Cowboys 03 - My Cowboy Homecoming (5 page)

If I took anything away from a childhood under his thumb, it was the determination to hide any weakness behind a thick veneer of indifference. To hide what I wanted, or what I loved, so he couldn’t take it away.
That
was a skill I was having trouble finding now, because I wanted something right then. The job. The man. I wasn’t indifferent, and if Lucho found out, he’d only use it against me.

When I returned to the barn Lucho still sat there, pale as paper.

His gaze met mine. “You ever go with your dad on one of his raids?”

“No. Never,” I lied. Heart pounding, mouth dry as corn starch, I left him sitting there to begin the next of my chores.

That night, it was already dark when I got home. Every muscle in my body ached. I’d worked in the barn and groomed the horses, fed both the sheep and the alpacas, ridden out with Eddie Molina to take a look at the herd, and finished up with a few things on the J-Bar honey-do list, including building a fancy-ass new chicken coop with Crispin.

Crispin had a lot of ideas. He wanted to look into other livestock like pigs and goats, which sounded bad enough, but then he started talking about ostriches too, for God’s sake. As if he was planning on building Noah’s ark right there in the middle of the desert.

I talked to him for a while. After that, I never doubted he could do anything he wanted to do.

It seemed like Malloy was going to indulge him too. That man just looked like a love-struck kid while Crispin talked and talked. He was game for most of Crispin’s outlandish ideas, but I guess I understood that, because when Crispin explained things, he had a way of making a believer out of you. At one point, he went off about honeybees and how they’re dying off all over the world, and how someone ought to do something about
that
instead of inventing coffeemakers that make a single cup at a time and fast-food tacos with snack-chip skins.

I wasn’t at all surprised when he asked me if I was allergic to bees
.

I’m not, that I know of.

“You were gone such a long time,” Ma said as soon as I passed through the door. “Did you see Speed Malloy? Did you get the job?”

“I wormed my way into a trial period at the J-Bar, yeah. Nothing’s definite yet.”

“I knew it. I knew that if anyone could look past—” She clasped her hands over her chest. “I knew Emma’s boy would be fair with you.”

“Don’t look too excited. I don’t have the job. I’m not even getting paid. I told them I’d work a couple days and then they could decide if I’m worth keeping on.”

“So you’ve been there all day? Have you eaten anything?”

“They fed me lunch.” All I wanted was a shower and my bed, but Ma pulled a covered dish out of the oven.

“Lucky I kept this warm for you, just in case.” The minute she lifted the cover my stomach tried to turn inside out. I’d been hungry before, but at the smell of my ma’s smothered steak and biscuits, I almost blacked out from longing.

“Smells good.”

“Of course it does. I made it special, because I know it’s one of your favorites.”

“Thank you.” I managed to lift fork to mouth enough times to clean my plate. I’m still not sure how. I kissed Ma’s forehead to thank her and then I headed for the bathroom to shower. I barely remember anything after that. Setting the clock for four a.m., making sure I had something to wear the next day, and then nothing, until I was dreaming of the J-Bar and the men I’d met there—of Lucho, who had me tangled up like the prize on the end of a string I couldn’t unknot, no matter how hard I tried.

When my alarm went off at 4:00 a.m., I was aroused and panting like I’d run for miles. Still exhausted, I let my head drop back on the damp pillow.

I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. It’d been longer still since I’d spooned up beside a man or slept wrapped up in someone’s arms. Since I’d had the physical comfort of human touch.

When I woke that morning, I felt that lack of physical connection like a gaping hole in my belly. I ached for something. For the simple press of a man’s hand on mine—a man’s mouth on my lips, my cock.

I’d only been home for a day and it felt like that emptiness—that hole in my life—was going to keep on widening until it swallowed me up.

Gritting my teeth, I threw back the covers, pulled on some clothes, and headed for the kitchen, where I made coffee and toast and scrambled some eggs to go with them. By the time I got that done, Ma drifted in to give me a lecture about not waking her in time to make a “decent” breakfast.

