25
Farley, Wyoming
Fresh from a touch of Red’s power, Rooster had strength in reserves. A little stiff in his bad knee when he crouched down, but nothing he couldn’t grimace against and go on through. For the first few minutes, after Jack’s wife – a plump, motherly sort with the kind of smile that made him think of sweet tea and fresh cookies – took Red into the house with her, he panicked a little. Standing in the center of the carriage house, opening and closing his hands into fists, breathing raggedly through his mouth. What if that woman had–? What if Red was–?
What if, what if, what if. He ran a dozen disastrous scenarios, blood humming, drawn as if by hooks toward the house, his charge, his responsibility. Hisgirl. His…
Everything.
“She’s safe,” he chanted. “She’s safe, she’s safe.”
And she was. He could look across the fairytale garden yard and see her through a window in the kitchen, rolling out dough with a big wooden rolling pin alongside Jack’s wife, Vicki.
It was…it was okay. It was good, even. Red had never had a mother, or an aunt, or a grandmother, or hell, even a friend. She deserved the chance to make cookies with a kind woman. She deservedmore–
But he couldn’t let himself go down that road. Not now. He had a job to do.
She he tugged on the worn leather gloves Jack had left him, picked up a hammer and crowbar, and started pulling up rotted floorboards.
It was hard work.Goodwork. Productive, and steady. Not frustrating. He had no idea how long he was at it, but when Jack’s footfalls announced his arrival with two frosty longnecks hanging from one hand, the shadows lay long and distorted across what was left of the floor.
Rooster wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and realized he was sweating all over, his jeans and t-shirt glued to his skin. He felt tired and heavy in a pleasant way, buzzing with positive exertion.
Jack whistled. “Makin’ some progress, I see.”
“Trying to.”
And this was easy: falling back into casual camaraderie with someone. He hadn’t known that it would be, but it didn’t take any effort to move to the carriage house porch, accept a beer and sit down next to his host.
“Hmm,” Jack hummed. “I haven’t been able to do shit like that in years. It’s hell to get old. I appreciate it.”
Rooster took a long sip of his beer, and didn’t answer. He felt like he didn’t need to. They sat side-by-side on the porch, legs dangling over the edge, songbirds trilling their final chorus before the crickets took over.
Peaceful. Rooster knew peace never lasted.
“Your girlfriend,” Jack started, and there it was. Tension. “She’s a sweetheart. We don’t have any granddaughters, so you’ll be lucky if Vicki gives her back.” He chuckled like it was funny, but Rooster gripped his bottle so tight he thought it might shatter.
Jack noticed. He lowered his beer, shooting Rooster a sideways look.
“She’s not,” he said, breath catching. “She’s not my.” He cleared his throat. “Girlfriend.”
“Ah,” Jack said, smiling. “So that’s the problem.”
“What?”
“You’re in denial.”
Rooster curled his free hand into a fist on top of his thigh.
“Oh, come on,” Jack said. “A man doesn’t tie himself in knots over a woman he doesn’t love.”
“But she’s…”
“Like your sister? Your kid? Sure, I’ll buy that.” He sounded truthful, staring steadily at Rooster until Rooster lost his nerve and turned away. “But I don’t think so,” he tacked on, quietly.
Rooster fixed his gaze on the goldfish pond and said nothing.
“Kid,” Jake said, kindly, “it’s not anything to be ashamed of.”
