Vortex

by Kimberly Packard

  The air always seemed fresher when Elaina turned down the dirt road to her mom’s land.

  Nim stuck his head out the passenger window, barking a greeting at the small herd of longhorn cattle. They were kept more for pets than anything else. Ever since Connie had retired from nursing, she’d become more engrossed in ranching and farming, even though her mother’s thumb was browner than dirt.

  Connie was working in her vegetable garden when Elaina pulled up to the front of the old two-story house. Like a lot of other houses in the central plains, her childhood home had a grand wraparound porch, white clapboard with dark green shutters framing the windows.

  Her eyes rested on the storm shelter just a few yards off the front door, a staunch reminder as to why she’d made the drive in the first place. Elaina opened her door and Nim bolted past her, greeting her mother with more wags and licks than she got during an entire week; which her mom reciprocated with an overabundance of kisses and scratches. She should’ve been jealous, but it was only fair, he didn’t come home with dirty laundry.

  Her adoption was never a secret. Connie’s unmarried status was one reason, but another, was the fact that they could never pass for biological mother and daughter. At least not with looks. Connie’s tall, sturdy frame towered over Elaina’s barely five-foot-two petite size. Elaina’s heart-shaped face with a dimpled chin showed no similarity to her mom’s square jaw. She often wished for cornflower blue eyes like Connie, even though her mother told her that the forest green eye color suited her long brunette hair better.

  What Elaina couldn’t inherit physically, she made up for in personality. Raising a young child alone in small town Oklahoma while working as a nurse couldn’t have been easy.

  More than a few times Elaina would catch the sideways glances and behind-the-hand murmurings of some of the ladies, likely disapproving Connie’s decision to raise a child on her own, a husband be damned. Rather than hide from the gossip, she’d met it head on, taking an active role in her daughter’s school and extracurricular activities, doing more than families with two parents and several grandparents on-hand.

  Once Connie freed herself from the excited yellow Lab, she wrapped Elaina in a tight hug. The smell of dried sweat, the rich scent of earth and a hint of her mom’s signature shampoo enveloped her in the embrace of a mother’s love.

  She released an involuntary sigh. It was worth a two-hour drive just to get one of these hugs.

  “I missed you, Momma.”

  Connie held her at arm’s length, lightly pushing back the curls that’d come loose around her face.

  Water filled her tear ducts, but Elaina pushed them back. Any sign of moisture, and her mom would worry.

  “I missed you, too, baby,” her mom said, stroking the sides of her upper arms. She looked down at her T-shirt and frowned. “That must be your last clean shirt. Gracious, Elaina, go get some laundry started and come help me in the garden.”

  Glad to see Mom’s inner hippie and southern belle are still duking it out.

  After getting the washer working on her clothes, Elaina found her mom back in the garden, bent over a perfect little row of mounded dirt, her face half-hidden by a wide-brimmed hat.

  Nimbus lay in the shade of the giant oak tree, happily chewing on a bone that Elaina would never have given him.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  “Grab some packets of cucumbers and drop a few seeds in each hole, then gently cover them up.”

  “But you hate cucumbers.”

  “Yes, and if every farmer planted only what she liked we’d all be eating the same thing. Get to work.”

  The early spring day was perfect for gardening. A cool breeze dried any sweat driven to the surface by the warm sun. When the wind did kick up, the sweet smell of tree pollen tickled her nose.

  Elaina closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun. A longhorn lowed, which was answered by two others.

  This was her favorite part of her research. Being in the field, sitting in wide-open spaces and feeling the power of weather all around her. The heat of the sun, the flow of the wind, the moisture in the air.

  It was like being home. Not like being here, in the house where she’d grown up. Like the definition of home was grander. Her home couldn’t be confined by four walls and a roof. It was within her. All around her.

  She went back to work, dropping more seeds into tiny holes. Elaina took a deep breath and dropped a few more seeds.

  Now or never.

  “Chased a tornado the other day. The one that struck Townsend.”

