The Eagle and the Fox (A Snowy Range Mystery, #1) (4 page)

Whispering, “Fuck,” Marcus popped the pills into his mouth and took a swallow of the proffered bottle of water. When he looked up, Josh had his back turned, his palm rubbing up and down his damaged thigh. Marcus suspected those morning aches and pains were doubly aggravated after an episode like last night. He knew about PTSD, he’d seen it surface now and then in a few of the young men in the valley who’d returned hoping to pick up where they’d left off but unable to make that old skin fit like it used to.

Josh Foxglove had done better than most, all things considered. Leastways that was how appearances went. He kept his head down, worked hard and stayed off most folks’ radar. But last night Marcus had been privy to something very personal and very frightening. He had no notion how it’d been triggered or why him saying a few words seemed to pull Josh back out.

Marcus asked, “You want coffee?” He struggled to stand and gave up, the pounding in his temples threatening vertigo if he moved too fast.

“Uh, no thanks. I have to get home to feed.”

The big man still had his back turned. Marcus thought he might be embarrassed, that he might be struggling to find a way to ease out of being a friend, let alone a BFF. At the very least, he most likely wished he hadn’t said anything about asking for a favor, a favor he’d yet to lay on Marcus.

It didn’t take a genius to guess what that favor was. It was the last Sunday of the month. In a couple days, invoices went out. He had Polly’s youngest girl, the one going to community college, come in and do the bookkeeping for him. Mostly that amounted to shuffling bits of paper, moving numbers from one side of the ledger to another. Lately the debit side was leaning harder toward barely making ends meet, for all of them.

He could outright offer. Give the family the extension they needed. Hear the
I’m good for it
because most times it was true. And when it wasn’t, it was still tough to lay blame. But, without Josh saying the words, it was still just a guess. If he mentioned it, whether or not he was right or wrong, he’d risk the tenuous thread they’d built during their weird interlude. He’d rather keep his new friend than risk losing him by making assumptions and running his mouth off, no matter how well-intentioned he might be.

Finally turning to face Marcus, Josh said, “Thanks for letting me stay over. I appreciate it.” His face was solemn and earnest, but then he grinned, the corners of his mouth tilting unevenly as scar tissue fought the emotion. “Haven’t tied one on like that in a long time. Don’t think Becca would’ve ’preciated me coming home in that condition.”

Josh held out a hand. Marcus grasped it thankfully, allowing his new buddy to yank him from the recliner, then hold him steady until the world stopped spinning. Marcus asked, “You coming to the service later?”

Josh sucked air and grimaced, “Shit. I gotta get home and get cleaned up. Becca’s gonna want to bring the coolers and whatever else she promised. If I don’t get a move on, my ass is grass.”

Marcus looked down. They were still holding hands. When he looked up, Josh was looming over him, his head tilted down, the expression on his face once more intense and absorbing.

“Thank you. For last night.”

Marcus knew the man wasn’t referring to their buddy evening of binge drinking, so he just nodded and wondered if it was possible to stay like that a few minutes longer. Keeping contact, rough skin to rough skin. It was nice.

But nice never lasted.

Slowly withdrawing his hand, Josh backed away and headed toward the door. Before he disappeared down the dingy stairwell, he asked, “You coming?”

“Yeah. I got tagged for a couple folding tables and the ice.”

“Good. See you there.”

Marcus listened to boots clomping down the steep stairs, the gait uneven and hesitant. When the sound diminished, then ceased, he blew out a breath and peered around at his few possessions. With a grin, he pushed the chair farther from the sofa, opening up more space. He had a couple hours before he was due at Polly’s restaurant. Usually he spent it downstairs, taking care of the endless tasks required around the store. But that morning, he decided it was time for him to pay attention to his own space.

Just in case...

****

T
he odor of stale beer, fried food and charred steak hung heavy in spite of Polly having thrown the windows wide trying to air it out. Most times nobody complained but it had turned unseasonably warm for early spring. The air was heavy, like it got before a rain storm, holding in the smells.

The sky held its secrets, keeping to a pale blue, but the wind curled everything into abstract patterns, changing directions with lazy grace.