Hastily, she tied an apron over her thin cotton robe. “At least let me get you something more than a couple scrambled eggs. That’s hardly enough for a man who’s going to do a full day’s work.”

“It’s fine, Ma.”

“You don’t even want me to fry up any sausages? It’s no trouble.”

“No, ma’am.” I patted my belly. “What I have here is fine. I’ve gotta get going anyway, or I’ll be late.”

She frowned at me. “All right. Careful how you go, now.”

I rinsed my plates in the sink and grabbed my denim jacket off the back of my chair. “’Bye, Ma. See you tonight.”

“’Bye, son.”

Outside, the air smelled of earth and sage and creosote bushes. The sun wasn’t up yet, but I could see well enough.

The truck started up rough, but eventually I got her going. While I wound down the country road, I wondered if the day would go in my favor. I hoped they’d see I was serious about working there, or that I was seriously in need, because it wasn’t lost on me that the men of the J-Bar all took in strays.

If being desperate was what it would take to get a job at the J-Bar, I’d be the most desperate son-of-a-bitch they’d ever seen, and pride be damned.

The lights were just coming on in the bunkhouse as I crept across the gravel drive to park. I had planned to start my barn chores right away when I arrived, but Jim came out onto the porch, a mug of coffee in his hand.

“You want something to eat before you get started?”

“I ate, thank you.” I closed the door to my truck and walked over, feeling like I was talking too loud for the quiet of the early morning.

He nodded. “Just don’t stand on ceremony. The hands around here come for coffee and eat when they need to.”

“I’m not exactly a hand yet.”

“Lucho ain’t going to be back in fighting shape anytime soon. My money’s on the boss recognizing he’s lucky to have you. You’re a hard worker.”

“Thank you.” I was surprised and pleased he was willing to give me his stamp of approval.

“Okay, go on now. Don’t shame me.”

I shot him a smile and headed for the warmth of the barn, which was also just coming to life. I’d learned the J-Bar horses’ names were Theodore, Sassafras, Horatio, and Wrangle, and the rescues were Pio and Kiki. Lucho called his mare Galleta. I was surprised he wasn’t in the barn to make sure I fed her the correct mixture of grains and hay. I was surprised and a little disappointed, if I was honest.

I went about my business, feeding, filling water buckets, and then turning the horses out to muck out stalls.

The absence of Lucho, who’d been such a thorn in my side the day before, felt like a bit of a letdown, like when I was in country and we’d go out on patrol all jacked up for trouble, but none came.

Theoretically, no trouble should be a good thing, but it didn’t always feel that way. Direct action went by much faster than waiting fueled by anxiety.

“Looks like you’re doing okay so far,” Malloy said from the door.

When he didn’t leave right away, I stopped what I was doing and folded my hands on top of the rake handle. “Thank you, sir.”

He took a few steps toward me. I could see his face better in the ambient light. “You like this kind of work?”

“I do, yeah. The barn was always my favorite place when I was a kid.”

He nodded. “You like the animals.”

“Yeah. And I like the quiet.” I stopped for a minute and we both listened. I could hear the bleat of sheep and an oddly soothing noise coming from the alpacas. From closer, the grunts and whinnies of horses greeted the day. “Although it’s not quiet exactly, is it?”

“It’s not man-made noise. It’s not grating.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “What did you do in the army?”

I toed the bedding pellets at the edge of one stall. “Lots of different things.”

“Anything I might be able to use around here?”

I shrugged. “Unless you need me to jump out of an airplane or defend the ranch against insurgents, probably not.”

“Yeah. Okay. Probably not.” He studied me some. “How have things been since you’ve come home? You settling into civilian life okay?”

“I’m fine.” I didn’t like this line of questioning at all. “I don’t have PTSD if that’s what you mean.”

“The thought occurred to me.”

