Page 52 of Hell and Gone
Montana was the first, and ultimately only, call back he received. His name was poison, it seemed.
“I didn’t think I’d really live again,” Everett said softly. His voice had gone thin, speaking from far away, lost in time as Montana and Afghanistan traded places in his soul. “I had no plans. No thoughts. I was just… wasting time until I died.”
“And now?” