Hidden: Part 1 Page 15

  Just before noon Travis appeared in the doorway looking indignant. Carl and Sully were painting the last wall. “Who threw my elk in the trash?”

  “Hell, Travis,” Carl said. “That thing’s got freezer burn. Must be four years old.”

  Travis put his hands on his hips. “I was gonna eat that elk. Paiutes eat different from white people. We like frozen shit, sometimes for years.”

  “I’m sure you do but you’ve got casseroles now.” Sue came up behind Travis from the kitchen. “Any of which is better than that elk.”

  She and Travis locked eyes. Sully saw his shoulders slightly sag and then muttering something in Paiute, he turned on his heel and backtracked through the kitchen.

  “Tell the guys we’re eating in fifteen minutes,” Sue called out to him before the kitchen door shut behind him.

  Sue and Carl looked at Sully.

  He shrugged, feigning innocence. “I’ll replace it with steak. He’ll be fine.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The phone rang seven times, eight. No answer. It was blazing hot standing inside the grimy phone booth at the local Speedy Mart. A few feet away a gang of local lowlifes stood smoking on the curb, their baggy shorts sliding halfway off their asses. He was just about to hang up when a familiar baritone voice answered.

  “Hank Sterling here.”

  “Hey Hank. This is Alex.”

  Silence.

  “We met at Chester’s in Red Rock a few weeks back. I’m the bull rider. Rode your bull.”

  “Of course. I remember. Alexander Hamilton.” He chuckled. “You in town?”

  “No, but I’d like to be. I’m in Phoenix. You said you could give me a job. Does that offer still hold?”

  There was a long silence. Justin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He could smell something dead in the air. His finger traced the phone number of a girl named Fanny etched into the chrome.

  “If you come work for me Alex, it’s on my terms. You need to be serious and committed. No skipping out on me to join the traveling circus.”

  “You have my word on that.” Justin pushed his hat back and wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. What kinda work you talking about? What kinda pay?”

  “One step at a time. Show me what you’re capable of. If it works out, you’ll learn a lot about running a ranch. A successful ranch.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Your paycheck depends on you. How fast you learn, how hard you work.”

  Indentured servitude, Justin thought. Images of desperate men ignited in his brain. Dried up men who worked hard their whole lives for other people and had shit to show for it. Justin wanted to say he had a better offer, but he didn’t. “All right Hank, you’ve got a deal. But I need an advance.”

  Sterling broke into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Justin asked.

  “Your audacity. Okay, Alex. How much you need?”

  “Enough for gas to get to Beaverhead.”

  “Where do you want it sent?”

  Justin gave him the phone number of the closest Western Union. “I’ll leave as soon as I get it.”

  “I’ll send it today. Don’t even think about cheating me.” The humor had dropped out of Hank’s tone. Justin felt the heat of his piercing gray eyes streaming through the telephone wire. Cheat you? As if that were even possible. There’d be nowhere to hide. Hank Sterling was an institution. World champion bull rider twice over. Big landowner. Filthy rich. Anyone who knew anything about rodeo knew of Hank Sterling. “I won’t cheat you, Hank.”

  “Good. See you soon, Alex.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The ringtone of his cell startled Sully out of a deep sleep. He groped for the phone and mumbled hoarsely. “Sully, here.”

  “Sully, you gotta come get me.”

  He bolted upright in bed. “Dad, are you all right?”

  Joe launched into an unintelligible rant, slurring his words.

  “Dad, slow down. What’s wrong?” Sully glanced at the clock: five a.m.

  “Ain’t nothing wrong. I just wanna come home.”

  Sully’s mind was dull from sleep. “Okay Dad. After I get my chores done.”

  “Come get me now. A man’s got a right to be in his own home.” The line went dead.

  Sully hung up and fell back on his pillow. He wasn’t ready to bring Joe home. There was work he wanted to finish. He threw the covers aside and padded to the kitchen, filled the coffeepot with water and measured the coffee. From his dad’s feisty mood, it sounded like the old Joe was back and headed for home, ready to get everyone up before dawn and start running the show. He felt a sad longing for the dad he’d known too briefly, the one who cried and told Sully he was proud of him.