“They make it sound like everyone goes crazy when they get home. War fucks you up and you come back changed, that much is true. But I’m not—I won’t—bring trouble here. I won’t hurt anyone. Or myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He nodded. “Maybe I was.”

“I liked army life. I didn’t much like being deployed.” That was the understatement of the year. “I got into some firefights where I was scared as hell and the rest of it was hard work, filth, and boredom. Despite that, I’d have stayed in, spent my career there, but my mother needs me here now.”

His eyes narrowed with concern. “Is she sick?”

“Maybe.” I reached for an answer that wasn’t disloyal. “It isn’t like she’s got cancer or anything like that. She doesn’t drive. Won’t leave the house by herself. She’s afraid of everything.”

“That’s why she asked if we could pick you up?”

I nodded. “She’s also got a pretty unique view of reality. She’s sure my dad is going to be exonerated and everything will turn out happily ever after and I can’t convince her—”

“I called Emma and asked about your family last night.”

A flare of anger heated my cheeks. “Yeah? What did she say?”

“She told me about your dad’s accident.”

Our story was common knowledge—my dad was once a successful long-haul trucker, but an accident cost him his livelihood when it became clear a brain injury would affect his coordination and memory for good.

He won a big lawsuit against the other driver’s company because the man had drugs and alcohol in his system. The other driver was also driving here illegally. He was an undocumented immigrant from Mexico, and
that
was what started Dad’s “crusade.”

Over the years, his hatred kept growing and collecting new targets.

“How old were you when all that happened?”

“Ten.”

“That’s when you moved here?”

I nodded. “My dad bought our place with the settlement money.” I remembered exactly how I’d felt then. How I’d loved the land and the horses he’d purchased. How I’d thought our future would be so bright. “It was supposed to be a fresh start.”

“I guess things were tough. I never knew.”

“It was what it was.” I shrugged. “Now, besides taking care of my mother, I have to pay the bills. There’s a hell of a stack of red-ink envelopes my ma didn’t even bother to open.”

“So you need this job because it’s close to home?”

“That and—” I glanced down a little at the little pile of pellets I’d been pushing around. “I’ve always wanted to do this work. Always.”

He nodded, as if he’d made up his mind. “The pay works out to about $500 a week. Is that going to be enough?”

“It’s going to have to be. We both know I’m not likely to get any other offers around here. Lucho hasn’t warmed up to me.”

“I’ll handle Lucho.”

“Thank you.” My heart seemed to expand with happiness. I’d wanted to work at the J-Bar since I was a little kid, and it looked like I was going to get my wish.

“All right then.” He pushed his hat back and held out his hand. “Welcome to the J-Bar, Tripp. You do your job like you did it yesterday and we’ll all be glad to have you.”

“Thank you, sir.” I shook his hand like a pump handle. “You won’t regret it.”

“If you help me with those rescues, there might be some kind of bonus in it for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Without Lucho, I’m short a horseman.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Now, what did I tell you about that? Call me ‘boss’ or ‘Malloy.’”

“Yes, sir,” I picked up my rake again. Suddenly, inexplicably, I felt as carefree as a kid. “You won’t regret this, sir.”

“Sure I won’t,” he said dryly.

“Boss?” Jimmy called from the door, his face a study in worry. “We’ve got a problem.”

Malloy turned. “What is it?”

“Lucho’s not doing good. Someone needs to get him back to the doctor, right away.”

It turned out Lucho’d had a really bad night. His foot had swollen like it was going to burst, and he’d developed a high fever. Malloy was concealing any I-told-you-sos under a layer of sincere concern. Jimmy was doing nothing of the kind. He called Lucho a fool to his face as he and Eddie carried him out of the bunkhouse.

How they decided I should be the one to drive Lucho back to the medical clinic in Silver City, I don’t know. I guess since I was the least familiar with the day-to-day running of the J-Bar, I was the most expendable.

“Get back.” Lucho batted my hands away when I tried to help him up into my truck. “Just give me my crutches.”

