Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)
Read Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Online
Authors: MariaLisa deMora
Slate
Rebel Wayfarers MC
MariaLisa deMora
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
Melissa Gill @ MGBookcovers and Designs
Copyright © 201
4 M.L. deMora
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
First Printing 2014
ISBN 13: 978-09904473-3-7
DEDICATION
To my best friend, Hollie. Thank you.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Slate
brought different challenges to the table than the first book in this series. Because I can be taught, I shined and polished the story even more before I passed it off to family and friends, and as a result, they fell more deeply in love with the characters, which was hugely gratifying.
To m
y daughters Stephanie and Tobyhanna, thank you for your support. You are amazing women! My dear, bestie Hollie, you offer an unflappable faith and confidence in my dreams, you crazy woman. You help me believe. Brenda, you were the voice of sanity that never let me lose sight of what a gift the response was to
Mica
. Again, I tell you beautiful, strong women—tequila (or drinks of your choice) all around!
Kayla the Bibliophile
, you rock hard for continuing to edit under challenging circumstances, and for sending me photos of your goose bumps as encouragement. What’s not to love! Melissa Gill, woman, you did a phenom job on the cover, you just
got
what I wanted. Thank you.
~ML
1 -
Wyoming
Twenty years ago
Andrew Jones sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, his half-hooded eyes looking into the flames. He was leaning back against the front of his mother’s tired leather couch, letting the warmth seep into his bones. At this time of year, the heat of the fire was welcomed after a day of working the cattle. He tipped his head back and let it rest on the flattened cushions, closing his eyes. He felt a tug at his boot and automatically lifted up his leg, allowing his little brother to begin the process of removing it from his foot. Benjamin was only five, but he tried to take care of everyone as if he was a grown man.
Even though his brother was ten years his junior, he let Benny do as much as he
could and thought it was funny the things the shrimp took on himself, such as undressing his big brother like this. On the ranch proper, the hard, outside work was falling more and more on Andy’s shoulders. Their dad had been sick for a couple of years now, and for this last stretch of several months, he’d been unable to do anything physical. Andy knew the ranch could only afford to hire so many hands before it was a losing proposition, so he absorbed as much of the load as he could.
Feeling a hand on his head, he looked up to see Ben’s face only inches away, his pale blue eyes staring at him while he tugged on the bandana wrapped around Andy’s head. He claimed it was there to soak up the sweat, but honestly, it helped keep his too-big hat on his head in the relentless Wyoming winds. Lifting his head so the kid didn’t pull his hair out along with the bandana, he grinned up at his brother. “Put that in my hat; don’t forget. Did ya get the other boot yet, shrimp?” he asked, closing his eyes again. “Nawp, willth now, though,” Ben said with his lingering lisp.
Andy sighed and shifted his shoulders against the couch, stretching his back and sliding his ass down a little more on the rug, asking, “We need wood?” He knew his brother brought in wood as was needed during the day, but he liked to leave the box beside the fire full before bed.
“Yep. I can help,” Ben responded, tugging at the toe of Andy’s other boot.
“’Kay, shrimp.” He picked up that leg, letting him pull the second boot off his foot. Eyes still closed, he reminded Ben, “Not too close to the fire…don’t ruin ‘em,” and heard the boots being shifted a couple feet further away from the hearth.
“Boys, come to the kitchen and eat,” Andy heard his mother call from another room. She must have stuck her head around the doorframe, because her voice was closer when she said, “Soon, please, while it’s still warm.”
“Yes’um,” he replied, climbing to his stocking feet, feeling the chill of the floor through his thin socks. Picking up Ben, he slung him onto his back, feeling his brother’s little arms and legs wrap around his neck and waist. “Let’s go, little man,” he said, and walked them into the kitchen.
His mother was standing in front of the sink, leaning back against the countertop. She had one hand on her hip, with her other arm folded across her stomach, and she was looking at Andy with an intense gaze. He thought something must have happened; she only looked like this when there was bad news, or if she was ticked at something he’d done. Cocking one eyebrow, he threw a non-verbal question at her as he settled Ben into his chair at the table.
She didn’t respond, so seeing there were only three places set at the table, he asked, “Need me to take a tray up, Mom?” His dad had been making the trip down the stairs less frequently, and his Mom usually took dinner upstairs to him when he wasn’t mobile enough to come down.
Not answering him, she asked, “What time did you hit that door this morning, Andy?”