  He found his father sitting in his wheelchair on Ronnie’s front porch. Clean shaven, thick hair brushed back from his gaunt face, blue eyes clear and glinting. His clothes looked oversized on his scrawny frame and his knees and elbows were bent into sharp angles. He looked as if he might be going to church if it wasn’t for the hard line of his jaw, which said he was not to be messed with this morning.

  “Looking good, Dad.” Sully flashed his mother a smile as she joined them on the porch.

  “Morning, son.” A green wool shawl was draped over her flannel nightgown. Sheepskin boots covered her feet and her red hair was blowing around her face. With a tense expression, she pressed a grocery bag into Sully’s arms. “Corn muffins and turkey chili. It’ll get you through the next few days.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He thought of all the casseroles stuffed in his fridge and wondered where he’d put it.

  “Don’t let him eat red meat or anything fried,” Ronnie clipped. “No butter, and watch his sugar intake.”

  “Will do.” He pecked her on the forehead and looked at her closely, but she offered no explanation for Joe’s sudden departure after only four days. Obviously the golden glow of their honeymoon had faded. Their farewell was colder than the morning, Joe’s face tightening when she kissed his cheek.

  Sully steered the wheelchair over the icy paving stones, loaded Joe inside the cab, and folded the chair into the backseat. The on-again conflict between his parents made his stomach churn. After winding through side streets and merging into traffic on the parkway, he tested the waters. “How’d things go with Mom?”

  Joe shrugged, staring out the side window.

  After his few attempts at conversation sputtered out, Sully turned on the radio. Music pulsed into the cab and Sully kept beat by slapping his hands on the steering wheel. There was good reason to be cheerful. The sheriff’s cleanup squad had been a blessing. The inside of the house was painted, hay money had come in, and his long list of ranch repairs had been cut in half. The sheriff bought one of the bulls and a beautiful papered brood mare, which meant money in their bank account and two less animals to feed. The weatherman said it was going to be a sunny day, a sparkling forty degrees. The snow would start melting and it’d be easier to work outside. Nice way to slip into the month of April. Though still a few months away, the promise of hot summer days teased his brain, softening the impact of his father’s sullen mood.

  As they approached the ranch, Joe started looking around and sat forward in his seat. By the time Sully pulled up behind the house, he was vibrating with impatience. He opened the door before the truck came to a full stop. “Get me my wheelchair.”

  Sully barely got him into the chair before Joe started wheeling himself across the yard toward the corral, his body bouncing as he rolled over the icy ground. Sully followed.

  “Gus! Whiskey!” he croaked.

  At the sound of Joe’s voice, the two donkeys started honking like taxi cab drivers stuck in traffic, one high, one low, heads cranked skyward. The excitement was contagious. Horses started whinnying, chickens strutted out of the barn clucking and ruffling feathers, and Pistol the mule rattled the pasture gate, beaming his long-toothed grin.

  Though determined to cover the distance himself, Joe’s glacial progress w
as painful to watch. “Dad, let me help.” Sully grabbed the black rubber handgrips.

  “Let me be,” Joe barked. “I can do it myself.” His face was flushed almost purple. The veins in his neck bulged out like cords.

  Oh, shit! His father was going to have another stroke then and there. Sully pulled the chair back into a wheelie and expedited his father’s journey to the corral, ignoring his slew of angry curses. Fenced inside with the donkeys was Whistler, Joe’s champion roping palomino, now twenty-seven years old.

  “Whistler,” his father squawked, as though begging to be rescued.

  The Palomino’s ears shot straight up and he lost no time trotting to the gate. Neighing loudly, he stretched his long neck over the rail and blew softly on Joe’s hair. Joe stood shakily, one wobbly hand anchored to the rail, and pressed his face into the gelding’s silver mane. The two huddled together and Sully heard his father murmur a magical language only decipherable to equines. Joe also greeted the donkeys and mule and appeared to be having a meaningful four-way conversation while scrubbing their necks with his fingertips.

  The open affection Joe gave to animals always puzzled Sully, considering his inability to connect with people. Watching Joe’s emotional reunion with his four-legged friends touched a soft spot in Sully’s heart. It must have been agony being imprisoned in the nursing home with only humans for company.

  “Son, get me my saddle,” Joe clipped, no-nonsense.

  Sully stood stunned for a moment. “No way, Dad.”

