Page 16 of Protecting What Is Mine

7

Hank

A good night’s sleep in my own bed? It’s a small consolation, considering the way Mol’s d-bag cousin cock-blocked me last night, but as I lie rubbing sleep from my eyes, feeling relaxed and energized, I wonder how something so magical could ever be so easily taken for granted.

It’s later than I expected when my eyes finally open long enough to check the clock on the dresser, but still plenty early by most folks’ standards.

No thanks to that stupid rooster crowing his damned head off.

A final yawn, a big stretch, and a quick text to Gabe before my feet touch the ground.

Me: Morning sunshine. How’s your back?

No need to wait for a reply. The satisfaction of knowing I’ve pissed in Gabe’s Cheerios first thing puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step. I move through the morning, appreciative of getting back into my routine, but am surprised by how foreign it feels. Things I’ve always just…done—I find myself needing to stop and consciously think through the steps.

Before I realize, it’s one p.m. and I’m due to drop by the Collins’ place to follow up on some work I did on their bailer before Chet’s accident. That’s one great thing about a community this small, they know what my family’s been going through and have been so understanding. On the drive over, thoughts of Mollie consume me. I want to text or call, but what to say? My sense of humor isn’t much help in this situation. The best ideas I’ve come up with so far are to text either, Hear anything from your crazy ass cousin? Or, I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you naked last night.

Somehow, I’m afraid neither quite conveys what I actually feel. That would be more like, I’m sorry our evening was cut short. Spending time with you is the only thing I think about nowadays. And I can’t figure out how that’s possible, because no one’s ever been more important than four wheeling. But come on, there’s no way in hell I’m going to say something as goopy as that to a girl.

The Collins’ job takes a grand total of twenty minutes to diagnose—a loose hydraulic line—all the more reason to feel bad for keeping them waiting so long. Earl Collins is one of those salt-of-the-earth folks. When I tell him it’s fixed, he spends the next ten minutes trying to pay me (again) and asking how the family’s doing. When I finally put my foot down and refuse to take any money for a problem I may have caused, he just smiles and switches tactics, telling me to call him the next time I’m free, because he has another job for me.

God bless this town and the people in it.

I pass Belle’s on my way to the hospital and I’m tempted to stop in to see Mollie. Even if we don’t talk. Even if I only sit at the counter and watch her as she goes through her day, taking someone’s order or bringing them a meal. But I keep driving instead. Somehow—and Gabe would have a field day with this information if he caught wind of it—I suddenly don’t know what to say or how to act around her.

I arrive at the hospital in time to walk in on a conversation between Chet, Gabe, and the sheriff. “Afternoon,” I say as I enter the room.

Much to my surprise, Chet stops speaking, looks my direction, and—if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he almost smiles. “Cody, I’m not sure if the two of you ever met. This is my brother, Hank.”

The sheriff turns toward me. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Cody Henderson,” he says as he extends his hand.

“Hank Wilde. Pleasure’s mine.” I shake his hand. “So, what’d I miss? Were you able to get Chet to confess how he managed to shoot himself?”

Gabe and Cody chuckle while Chet glares in my direction.

Cody clears his throat. “Not quite. But then again, sort of. See, your brother here well he’s what I like to call an old-school kind of guy.”

Over Cody’s shoulder, I glimpse Gabe roll his eyes.

“Uh, okay. I’m not sure I follow.”

“Fair enough,” Cody continues. “See, Chet was just explaining how he typically carries a lever action rifle when he’s out on the property. And that if, for some reason he is carrying a pistol, it’s a forty-five caliber.”

I nod. “Yeah, he’s got an old Colt that our granddad brought home from the war.”

“Well that’s the thing, right there,” Cody says as he raises his index finger. “For one, the bullet the surgeon retrieved from your brother was definitely a pistol cartridge, but it was thirty caliber.” He raises another finger. “Then you add in the fact that Gabe let me look at both his rifle and his pistol when I was out at the ranch the other day, and neither of them appears to have been fired recently…” He twists his hand back and forth to show off his raised digits. “Well, I’d say that’s enough for me to believe ole’ Chet’s memory might still be worth a dime.”

“Hmm. The plot thickens,” I joke. “But sheriff, one question. How could you tell the guns hadn’t been fired recently? I mean, after so much time passed.”

“Because I clean them after I shoot them,” Chet bluntly interjects.

The sheriff nods. “That’s it. I like to think I know your brother fairly well. After all, we do go back some twenty-odd years. But even as tough as he is, I didn’t figure he stopped to clean his gun after shooting himself with it. Plus, Gabe says the pistol wasn’t on him when they found him the next morning. It was still locked up in the gun safe back home.”

I take a seat next to Chet’s bed and pat his leg over the blanket. “Alright brother, so maybe you haven’t lost it. Yet.”

Gabe pipes up. “So, if we all agree Chet didn’t do this to himself, the question is, what the hell happened out there?”

“That is a good question.” I look to Chet. “Remember anything?”

---