The prospect of bad weather moving in had the ladies concerned, their hands in constant flighty, nervous motion. To a one they were either swiping palms on aprons or smoothing over the plastic tablecloths adorning the tables groaning under the weight of dishes of all kinds. Potato salad, mixed beans, condiments and toppings, rolls and flatbread.

Marcus was on his last trip, lugging the aluminum folding tables to add to the restaurant’s collection of outdoor benches and seats clustered under the patio roof. It wasn’t nearly enough space to hold the townsfolk, let alone all the ranchers who came in for the monthly service. Usually they offered cake and coffee but today was special and Centurion had gussied up to make a good first impression.

Polly tapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Is that the last?” He nodded. “Can you help the fellas inside? Looks like most everyone’s gonna be here. We’ll need those chairs from the basement.”

“On it. I put the extra ice in your big freezer.”

To get to the basement Marcus had to pass the line of homemade grills, most fashioned off old fifty gallon drums and soldered to tripods on the ends. He recognized John Barnes and stopped to say hello and remark on the man’s secret recipe for barbeque sauce. He and his wife had walked off with so many blue ribbons at the state fairs that everyone considered it a Centurion treasure.

Marcus asked, “Polly still after you to let her sell that in the restaurant?”

“Can’t do that. The missus says it was passed down from her granddaddy's daddy. Been in the family since time began. She says it’s a sacred trust.” He brushed the rack of smoked elk ribs and smirked. “Not sure I believe that, myself.”

Laughing, Marcus said, “One of these days some business type is gonna come along waving a wad of cash, and your sacred trust is gonna look damn fine on a designer label in an upscale grocery store over in Cheyenne.”

“Well, just between you, me and that light post, I wouldn’t turn down an offer, so long’s as they understand just how much sacred’s worth.” He shut the lid and wiped his hands on a towel.

When Marcus mentioned he needed to find more folding chairs, John joined him. They gathered as many as they could and lugged them up the steps and then into the restaurant. Most of the area's teenage boys were busy lining up rows of chairs, leaving a center aisle and angling them around so everyone got a good line of sight to the cash register that always doubled as a pulpit. The irony wasn’t lost on Marcus.

John said something to his son, then turned to Marcus. “You hear anything about that date of Petilune’s? I asked Will but he didn’t know nothing about it.”

Feeling a stab of guilt for having forgotten all about the incident, Marcus explained, “No, sorry. She went out to the porch. When I went to talk with her, she’d already left.” He decided Barnes didn’t need to know that Josh Foxglove showing up for the second time, filling his doorway and then filling the emptiness in his night, had driven all consideration about Petilune’s whereabouts clean out of his head.

“Might want to ask her when you see her.” John’s expression could only be interpreted as concerned parent.

“What’s up, Barnes? Is there something I need to know about?”

Everybody knew Petilune spent most of her afterschool hours at the store. Truth be told, the town had started seeing him as her guardian, sort of a surrogate uncle. It didn’t sit well that he was apparently falling down on the job by ignoring something going on right under his nose. Worse yet, it wasn’t just a matter of ignoring it. He was coming across as completely clueless.

It wasn’t a good feeling, knowing he was letting people down. But then... Hell, he wasn’t a relation to the family. He was a lonely middle-aged man, trying to run a business, and not doing so hot at that. Why did the town suddenly think he was father material for a sixteen-year-old girl who might, or might not, be simple in the head?

John pulled him toward the front porch, far enough away from the commotion inside they could speak without being overheard.

“Will told me last night, when I asked about Pet’s new beau, that there’d been some trouble lately over by Toller’s Ditch.”

“At the guest ranch?”

“Yeah. Mostly mischief. Some shit stolen. Fence down. Usual stuff.”

What Barnes said didn’t sound exactly earthshattering. There wasn’t a lot to do in the area on a Saturday night, especially for kids who’d spent every waking hour either in school or working their asses off with chores. Now and then things got out of control, especially if the teens got their hands on beer or liquor. They’d been lucky lately, avoiding the drug problems and some gang-related stuff going down around the University in Laramie. But Laramie and points east weren’t the only source of their problems.

Marcus asked, “You think it’s the usual suspects?”