  As though on cue, Travis peeked out of the bunkhouse door, unshaven face rumpled from sleep, fingers still buttoning his shirt. He broke into a broad grin at the sight of Joe. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Butch’s head popped out between his legs. Travis hopped from one foot to the other, pulling on his boots, then hoofed it across the frozen yard and clapped Joe on the back, almost knocking him over. “Goddamn, Joe. Didn’t know you’d be home today. Shit. You’re skinnier than a scarecrow.”

  His father grinned back. The old Paiute was one of the few men Joe thoroughly respected.

  “Yeah, they woulda killed me soon enough if Sully hadn’t busted me out. Shit for food. Men giving me sponge baths.” Joe looked around, sucked in a lungful of air, and exhaled. “Hell, I missed this spread.” He turned his attention to Butch, who was neatly trimmed and decked out in the little red sweater. Joe’s mouth stretched into a wide, lopsided grin. He sank into his chair and reached out. “Come here to your ol’ man, Butch.”

  The poodle sat back on his haunches, indifferent, showing no sign of recognition.

  “Come.”

  No response.

  “What the hell?” Joe shot Travis a look. “What’d you do to my dog?”

  Travis shrugged. “Been taking care of him, is all.” He snatched Butch off the ground and sat him on Joe’s lap. The poodle put his paws on Joe’s chest, gave his face a couple licks, then promptly jumped off and trotted back to the bunkhouse.

  “He’s cold,” Travis said. “Give him time. He’ll come ’round.”

  Disgruntled, Joe turned to Sully. “Where’s that saddle?”

  Travis and Sully exchanged a look. “He wants to ride,” Sully said sourly.

  Travis sized up the situation. “I’ll take care of it. Find something to do, Sully. Maybe cook breakfast?” He grinned at Joe and stepped into the corral with a halter in hand. “I’ll have Whistler saddled in no time.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sully said, crossing his arms.

  “No one asked you.” Joe’s tone matched the tough determination in his eyes.

  “Just saying …”

  “I ain’t no cripple,” Joe banged his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. “You ain’t gonna turn me into one.”

  Travis led Whistler to the barn.

  Damn. “Make sure he stays in the arena.”

  “Make sure he stays in the arena,” Joe mimicked in a singsong voice.

  Sully wanted to cuff him.

  Joe steered himself toward the barn, the effort straining every muscle in his frail body. Sully watched him stop every few feet and pant. It was all he could do not to intervene. He retreated to the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge and cupboards, he got out a mixing bowl, Bisquick, and milk and eggs, and starting whipping up batter, all the while stealing glances out the window. After a few minutes, Whistler came sauntering out of the barn with Joe confidently mounted in the saddle. The pair looked like ghosts of the show-stopping performers they’d been in their heyday. Joe leaned over, opened the gate, and rode into the arena.

  Sully poured batter into a large cast-iron skillet forming three pancakes, then he laid strips of bacon on the grill pan. Out in the arena, Joe had Whistler making circles at a nice slow walk, warming him up. Sensible. Sully breathed easier.

  Travis came out of the barn carrying a saddle and leading his mother’s high performance horse, Gracie, intending no doubt to get in the arena and stay close to Joe.

  Fresh coffee dripped into the pot, bacon popped and sizzled. Sully flipped the pancakes, set the table, got out butter and maple syrup, and started a second batch of pancakes. In the arena, he saw Joe signaling commands to the palomino with subtle movements of the reins, which made the need to use his frail legs unnecessary. An inexperienced eye would miss them entirely.

  Travis was bent over, cinching Gracie’s saddle. The gray-dappled mare stood eagerly waiting to cut loose in the arena. Now there was a horse that could move!

  Breakfast was ready. Sully turned off the burners, set the covered pans aside, and went out on the porch to lure in the men. He watched his father expertly back Whistler into reverse, then turn him in circles, his back hooves almost stationary, his front legs crossing over one another in a wide pivot. Sully couldn’t help but be impressed. Even disabled, his father was one of the most talented horse trainers in the country. All the same, he wanted Joe off that horse. He’d done plenty for one day. “Time to eat,” he yelled.