  “Elaina, you know the rules.” Connie kept her head down as she spoke. “Please don’t tell me all the gory details. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

  She scooted down the row, closer to her mom and the unfilled holes. “I was fine, don’t worry. It was just a little EF1 anyway.”

  They worked in silent tandem. Connie dug holes and Elaina filled them with cucumber seeds. When a row was finished, Connie moved to the next, spacing these holes wider for growing lettuce.

  The temperature rose as the late afternoon sun began its descent. A rivulet of sweat dislodged from her forehead and rolled down to her eye, the salt stinging. Elaina winced and the gesture reminded her of the vision, of dirty water pouring into her eyes and a man’s soothing voice.

  “Hey momma.”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “Have we ever been in a tornado?” Elaina looked over at her mother.

  Connie paused. The wide brim hat lifted slightly, but kept her mother’s face hidden. Her long, gloved fingers trembled and lost their grip on the spade before clutching it tighter. “No, baby.” Her words were as tight and firm as her hand on the spade. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Elaina leaned back on her heels and hitched her hands on her hips. If she told her the truth, that she’d gotten too close to the storm, that would fall within the ‘gory details’ category.

  Her mother was already well past motherhood age when she’d adopted her; Elaina didn’t want to have the burden of her daughter’s safety wreaking havoc on her health. Maybe Heath was right. Maybe something had hit her. Not hard enough to do damage, just enough to give her the daydream.

  “Oh, nothing, just a strange dream I had the other day, that’s all.”

  Her mother’s hat bobbed once, as if nodding its approval. Connie stabbed the soil with the spade. There were never secrets between them, but Elaina couldn’t help but feel instead of digging holes for lettuce, her mother was digging a hole to bury the past.

  6

  The grizzled old cocktail waitress had it in for Tuck the minute he’d walked into the casino. She might’ve had it in for anyone who dared to pull her away from the soap opera to order a drink early on a Wednesday afternoon in this middle of nowhere casino, but he’d just happened to be the only one there.

  Not that he was keen on patronizing this shit-hole. He’d been banned from the ones in Oklahoma, New Mexico, Kansas and Nevada, so here he was, in far south Colorado. The last casino he could slink into. He had to mind his p’s and q’s because he was not driving to Louisiana the next time he felt lucky. It’d be damn-near impossible for his luck to hold all the way to Shreveport.

  Tuck jingled the change in his pocket as he sipped on his watered-down whiskey. He’d asked for it straight up, so they must’ve watered it down in the bottle.

  Can’t even get a decent drink in this place.

  The bright light filtering in from the parking lot made the inside even darker. Which might be for the best considering some of the stains he saw on the carpet.

  Was that a chalk outline of a body?

  A few rows of slot machines lined one side of the room. Like old soldiers, still ready for duty, but blind and toothless. Some of the machines were dark, having given up the ghost and now just stood as relics to a time when life was less crappy. Others flashed silently, a spark of life in there somewhere, but fading fast. A few roused long enough to play a torpid, distorted version
of their mechanical tones.

  He set the drink on the worn bar top and shoved his other hand in the pocket, cupping the roll of cash. Nine hundred bucks, in a mix of twenties and one hundreds. If he were a responsible man, he’d take that money and pay down the debt he owed his loan shark. He’d reinvest it in his business, Tuck’s Tours, maybe add some horsepower to one of the vans. That way he could take his more daring clients closer to the heart of the storms and high-tail it out with adrenalin —and tips—flowing freely.

  Or, maybe he’d finally get around to buying that headstone. One fit for a little princess.

  Hell, a responsible man would’ve taken a respectable computer-screen-staring office job wearing short shirt-sleeves, neutral-colored pants and a high and tight hair cut instead of Hawaiian shirts, and cargo shorts. His last haircut had been at least three tornados ago.

  Robert Tucker was many things, and a responsible man was toward the bottom of that list.