“Here you go,” I handed them over. He looked miserable enough I didn’t mind if he snapped at me. I still wanted that second chance to make a good first impression. “Need anything else? Water, or something to eat?”

He didn’t bother to answer. As I walked around to get in on the driver’s side, I cursed myself for trying so hard.

While I checked the mirrors and fired up the engine, he sat in frozen silence. This was sure to be a tough trip for both of us if he didn’t thaw out, at least a little.

“You need a bucket?” I asked because he’d turned a sickly shade of almost-green.

“Just drive.” He rested his head against the window.

“All right. Let me know if there’s anything—”

“Just drive,
pendejo
, are you deaf?”

“
Pendejo
means pubic hair, doesn’t it? While I admire—”

“Shut up,” he said tightly.

“All right, Lucho.” I pulled out onto the highway so fast I sprayed gravel. He winced. “Sorry. I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help.” He kept his eyes shut tight.

“Why am I not surprised?”

He literally growled in warning. “Stop—” he swallowed hard “—being nice. Just be a shit, will you? It will make things much easier in the long run.”

“Fine. Have you put on weight? I didn’t want to say or nothing, but those jeans make your ass look real fat.”

“What?”

“You said ‘don’t be nice.’” I glanced at the directions Jimmy wrote down for me. “So I was mean.”

“God, you’re an idiot.”

“It’s a conspiracy.” I grinned at him, since he had his eyes closed and he couldn’t see anyway. “Just remember the family name if you feel disposed to like me.”

“That will do it.” He gave up a grunt that was almost a laugh.

We drove for a while in silence. The road was mostly empty for miles. Lucho fell asleep after a few minutes, so I turned the radio to a country and western station and drove the rest of the way tapping my fingers to Rascal Flatts, Kenny Chesney, Blake Shelton, and Taylor Swift.

We arrived at the doctor’s office where Jimmy had picked Lucho up the day before and parked. I walked around the truck and woke him as gently as I could. When I helped him down he seemed confused, which worried me.

“You okay?”

“Hey.” He shook his head like he was dizzy. “Tripplehorn?”

“You know where you are?”

He swallowed hard. “Doctor.”

“Okay. Come with me.” I helped him into his doctor’s office, but they took one look at him and told me we should head straight for the ER.

“That was ominous,” he joked as I helped him back to the truck. What was really ominous was the way he no longer fought off my help. The way he leaned against me and let me hold him, my hand under his ribcage, and my body bearing most of his weight.

“I’m sorry about all this,” I said after he was seated in the passenger seat. “I’ll get you where you need to go.”

“Not . . . your fault . . .” As the words rasped from his throat he pushed me back and vomited all over me.

I’m not a sympathetic puker but when his vomit warmed my instep, I nearly lost breakfast. “Shit.”

“
Chinga, chinga, chinga,
” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his chambray shirt. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s all okay.” What was I going to say? I’m not an ass. I knocked the worst of things off my boots while he relaxed his head against the headrest. “You all right now? Should I get a bag?”

“Maybe.” He looked like he wanted to cry. “No. I’m done.”

“Hey.” Christ, sad Lucho was more depressing than sick Lucho.
Sad, sick
Lucho was unbearable. “You’re going to be okay, man. You’ll see.”

“
No me chingues
, Tripp.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As we drove away from the medical clinic I thought I heard Lucho mumble something about losing his fucking foot, and now what the hell was he going to do?

“You’re not going to lose your foot. I’ve seen way worse injuries than that and the guy kept his foot. It’s not far. Try to hold on.”

“Easy for you to say.” He’d clasped his hands tightly in his lap as I drove. White at the knuckles and mouth and eyes. He didn’t even try to fight me anymore, after we got to the hospital. He let me carry him into the ER.

I had to go back out and park my truck and when I came back he was sitting, hunched over his knees, almost in an attitude of prayer.

