Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Learning from Wendy that people were talking badly about her had thrown her into a chasm of self-doubt. She trudged through a little snowdrift toward the house. Am I making a mistake chasing after a teaching career when we have all the money we need? Should I be concentrating on good works instead? She believed she could make a difference by working with children. But another thought hit her. If I become a teacher, am I taking a job away from someone who needs it more? These things had never occurred to her before, and she wished they hadn’t now.

  Pausing on the front steps of their two-story home, she looked back and noticed Trish’s truck wasn’t there. Ben’s last day in town. Patrick’s truck was home, though. Susanne opened the door, expecting to see her husband pacing the kitchen, hungry and helpless. The man could save a life, he could climb a mountain, he could fix a transmission, but he couldn’t pour milk in his cereal without a kitchen assistant. She smiled. Her mama had always told her that it was good job security to be needed, and Patrick made it clear to her in many ways every day that he needed her as well as wanted her.

  She stepped into the high-ceilinged great room, stopped in front of the towering stone fireplace. No Patrick in there. She peeked around the corner of the dining area. No Patrick in the kitchen, either. Just her beloved heavy walnut dining room set.

  “Patrick?” she called, unconsciously stroking the wood of the tabletop.

  When he didn’t answer, she frowned. Maybe he was in the garage at his work bench. She could check there in a moment. First, she headed into their bedroom to drop her purse.

  “Hello, honey.”

  She startled. In the low light, she could just make out the figure of her husband lying on top of the covers on their queen-sized bed. Patrick never napped. Occasionally he accidentally shut his eyes on the couch or great room floor while watching football or golf on Sunday afternoons, but never in an official “in bed” capacity. She left the lights off.

  “What’s the matter?” She sat down beside him. He was holding an ice pack to his torso.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s been quite a day. Curl up and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Their uncooked dinner almost drew her away, but if he didn’t mind, she didn’t either. Sneaking a break with her handsome husband was a treat. She snuggled up to him, enjoying the feel of his fit, muscular frame, and his masculine scent. Irish Spring soap, sweat, and . . . horses? Maybe he’d been working with theirs. “Mine was pretty eventful, too. Not ice pack eventful, though, so you go first.”

  He put his chin on her head and nestled it into her hair. “You want me to start with the bucking bronco or the two dead bodies?”

  Susanne groaned and dug her face into his shoulder. Is it just me, or is Patrick a magnet for trouble? “Tell me everything,” she said.

  Chapter Four: Ride

  Interstate 25, South of Buffalo, Wyoming

  Wednesday, December 28, 1977, 4:00 p.m.

  George

  George Nichols kept one hand on the steering wheel and pulled his fingers back with the other, cracking his knuckles. Behind the truck, the trailer was swaying in the high crosswinds, but not as badly as it had on the two-hour drive south. The return leg of his round-trip from Big Horn to Kaycee and back was wearing on him. An electrician by trade, George started working before sun-up. Today he’d knocked off early to make the snowy drive, and he still had another hour left. It was bleary-making stuff. He smiled. And that wasn’t even counting the effects of his late night with Lisa, a pretty waitress from the Silver Spur who he’d been seeing for a couple, two, three weeks.

  Ahead of him, sun broke through the clouds. He even caught a glimpse of the silhouette of the Bighorn Mountains to his left for a moment. “Come on, come on,” he said. “Give me a little clear weather.”

  Storm driving wasn’t fun, and double that pulling a trailer. It had been worth it, though. He’d picked up a 1970 Arctic Cat Panther snowmobile—a sweet sled—for a song. He’d grown up watching Arctic Cat dominate snowmobile racing. This was his first chance to own one. It outshone his Rupp Sprint, the mean red machine he’d learned and fallen in love with the sport on. There was room in his heart for more than one though, with women, and with snow machines.