“That’s what I asked Will. He says it ain’t nobody he knows. Could be some vagrants passing through. God knows, ever since they opened the oil fields up north, it’s been a fucking stampede through here.”

Marcus felt the familiar squeeze in his gut thinking on the kind of trouble that could come their way. There was a reason they kept an eye on strangers. Up until recently most folks were passing through, heading to the recreational areas in the Snowys. They’d stop, take a photo with their cameras or phones, grab a bite at Polly’s and move on, leaving the residents of Centurion undisturbed from their normal routines. But there’d been enough times when they’d been blindsided to keep them all just a little on the wary side.

Gossip about the usual stuff didn’t merit being dragged into a corner by a man not prone to getting his knickers in a twist over teenage misdemeanors. God only knew, Barnes' two boys were a handful and had had their fair share of dressing down. The fact that Will had thought to mention it, especially in light of how Petilune had been acting, might be reason to investigate further.

Marcus said, “I see what you’re saying, John. I can talk to Petilune, see what’s up. But, you know as well as I do, if you push too hard, that girl’s gonna clam up so tight we’ll never get anything out of her.” And the last thing he wanted was for the kid to up and decide she didn’t need to be his housekeeper and galley slave in the store, leaving him high and dry and the girl at the mercy of a woman who thought nothing of offering her up to the highest bidder.

The matter seemed to require a little delicacy, not exactly his strong suit.

Barnes pointed in the direction of a dust cloud making its way up the slope. “Looks like the preacher’s here.”

They both stared with curiosity to see the man billed as the best reverend to hit the circuit in years. Marcus grumbled, “I hope to hell he’s better than the last one. Swear to God, that man made my ears bleed.”

“I hear he’s young, fresh out of seminary school. And he sings like an angel. So I’m told.”

Marcus and John grinned. It explained the frenzy of gingham and Sunday best converging on the black SUV. As the man stepped onto the dusty lot, he swept a hand through curly dark brown hair, settled a Stetson on his head, and graced his congregation with a brilliant smile.

Marcus thought,
I’m too old for twinks, but hell’s bells...

John chuckled. “I’d best check on those ribs, then see to staking a claim up front. Marge ain’t gonna be happy if she’s stuck in the back today.” Tipping his hat, he hustled down the steps and bore left around the building, heading for the pavilion and the picnic area.

Since he had completed all his chores, Marcus wandered inside to make sure the seating was adequate for the turn-out. He was about to join his friend at the line of grills, when a hand tugged on his shirt sleeve. He startled and spun, almost knocking over Petilune.

“Hey kiddo.” He looked around, expecting to see Janice and the two boys.

Anticipating the question, the girl chirped, “Ma’s coming. She wanted to say howdy to the preacher first.”

Marcus wanted to say,
so do I
, but instead muttered, “She better get in line.” Petilune smirked as if she got the joke.

“I was wondering, Mr. Colton...”

Distracted, Marcus peered out the door, trying to follow the slow procession of simpering women and the potential answer to many a mother’s prayers, knowing full well that dance card had filled long before he’d ever get a chance to test those waters.

Damn Josh Foxglove for kicking me in the gonads and waking me up to possibilities.

Speaking of...

Petilune persisted. “...and you could sit with us...”

Was that a question? Who was “us”?

On auto-pilot, he replied, “Um, yeah, sure. That would be nice.” Shocked to find himself holding hands with the youngster, he followed meekly as she led him toward the rear of the open area. He groaned inwardly. The view from ten rows back wasn’t going to afford him the kind of unreserved ogling he’d planned on after seeing the young man and all his spiritual assets.

You are so going to hell for this, Colton.

“Pet, sweety. Why don’t we sit closer to the front? We can hear better if we’re closer, don’t you think?” He swallowed, hoping he didn’t sound too needy.

Petilune shuffled her feet and blushed. “This’ll be better. Ma ain’t feeling so good today, so...”

Feeling dense, Marcus objected, “But you can’t see anything this far back.”

“I can sit in your lap.”

Oh right, that’s all he needed. Him, his lap and a monster boner from star-gazing at a twenty-something hunk of angel dust. That’s just what an innocent girl needed. Good old Uncle Pervie Colton.