  His attention turned back to the cashier’s window. An old man reclined in his chair, eyes closed and arms crossed over his impressive belly. His face seemed to have collapsed in on itself like a mountain after a rock slide.

  Tuck threw back the rest of the drink.

  It takes money to make money.

  Surely, Jimbo would understand, being an entrepreneur himself and all.

  “Howdy.” Tuck rapped his knuckles on the counter.

  The man lifted one heavy eyelid. A lengthy sigh escaped his lungs. “How much you changin’?”

  “What tables are hot today?”

  He smacked his lips a couple of times before he managed to get his mouth to open. “I don’t know about hot, but the Blackjack dealer and roulette croupier showed up today.” Like a robotic fortune-teller, he closed his eyes at the end of his sentence.

  Tuck tore his gaze off the old man and stared out over the casino floor.

  An old woman, with her rolling oxygen tank, stared glassy-eyed at her slot machine. A heroine-thin man placed jerky bets on the roulette wheel, and a twenty-something kid sat hunched over at the Blackjack table, his features hidden behind dark glasses and a low baseball cap.

  Roulette was like tequila. One good shot was all Tuck had the stomach for. If it was the good stuff, he’d come out for the better. The cheap stuff made him mean.

  He was in too good of a mood to leave it to chance. Needed to be in control. To make decisions about his future. Like whether he was going to stay or hit. Stay or run. Stand up to authority or quietly walk away.

  Tuck handed over the wad of cash. “Change it all.” The chip-heavy pockets of his cargo shorts knocked against his legs as he walked over to the Blackjack table. “Mind if I join in?” He threw some chips on the table.

  The player in the cap shrugged.

  Without a word, the dealer tossed cards in his direction as he dealt a fresh hand. Turning over an ace on the house’s hand.

  His gaze darted to his cards. Two and a seven. Tuck swallowed his wince. Blackjack wasn’t his game of choice. The only real strategy was being able to add quickly in his head, and at least try to keep track of which cards had been played.

  Poker was his game. A game of cunning. A game of war. A game where his face remained the same, whether he was winning or losing.

  Sometimes, just to mess with people he’d smile beatifically the whole time, especially when he’d royally lost a hand.

  “Book says you need to hit that.” The kid spoke beside him.

  Tuck gave him a side-eye glance. “Ya think?” He knocked on the table and the dealer placed another card in front of him. A four.

  Lucky thirteen. He could hold, and gamble on the dealer busting, or burst out of the gate with a bold bet. He stroked his goatee. Playing it safe was playing it boring. “Hit.”

  Ace.

  Dammit.

  “One or eleven,” the gambler next to him mumbled. “Book says you should hit that. Or, you could hold if you can’t handle the stress.”

  Tuck had been in enough casinos to know all the mind games people played. He rounded his shoulders and focused on the cards in front of him, gently tapping his finger on the table.

  Seven.

  His body deflated with a long sigh.

  “Didn’t think you’d make that one,” the dealer said, flicking chips in Tuck’s direction.

  He didn’t think so either.

  “You should, like, give me a couple of chips,” the kid said. “You know, consultation fee.”

  “How about this.” He swiveled in his seat. “You shut that big mouth of yours and you can walk out of here.”

  The guy’s face whitened around the dark glasses and under the bill of his baseball cap.

  There were just some things a man couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried. Fear of having his kneecaps busted was one of them.

  They played several more hands. For the most part, Tuck climbed in the right direction. What started as nine hundred bucks turned into thirteen hundred, but only after dipping down to seven hundred for a short, bad run of luck.

  After four good hands, he started fantasizing about what else he could do with his winnings.

  Once he paid off Jimbo, of course.

  The dealer stretched. “All right folks, time for my break.” He started packing up his cards.

  Dread slipped down Tuck’s spine with the burning sensation of cheap whiskey. “What? No! Come on, man, we have a good thing going.” It was playful begging, like when a dog wanted table scraps. He’d survive if he came away empty-handed, but he’d be damn happy if he got his way.