  And as much as he enjoyed women, snowmobiles were his true passion. Clear Creek Resort up in the Bighorns had just started renting snowmobiles to guests, and he’d be guiding tours for them. Not for pay. Just for tips. They’d offered to let him stay over when they had space and to use one of their machines, and that wasn’t nothing. He’d turned them down on the sled, of course. He’d be far cooler on his new blue and white Boss Cat. His only problem was the size of the group for the upcoming long weekend. They were bigger than he could handle alone. He’d lined up a buddy to help and sleep on the floor of his comped room, but the bum had cancelled on him that morning. If he didn’t find someone soon, he’d have to back out. He planned to start calling everyone he knew as soon as he got home. Lisa, maybe? He was going to miss her. But she was a flatlander with no experience. So, no. He’d just have to survive without female company for a few days.

  Ahead of him, movement on the side of Interstate 25 captured his attention. He tensed and took his foot off the gas, expecting an animal to run out in front of him. Despite the lessening storm, visibility was still iffy. But whatever it was didn’t look four-legged. In fact, as he got closer, it looked upright and two-legged to him. Human. A man, trudging through the snowy drifts on the shoulder, a cowboy hat jammed on his head, in stark black contrast to the white landscape. Poor sucker’s out in the middle of nowhere—must have car trouble. There were no houses, no businesses, no nothing on the road until Buffalo, and it was ten or so miles away. After checking his rearview mirror for oncoming traffic, George slowed behind the walker. No vehicles in either direction and there hadn’t been for fifteen minutes. He eased his truck up alongside the man.

  The man kept his eyes forward.

  George cranked down his window. “Need a lift?”

  The man pulled up his collar, like he was blocking the wind from his face. He squinted, taking a moment to study George before he answered. “Where are you headed?”

  “Big Horn. I can drop you anywhere between here and there.”

  The man dropped his collar, revealing a swarthy face. Mexican? He nodded once, then stomped over to the passenger door. He tried to open it, but it was locked. George leaned across the bench seat and pulled up the mechanism. The man climbed in.

  “Name’s George.” He stuck out his hand.

  The man shook it. “Thanks for the ride, George,” he said, with a hint of an accent. Yeah, probably Mexican, via Texas. He rubbed bare hands together and blew on them. “I’m Abraham.”

  George accelerated onto the empty interstate, then glanced at his passenger, who was shivering and trying to hide it. Abraham wore cowboy boots and jeans with only an oilskin jacket on top. No gloves. Nothing over his ears. He sure wasn’t dressed for a winter hike. “Looks like your ride broke down.”

  “Something like that.” The man jerked his chin back toward the trailer. “Your Boss Cat?”

  George nodded. Abraham knew snowmobiles. “I just picked it up.”

  “It is a wonderful sport.”

  Abraham had a soft way of speaking that made George nearly hold his breath to hear him. When he was certain he’d processed what the other man had said, he asked, “You ride?”

  “I race. Or used to.”

  George’s heart rate kicked up a notch. “Where?”

  “The Sierra Nevadas and the Elburz.”

  The Sierra Nevadas were in California. George had never heard of the other place, although he didn’t want to admit it. He only knew the western half of the U.S. anyway. Someday he wanted to travel. Pick up an atlas and start on page one and drive until the last page of the book, camping along the way.

  “Far out, man.” He also didn’t usually talk that way, but he was speaking to someone who had raced snowmobiles in California. He didn’t w
ant to sound like a bumpkin. “What did you race?”

  “An El Tigre.”

  George pounded the steering wheel. “That’s my dream machine!” It was just the premiere Arctic Cat of the early seventies.

  “They are finely made.”

  They approached the outskirts of Buffalo. “Need me to drop you here?”

  “I’d prefer to ride as far north as you’re going. But thank you.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  Abraham faced the passenger window. His soft voice grew even more muffled. “Where the winds of destiny take me.”

  It was a weird thing to say. Maybe George had misheard him. “What about family?”

  Abraham’s voice grew tight. “I have lost my family and wander alone.”

  Even weirder. But if he was as available as he sounded, and he was a snowmobile ace, George could overlook the weirdness. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in helping me guide some snowmobile tours this weekend? I’ve got two sleds. This one and a Rupp. We’d head up to Clear Creek Resort tomorrow afternoon and be done by Sunday night. I’ve even got us a room to stay in.”