I dropped into the seat next to him.

“I hate these places,” he complained. “They smell bad.”

I agreed.

“You think maybe I really fucked myself up?” he asked in a small voice. “It’s bad. I think it’s really bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“My foot’s cold. It shouldn’t be cold, right? That means there’s no blood or nerve damage or something.”

“It’s a cold morning,” I offered, but in my heart I knew: if his foot felt cold, things were going downhill fast. Whether it was because he didn’t stay off it the day before or because he hit the bad luck lottery, he was probably looking at surgery and a hospital stay.

There wasn’t any point to telling him that when there was nothing we could do about it, so I rearranged the chairs and helped him elevate his leg.

He leaned his head against the wall behind us. “People look at me funny in here.”

I glanced around. No one was looking at him at all. “No they don’t.”

“Last time I had to come here was when I broke my arm. They asked me to show them my green card.”

“Did you?”

He flushed. “I’m a goddamn U.S. citizen, dude. Same as you. I don’t fucking carry my passport around everywhere. Do you?”

“Guess I don’t really have to, now. I did when I traveled on Uncle Sam’s business.”

“You’ve got no idea, do you?” He glared at me like I’d grown another head. “You were off fighting a war in Whatever-the-Fuckistan. How many Latinos did you serve with? Lots, right?”

“Of course.”

“But while they were there, fighting, at home some government asshole’s trying to pass stop-and-search laws. I have to show my passport for a trip to Texas. You don’t have a clue.”

“Guess not.” I didn’t, really. There were bigots everywhere. There were people who didn’t like anyone they perceived as different. As long as people didn’t look beyond the surface, nothing was going to get any better. It wasn’t fair Lucho had to prove he was a citizen and I didn’t, but I wasn’t sure what he thought I could do about it.

“Like I said before, I’m not my dad.”

He turned away at that.

Yeah. It sounded a little hollow to me too.

When a guy in scrubs finally called Lucho’s name, I helped him over to the door they went through. That left me sitting in the waiting room alone, uncertain what I should do next. I figured I ought to call the J-Bar and let them know we had to go to the emergency room so I went outside, but then I realized I had to get the ranch house number from my mother and that was just weird. She answered on the third ring.

“Hey Ma, it’s me.”

“Are you all right?” She must have been worried I’d only call if I’d fallen off a horse or something. I don’t know.

“Yeah. I had to take one of the hands to the ER, and I need to reach the J-Bar. Do you have the number?”

“You mean Crandall’s number at the ranch house?”

“Yes.” She gave it to me carefully, area code first and then the rest. I took a pen out of my pocket and wrote it on my arm. “Did you get all of that?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to be there long?”

“I’m not sure what’s going to happen. It all depends on how long it takes to figure out what’s wrong with him.”

“What happened?”

“Lucho Reyes has a crush injury to his foot. He saw the doctor yesterday but it was way worse this morning.”

“You never told me working at the J-Bar could be a dangerous job.”

Oh, here we go. “It’s not, Ma.”

“Well how did he get hurt, then?”

“A spooked horse came down on his foot.”

“So that could happen to you?”

“Sure it could, but—”

“Tripp. Your dad’s in a
correctional facility
.” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. “I just lost Heath. I can’t lose you too. I thought when you quit the army you’d had enough of danger.”

“I swear, Ma. No one’s losing anyone. I didn’t survive a war in Afghanistan only to get hurt by some cow.” I looked up to the cloudless sky and prayed for patience. “I’ve got to call the boss. It’s important.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” she said. “I’ll put a plate in the oven like last night.”

“Thank you.”

“Take care, Tripp. You’re all I have left.”

I blew out the breath I’d been holding. “You too.”

I hung up before we could go another round and dialed the number she gave me.

Crispin answered on the second ring.

“This is Tripp. When Lucho and I got to the clinic they told us we had to go to the ER.”

“It’s that bad?” His voice rose in alarm.