  The old dealer smiled with his rheumy eyes. “I’ll be at the roulette table after my break. Come see me there.”

  He grumbled a half-assed agreement and tossed a couple of chips in the man’s direction.

  The dealer slid away.

  “You!” Tuck said when his replacement took her seat.

  The old waitress had changed from her ill-fitting, faded gold-lame cocktail dress to an even more ill-fitting tuxedo. Her face was still heavily made up. The bright rouge of her blush settled into the cracks on her cheeks like grass growing through asphalt.

  “This ain’t no picnic for me, either,” she growled in her two-packs-a-day voice.

  As she took time getting settled into her seat, the guy next to him stood and stretched. Twisting his torso and reaching from side to side before throwing in a few jumping jacks and shadow boxing.

  Was it possible that Tuck had found the most annoying person in the world at this waste-of-space casino in the middle-of-nowhere Colorado?

  When she finally got settled, the new dealer tossed him two eights.

  The kid hissed beside him. “Damn. Book says that’s the worst hand you could be dealt. Book says you should split that.”

  Tuck cut his eyes in his direction. “What, did you read Blackjack for Dummies or something?” He split his cards and signaled for a hit. One hand made it to fifteen, the other nineteen. He held on both. There was no reason to get risky with this new dealer. He needed to feel how she’d affect the table.

  She was like a cold front dipping down on the warm, pleasant air of the table. Her mojo would either stall before it hit him and nothing would happen, or it’d turn into a raging bitch of a tornado.

  The kid busted.

  The dealer flipped over her cards. “Twenty-one, dealer wins.” She reached for Tuck’s chips, pulling a piece of his soul back with it.

  He shuffled his chips. Arranging them in even stacks of the various amounts, moving them around each other like a shell game without the shells.

  He was down to four hundred. The lowest he’d been since walking in. Jimbo’d expect nothing less than a thousand for his next payment. Maybe he could scrounge up another hundred if he could at least get back to even and call it quits. Cash in his chips and get the hell out of the casino. High tail it back to Colorado Springs.

  The next round gave Tuck a five and a six.

  The dealer slapped her own cards on the table, another fiv
e stared up. She challenged his manhood through her milky cataracts. Her sagging chin lifted in a dare.

  Would he make the big play here? Go all in and at least come away with his investment?

  Tuck reclined on the stool and crossed his arms over his belly, letting a serene smile creep across his face.

  “Whatcha gonna do there, buddy?” she asked.

  He pushed the rest of his chips onto the table. “Double down.”

  The kid’s stool squeaked when he turned toward him. “Are you sure about that? The book says that’s a risky bet.”

  “I’ve been listening to you go on and on about what’s in that damn book. Look kid, life ain’t lived in books, life’s lived out in the world, on the open road. So put away your How to be a Man for Dummies before I shove it up your ass.” He shot the dealer a look and tapped the table. “Hit me.”

  She snapped another card at his place.

  A four.

  He’d be safe as long as she busted.

  The dealer flipped over her hole card.

  A ten.

  They were neck and neck.

  Tuck wasn’t a religious man, but at that moment he’d pray to any deity he hadn’t pissed off to have the dealer draw another ten or a card from the court. Anything to get her as far over twenty-one as her age. Hell, he’d even offer her sexual favors if he thought it would help. Or, if he thought he could stomach it.

  Her spindly fingers reached into the card dispenser.

  Ten. Come on baby.

  He held his face steady, but a bead of sweat launched from his temple.

  She pulled the card out, eyeing him once more before flipping it over. “A six brings us to twenty-one, dealer wins.” She pursed her fuschia-colored lips.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Would you like us to hold your seat while you get more chips?” Her words as smug as her old face.

  Tuck tightened his fist; the need to hit something, someone, so overwhelming it trumped breathing. “You’ve had it out for me since I walked in,” he growled.

  “I just draw the cards.” She shrugged. “I can’t help if you make risky bets.”