  Abraham turned back to George. “I’m not familiar with the resort. Clear Creek?”

  “It’s just up Highway 16 from here.” George threw his hand in the direction of the mountains. “A nice place. But, uh, we’d be guiding for tips. I’d split whatever we make with you. Seventy-thirty, since we’d be on my machines, and I landed the gig.”

  Abraham nodded and pulled at his chin. “I don’t have a place to sleep tonight.”

  George grinned. That sounded like a yes. “You can bunk at my place if you don’t mind a sleeping bag on the floor. It’s warm enough, though. And that would sure make it easy for me to give you a ride to and from the resort.”

  Abraham held up a hand, like he was asking George to be quiet. George zipped his lip.

  Finally, Abraham said, “I accept the commission. It is much appreciated.”

  “Out of sight, man.” George held up his hand to slap a high five, but Abraham didn’t lift his in return.

  The guy was definitely an odd duck. But George didn’t care. He didn’t have to cancel. And he’d be guiding with a bona fide California snow sled racer. As far as he was concerned, Abraham was just about perfect.

  Chapter Five: Dive

  Flint Residence, Buffalo, Wyoming

  Wednesday, December 28, 1977, 5:30 p.m.

  Perry

  Perry packed another shovelful of snow onto the ramp he was building. It sloped from the deck railing down his back yard, between two tall, bare cottonwood trees, all the way to the creek bank. He missed whacking his dog Ferdinand’s head with the shovel by an inch. The wiry Irish wolfhound was barking and dodging, trying to catch the bits of snow that were falling from the ramp.

  “Goofball. Stop it, Ferdie.” Perry nudged the dog backward with his knee. It didn’t do any good, so he turned his attention back to packing snow. Ferdinand’s head was so big and hard that he’d barely feel a little tap with a snow shovel anyway.

  Perry was pumped up about the ramp. He was going to use it to sled across the creek bed, so he needed to make it high enough that he could get up good speed. The snow had to be packed hard, too, so he wouldn’t sink through it. He gave the ramp another whack with the back of the shovel.

  He looked around. Ferdinand looked up at him. Perry had used up most of the snow in the back yard building his ramp. It was bare down to brown grass now, except for the ramp to the creek, of course. Since he was out of raw materials, it would have to snow again before he could add to the ramp. He ran his mittened hand along it. It was slick.

  A smile broke out across his face. Time for a test ride. He’d use his disc. The creek wasn’t frozen and snowed over yet, so he’d have to ditch before he got to it, but that was no problem.

  Perry had propped his sled and his disc against the back wall of the house earlier, just in case he finished building the ramp before dinner. He ran for the round piece of metal, with Ferdinand leaping and bounding at his heels. But when he touched it, he stopped in his tracks. The last time he’d used the disc, he’d been with John. They’d been sledding down the hill to the park, coasting to a stop in front of the swimming pool. It was filled with water from Clear Creek each summer and was Arctic cold, but it was kept empty in the winter, with a big fence around it. The hill across from it was the best in town. A bunch of kids from the football team had been there, and they’d had races and snowball fights. Perry had been at a disadvantage because he’d been wearing a cast on his ankle, but he’d held his own, mostly. John had won the final sled race, and afterwards, they’d walked over to Main Street and got vanilla Cokes at the Busy Bee.

  It was the best day.

  And now John was gone. Perry didn’t have a second-best friend. It had just been John and him, ever since the Flints had moved to Wyoming.

  Ferdinand sat and watched Perry, his head cocked.

  “Mom and Dad said the best way to remember someone is to keep doing the things they loved.” Saying it out loud to his dog made his throat tickle. “John would have loved testing the snow ramp, so that’s what we’re going to do, Ferdie.”

  The dog barked and bounced straight up in the air off his back legs, landing back in a sitting position.