He shook his head; it had been before sunup, and he didn’t think he had been late, but maybe he had shorted doing something that was needed. “Um, prolly about five this morning, why? Did I forget to do something?”
She sighed at him, “No, I was wondering what time you started your day, was all.” He had looked in the wood box in the kitchen before he sat down, making a mental note she needed some small wood and kindling in here. Sitting in his place across from his brother, he reached out his hands to either side, holding their hands with a bowed head as she said Grace over their meal.
He and Ben both echoed her, “Amen,” and then he reached across and began filling her and Ben’s plates with the food. Putting ample servings of the roasted chicken and green beans on each plate, he gathered up a slice of bread and buttered one for each of them. He passed those plates along the table at their places, and then stopped for a second. “Did you already make Daddy a plate?” He waited for her nod before he served himself.
Shoveling food into his mouth, he realized how hungry he was. It had been a long day, and he hadn’t been able to take a break for lunch. The veterinarian had been scheduled out all day, and they’d had to shift and sift a bunch of cattle through the corrals and catch pens in order to get the calves out for shots, drenches, branding, and cutting. They’d gone through about
two-hundred head today, and had that many to go tomorrow before they were done.
He’d been in the bunkhouse at about five that morning to start the cowboy coffee, and to throw biscuits in the stove out there. He fed the horses while the biscuits were baking, and got back in time to fry sausage and bacon, and to scramble some eggs. Preparing enough food for the ranch hands to eat breakfast and then make wax paper-wrapped lunches for later had taken up a chunk of time, so then he had to rush through his chores in the horse barn before they got started on the day’s work. He’d gotten most of the horses saddled and ready to go before the hands rolled out of their bunks, and Nash, his favorite ranch hand, had helped him with the rest.
Standing up from the table, he stretched his back to the left and right, straightening some of the kinks out of it from being in the saddle all day. With a yawn, he picked up his empty plate and dirty silverware and dropped them in the wash pan next to the sink. “Gotta get some wood in before it gets too much colder,” he said over his shoulder as he walked back to the main room. His full, generous mouth smiled at his mother. “Good food, Mom. Thanks for supper.”
Slipping his boots back on, he struggled to force his feet into the just-too-small leather. He straightened his jeans over the boot tops, and then raised the lid on the wood box to check and see how much was needed in here. Pulling his hat on over his unruly brown hair, he swept the room with his green-eyed gaze, looking for anything out of place. Stepping to the door, he lifted the latch as he grabbed his coat and headed into the darkness surrounding their home.
Standing on the porch in the dark, he listened to the lowing of the cattle; quiet music came from a guitar and harmonica in the bunkhouse. He heard the trill of the wind in the stay lines of the windmill and was quiet, taking in the music of the plains that had been his home his whole life.
Smiling, he walked the path to the woodpile by memory, not needing even the bright light of the moon to find his way. He knew this place like the back of his hand, and was glad each day to wake up and see the sunrise coming across from the eastern hills. He detoured a little by the windmill and patted the seat of his dirt bike, promising himself he’d ride the bike tomorrow instead of his gelding. He missed it when he went too long between rides.
After his third trip back into the house with firewood for the fireplace and woodstove, he grabbed the ax and chopped up enough kindling to get them through tomorrow. He had turned to go back, but stopped short when he saw his mother on the porch. She was standing there with her arms wrapped around her body, but no coat or shoes on.
“Mom, get back inside; I’m done here,” he yelled across the yard to her, watching as she raised a hand to sweep her hair back from her face.
“Andrew, we need to have a chat. Come in, son,” she called out to him and turned to go back into the house.
Sitting down on the couch after he dropped the kindling off in the kitchen, he looked around and asked, “Where’s Benny?”
“I sent him on to bed; he doesn’t need to hear this,” she said with a hiccup in her voice. Andy sat still, afraid to move or say anything, thoughts racing through his head about the ranch and how broke they were. He thought about his dad and how sick he was, and about how skinny his mom had gotten...and how all of those things frightened him.
“Andrew, we heard from the doctors today. Your daddy isn’t going to get better.” Her voice hitched again. “He’s only going to get worse.” Andy nodded at her, because that didn’t surprise him; he’d seen livestock sicken and waste away, like Daddy had been doing for months. Once they reached a certain point, they never came back from it, and he’d been thinking Daddy had gotten to that point a few weeks ago.