  Sully pulled his eyes away from Whistler’s fancy footwork. Joe hadn’t latched the gate securely and it was swinging open. Alarmed, he raced to get to the gate, and noticed Joe had frozen in the saddle, face pale, looking ready to faint. He suddenly slumped forward, giving Whistler the wrong signal. The palomino broke into a trot, bouncing Joe in the saddle like a rag doll. Sully reached the gate. Whistler streaked past him like hell on wheels, shot across the yard, and galloped up the snow-covered trail leading off the property.

  Adrenaline spiking, Sully snatched the reins from a surprised Travis, leapt onto Gracie’s back, and whipped the mare into a full-throttle gallop, targeting the renegade palomino kicking up snow up ahead. As Gracie strained to close the gap, Sully saw that Joe’s weak leg was flapping uncontrollably against Whistler’s ribs, prompting the horse into a more frenzied gallop. Joe’s hands gripped the pommel and his body lurched from side to side. He was moments from disaster.

  Gracie came alongside Whistler at blinding speed, matching the thunderous rhythm of the palomino’s hooves stride for stride. Sully edged the fearless mare closer still. He leaned into the palomino and tried to snatch the reins. Whistler pulled away, widening the gap. Sully inched closer, tried again, fingers skimming the leather straps. The palomino pulled away.

  Joe’s hands were white-knuckled, the strain showing on his face.

  “Hang on, Dad!”

  Gracie inched closer. Sully’s leg brushed his father’s. Stretching his arm as far as he could, his fingertips brushed leather and hooked the reins. Careful. Careful. He applied subtle pressure, then slightly more. If Whistler braked too soon, his father would be catapulted from the saddle like a rock from a slingshot. “Whoa. Whooooooa.”

  Sully slowed both horses to a trot, then into an ambling gait, but before he could ease Whistler into a four-beat walk, Joe leaned away from him, falling from the saddle. Sully snagged his belt and held his weight precariously with one hand while managing Whistler’s reins with the other. Not until the world rushing past crawled to a complet
e standstill did he pull his father back toward him and lower him safely to the ground. Joe sank into a crusty snowdrift and lay in a crumpled heap, motionless.

  Panting heavily, blood pounding in his ears, Sully dismounted and knelt beside his father. He pressed his fingers to his carotid artery, looking for a sign of life in the bloodless face.

  Joe gasped, his eyes fluttered open. “I’m okay,” he wheezed.

  Sully momentarily scanned the terrain around them, waiting for his racing heart to slow down. They were in a meadow blanketed by snow and ringed by ponderosa forest. Tracks of deer, rabbits, and birds were stamped into the smooth glistening surface. A peaceful scene, but Sully knew that hidden beneath the snow the ground was booby-trapped with ruts and gopher holes. It was a miracle neither of the horses hit one of those deathtraps and broke a leg, which would have meant a violent tumble, and the likelihood of death to its rider.

  Feeling both relieved and angry, Sully helped his father to his feet, brushed the snow off his clothes, and supported his meager weight against his own. Joe was trembling uncontrollably, his lips turning blue. Lathered in sweat, the horses stood nervously, blowing steam, rib cages heaving. Gracie comforted the older horse who stood licking his lips, no doubt stunned by this sudden demand for warp speed after being left in pasture for six months. Both horses needed rubdowns and bowls of grain to calm them down. Sully heard the sound of the four-wheeler coming over the ridge and saw a cloud of exhaust and then Travis leaning forward in the driver’s seat. He pulled up alongside them.

  Joe’s swagger vanished as he sagged into the passenger seat, teeth chattering. “It wasn’t my fault Whistler took off. I had him under control. Who left that dang gate opened?”

  “You did,” Sully said.

  “The latch must be broken.”

  Yeah, right.

  They started for home, Sully mounted on Gracie with Whistler following behind. He looked at his watch. Not quite eight a.m. and already all hell had broken loose. Travis took the horses to the barn. Sully wheeled Joe up the new ramp into the house. Hunched over, his father didn’t notice the transformation; everything freshly painted, windows sparkling, old wood floors shimmering under a new coat of wax. He insisted on rolling himself straight back to the master bedroom where he struggled to get himself out of the chair. Energy spent, he sat passively on the edge of the king-size bed and allowed Sully to pull off his boots, peel off his wet clothes, and help him into flannel pajamas.