  Perry laughed. “You can be my best friend now.” Remembering the need for a backup, he added, “And Duke can be my second-best friend.” Duke, his stout paint horse, was loyal and good, but he couldn’t play in the back yard or come in the house.

  Perry jogged onto the deck and climbed up on the railing. “Geronimo,” he shouted, and flung himself and his disc into space over the ramp. Landing knocked the breath out of him, and his chin bounced off the edge of the disc. He shot across the yard and was sliding down the creek bank before he could ditch. The disc bounced across the rocks and landed under three inches of cold, cold water.

  A split second later, Ferdinand splashed down beside him, barking and snapping at the water.

  Perry bellowed and jumped to his feet. He picked up the disc and ran, stumbling and splashing through the rocks. He tried to scramble up the creek bank, but with his wet feet, it was a lot harder than he’d figured for, and he fell on his hands and knees. The disc slid back into the water. Ferdinand, who’d galloped up the bank with no problem—claws would be nice about now—stared back down at Perry.

  “Duke is my best friend, dog. You’re in second place now.”

  Perry stomped back to the disc and shook the water off. He was freezing and his teeth were starting to chatter. He put his hand to his mouth, doing a quick check that it was still there. He walked upstream to an easier section of the bank where he made it up on the first try.

  He trotted toward the deck. He wanted to get inside to take off his wet clothes, pronto. Maybe jump in a hot shower. Then wrap himself in a blanket in front of the fireplace with a mug of hot chocolate. The thought quickened his steps to a run as he crossed the deck, where he dropped the disc by the door.

  It was hard to open the door handle with ski mittens, but he managed. He wasn’t going to get his wet skin stuck to the metal. Not after the stories his dad had told him about people ripping all their skin off by touching metal with wet body parts in freezing weather. One about a boy who stuck his tongue to an icy stock tank and lost most of it still gave him the shivers.

  Ferdinand pushed inside ahead of him. The first thing he noticed as he entered was the doorbell ringing. He ignored it and made tracks for the staircase, wet ones, which matched the wet pawprints Ferdinand was leaving as he ran in crazy circles all over the room. The bell rang again just when Perry reached the bottom step. Why isn’t Dad answering it? Then he remembered his dad was hurt and had gone to bed with an ice pack and a bottle of Tylenol. He took two more steps, planning to ignore the visitor until a thought popped into his head. What if something happened to Mom or Trish? Before last year, that never would have occurred to him. Their lives had been quiet, with no drama. But he�
�d learned bad things really did happen to good people sometimes.

  He headed to the door, getting there as it rang again. He shouted, “I’m coming.”

  If it was Trish locked out because she forgot her purse and keys, he was going to be so mad. She’d done that once before. She could just stand out there and ring all day this time, for all he cared. He peeked out the window beside the door, over Ferdinand’s head. He caught a whiff of wet dog. His mom wasn’t going to be happy Ferdinand had been in the creek.

  The woman on the steps was too old to be his sister, and she had short hair like his Aunt Patricia and the pretty figure skater who won the Olympics—he couldn’t remember her name because he didn’t watch figure skating. This woman was pretty, but with kind of a pointy chin. He studied her a second longer. He didn’t open the door to just anyone, even pretty women. Coach Lamkin had been a stone-cold fox, but she’d still been a killer, after all. This one didn’t look like a killer. She had a scar on the side of her upper lip that was almost hidden by makeup. She seemed sort of familiar but maybe not? His mom’s age, probably. Her clothes were a lot cooler than his mom’s, though. Not right for Wyoming. High-heeled boots with thin leather weren’t warm in snow and didn’t look like they had any traction. And a skirt, which left her legs bare. He knew firsthand how cold the air was on bare skin. At least she had on a sweater and a down jacket with some mittens.

  He decided he’d better open the door before she froze to death. He pushed Ferdinand aside with his hip to keep the dog from greeting her with a take down.

  She smiled at him, showing the whitest teeth and widest smile he’d ever seen. Then she frowned. “You’re wet.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And cold.”

  “You don’t remember me, do you, Perry?”