“We’re considering selling the property and moving into town, where we can be closer to the hospital and doctors,” she said, “closer to help.” She continued speaking, but he couldn’t hear anything over the noise in his head. It sounded louder than anything he’d ever heard, blocking out everything else. They were going to sell the ranch. It was his dad’s legacy to him; it had been his grandparents’ home.
His mouth dropped open because he was panting for breath, but he couldn’t get enough air inside him anymore. He was hurting, in agony, and his mom
just kept talking
at him. They were going to sell the ranch; it was part of him. That dirt flowed through his veins sure as it was blood, and it was what kept him going each day.
They were going to sell his ranch.
He knifed up, pushing away from the couch and leaned his arm against the fireplace mantle, feeling the roaring heat of the fire against his legs, welcoming that pain. Tall for fifteen, he knew he was thin, but he was strong; all the hands said so. He could run this place; he knew it in his bones. He could make it okay for the people he loved; he could make it all okay. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and he thought he’d been proving it.
“Mom, I got this,” he said softly. “You don’t gotta sell. We don’t…we don’t gotta sell.” Please, God, let her see what this meant to him. Let her take it back with a laugh and an apology. She was sorry, and she’d misunderstood. “I got this.”
“Andrew, it’s not about what you can or cannot do, son. It’s about your daddy,” she snapped, apparently not having expected any resistance. “He can’t be out here, when the help we’ll need is in Enoch.”
“Mom, this was GeePa’s daddy’s place. We’ve had family living here for nearly a hundred years.” He was in tears now, fighting to keep them from his voice. Standing with his back to her, he asked, “What about renting a place in town for you, Dad, and Benny?”
“Andrew, you know we don’t have the extra money for that. We have to be realistic about what options there are, and your dad and I have decided that selling the ranch is probably the best one we have,” she replied, her voice growing steely.
“You can’t sell it, Mom. You can’t,” he pleaded, repeating, “I got this. I swear.” He turned to look at her and saw how tense she was, sitting on the edge of the couch, her arms around her middle and holding herself together by digging her fingernails into her sides. If he was honest, it looked like this was killing her, too. He saw her pain and fear for his father in her face, clear as a summer’s sky.
She opened her mouth again, and he cut her off, “No, it’s okay, Mom. I get it.” With a big sigh, he toed off his boots, set them to the side of the hearth, and asked, “What do you need me to do?”
***
The next months were busy as they entertained offers for the place. Andy sorted cattle and horses
, sending the culls to the feedlots and auctions. One by one, the ranch hands left as they secured permanent employment at neighboring ranches until they were down to just him and Nash. They’d keep running the ranch until it sold, caring for the remaining cattle and horses.
Standing on the front porch of the house, Andy was holding a cup of hot coffee and sipping carefully. His sixteenth birthday had come and gone a month back; Nash was gonna take him in for his final driving test today. He’d had a hardship license for over a year, but that expired when he came of legal driving age, so he had to retake the test. He felt an arm circle his thigh, and without looking, dropped a hand down onto the tousled blond
e head beside his hip. “Hey, Benny, whatchu doin’ up, shrimp?”
“GeeMa ith comin’ to pick me up today.” Ben rubbed his head against Andy’s leg. “Mamma sayth I’ma stay with GeeMa and GeePa a while.”
Andy rubbed his brother’s head absently, ruffling the too-long hair, noticing he needed a haircut. “Did ya pack yet? Don’t forget the bathroom stuff.” Squatting down to Ben’s height, he told him, “I’ll be there in three days. Can you hold out that long? Three days.”
“Yeth, and I got the toofbruth,” came a considered answer.
“Good man,” he told him proudly, standing back up, and keeping his hand on Ben’s head, he repeated, “good man.”
Andy heard his mother come rattling down the stairs in a hurry. “Andy,” she called loudly, then she saw him on the porch and veered that way, “Andy, I need your help with Daddy.” He took another drink of the coffee, dashed the dregs into the yard, and handed the cup to Ben. “Put that in the sink for me,” he said, and followed his mother up the stairs.
Entering the sick room was like being transported to a different planet. Not only didn’t it smell like the rest of the house, most things looked different too. Even the light coming through the windowpanes was different, as if it was a different wavelength than the sun’s rays shining on the yard. His dad was in a hospital bed with the head cranked up a little, but not too much, because he didn’t have the strength to hold his position in the bed. If it was cranked up too high, he would scoot down with his knees rucked up, and his back bent like a pretzel.