“I don’t know much yet, only that he’s being seen right now.”

“Shit. All right. Stay with him until you know something, and then give us a call before you come back.”

“All right.” I glanced around. Smokers formed a small knot about 25 feet from the ER doors—medical professionals, all of them in multicolored scrubs. They looked like a flock of unhealthy tropical birds.

“Tell him we’re thinking of him.”

“Will do.” I hung up and went back inside.

About a half hour later, I asked the woman at the registration desk if she knew anything.

“You’re here with Mr. Reyes?” Her name-tag read Joanne.

“Yes.”

“Oh. He never said—”

“Is he all right?”

“Are you family?”

“No. I brought him in from work.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“Uh . . . No?”
Christ. He could. But . . .
“Look. Can’t you ask him to let you tell me what’s going on so I can call my boss?”

Her cheeks reddened and she looked down. “That’s not possible at this time, I’m sorry.”

“Wait. Why isn’t that possible?”

“He’s currently in surgery. I can’t give you any more information than that.” She started to turn away.

“Wait. Surgery? Is he going to be—”

“I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “I’m not legally allowed to give you information on his condition without his permission.”

I argued, but without success, so I went back outside to call the J-Bar again.

Crispin answered again. “J-Bar Ranch, Cri—”

“Crispin, they took Lucho into surgery and they won’t tell me anything. They asked if he had a wife. He doesn’t, does he?” That shouldn’t have been my first question, but it was.

“No.”

“Can you get hold of his family? They should be here.”

“I’ve got his mother’s number right here. Don’t worry. I’ll make some calls and see if I can straighten things out.”

I kicked the wall on the other side of the automatic doors. “I can’t believe they just let me sit there without telling me anything.”

“Everyone worries about privacy these days.”

“What I should do?”

“Stay there until someone from his family comes.”

“What about work? I just got my job, and if I’m sitting here, I’m sure as hell not doing it. Don’t you guys need me to feed and—”

“Okay. Slow down,” Crispin said gently. “We’ve got the ranch covered right now. Just stay there and wait. Give us a call if you hear anything. Otherwise, I’ll call you.”

“Thanks, Crispin. I’m sorry about this.”

“What are you sorry for? None of this is your fault. If you see Lucho, tell him to hang in. We’re going to call his family.”

“Sure.”

I disconnected the call and stood there, indecisive for a moment longer. My whole body trembled a little, and that’s when I discovered I was actually
scared
.

Lucho was having some kind of surgery. Obviously it was necessary and urgent, or they wouldn’t have just taken him away like that. I’d seen my share of traumatic injuries and I knew he could lose that foot if the pressure built up in it and the blood supply was restricted.
I knew that.

Why hadn’t I stopped him when he was trying to walk around on it?

Maybe if I’d been firmer, made him put his foot up sooner, he’d be all right. All that anxiety must have shown on my face, because after I sat down in the waiting area, Joanne, the woman I’d talked to before, came out from behind the desk and squatted down beside my chair.

She glanced around as if she expected to see people listening. “Luis Reyes is your friend, isn’t he?”

Lucho was
not
my friend, but maybe I was his . . . “Yes.”

“Okay, well—” She pulled a pen from the pocket of her colorful scrub top and twirled it around her index finger and thumb. “I can tell you he’s out of surgery and safely in the recovery room. Things went well.”

Relief swept over me. “Thank you.”

“He’s not out of the woods completely, but it’s a good start. Were you able to get in touch with his family?”

“My boss is doing that right now.”

“It’s going to be a while before he’s conscious enough for visitation, and then, only immediate family can see him. Let me know when they arrive, please.”

“Can you tell him I’m still here? Make sure he knows he’s not alone?”

Her gaze softened. “I’ll have someone give him the message when he wakes up.”

“Thank you.”

After that, time crawled. Between the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the noise bouncing off those vast vinyl floors, and the institutional coffee, it was impossible to forget that behind every door, people were fighting for their lives.