tell her yourself,” Sully said coldly. “You know how to use a phone. It’s the least you can do. She sits in the house alone seven days a week.”
Joe winced as though slapped. His jaw worked a bit, then tightened. Sully turned his back on him and walked to the barn.
Shots rang out while Sully worked in the corral with Chico. By the time his father quit, Sully could hear a third of his shots hitting the cans.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The sun was straight up in the sky and it was hot and dusty in the arena. Sully was hungry but he wanted to put in more time with Chico while the horse was alert and interested. He dismounted at the water trough. While the horse drank his fill, Sully turned on the hose, removed his hat and bent over and let cold water run over his head. He combed his fingers through his wet hair and leaned back against the rail, admiring his horse. Chico would soon be on the market, going to the highest bidder. To get top dollar, the gelding had to be expertly trained. The thought of losing Chico made Sully’s gut ache but life presented tough decisions, and right now he needed cash. You better damn well do the tough stuff up front. Joe’s old sermon echoed in his ears. Put off hard choices and you’re in trouble down the road. Cut off a toe to save the foot.
The gelding nudged Sully playfully, wanting to get back to work. Sully chuckled. That’s what he loved about Chico. Attitude. He heard the clopping of hooves and saw his father hobbling up to the railing leading Whistler, saddled, ready to ride.
Joe nodded. No smile.
Sully nodded back. Joe’s hat shaded his face, hiding his expression. Sully imagined it was one of criticism. Most everything Sully had learned from Joe came from criticism. The old nagging feeling he used to get in the pit of his stomach when working with Joe returned. Sully donned his hat, hoisted himself back into the saddle and resumed training, practicing the ten patterns required for reining competition. Just before competing, riders were notified which pattern they had to perform, so a horse and rider had to be highly skilled in every one. Joe had drummed into him that reining a horse was not just about guiding him, but controlling his every move. Sully put Chico through the paces. After thirty minutes he and Chico were slick with sweat and the gelding’s interest was waning. Time to quit. A horse had to be a willing partner. Over-training was the best way to produce a performance that was robotic and lacking vitality. His father taught him that. Just about every thought that occurred to him while training was a retread of Joe’s advice.
“You done in here?” Looking impatient, his father now stood inside the gate with Whistler, the holstered G19 snapped to his belt. This was the first time he’d brought Whistler into the arena since the morning he ran amuck. The Palomino’s long silver mane and tail looked silky and his coat had been brushed to a glossy sheen. Perched on the saddle maintaining perfect balance, Butch looked about as trimmed as sagebrush, his eyes all but disappearing beneath curly hair.
“What’s this? A new circus act?” Sully asked.
“Time to get back in the saddle,” Joe said irritably.
“How do you plan on getting up there?”
“You’re gonna help. Give me a boost.”
“You’re staying in the arena, aren’t you?”
“Since when did you become the parent?” Joe snapped. “Mind your manners. Here, watch my dog.” He handed Butch to Sully.
Sully got behind Joe, waited for him to put his foot in the stirrup, then gave a big heave. Joe settled in the saddle then took off at a lope. Sully turned away from a cloud of dust. “Thanks, Dad.” Joe was steadily getting stronger. Sully had to give him credit for working as hard as he did. Some men would have given up, stayed in a wheelchair for life.
Standing on the sideline, Sully watched Joe relax his lower back and hips and sit deeper in the saddle. He could hardly see him move his body or arms but he was definitely communicating to Whistler, relying more on his legs for his turns with no visible use of the reins. The more relaxed you ride, the better a rider you’ll be, Joe use to tell him. Like everything in life, the better you get at something, the less you have to do.
With Butch trotting behind, Sully led Chico deep into the barn and began removing his tack. He turned on the radio and started whistling to an old Eagles tune, “Desperado.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
In the days that followed, Sully and Joe fell into an easy, if barely civil, routine. Both men went about doing
their morning chores, then Sully trained horses in the arena while Joe practiced his shooting skills behind the barn. Sully now heard Joe’s bullets pinging tin cans eighty percent of the time, and he wore his holster every waking hour. Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral, Sully thought with grim humor. Waiting for the shootout with the bad guys who lurked in every shadow.
Joe’s shooting practice stopped at noon and the men convened for lunch. Travis collected eggs from the hen house and made egg salad sandwiches on whole wheat.
“That’s our last loaf of bread,” Travis said, as they sat down to eat.
“Time for another food run,” Sully said absentmindedly, unfolding the newspaper. “I’ll go into town after dinner.” Vaguely aware of Joe and Travis swapping conversation, he wolfed down his sandwich, read the paper, and ignored them.
Joe refilled Sully’s coffee cup.
Sully looked up momentarily.
Joe held his gaze, a wistful expression on his face.
Probably hoping for a note of friendliness, or a smile. Sully wasn’t feeling charitable. “Thanks,” he said, no emotion, his eyes darting back to the sports section. He gulped down his coffee, then unceremoniously left the two men at the table, and went to the arena to resume horse training. Around two, he heard the ATV heading in the direction of the hay fields. His father was probably going to check on the irrigation equipment. One section of pipe had been faulty. The rest of the afternoon went by uninterrupted, Sully completely attuned to the horses. Normally he and Joe swapped places in the arena late afternoon, but today Joe didn’t show. Sully groomed Chico in the barn, took him to his stall, and then cleaned the tack room. No sign of Butch or Joe.
Sully was surprised when he came in for dinner and found Travis alone in the kitchen, frying potatoes and trout for dinner. The smell of onions and garlic made Sully’s stomach rumble with hunger. “Dad sleeping?” he said.
Travis looked up from the fry pan. “He’s not in the house. I just checked his room. You haven’t seen him outside?”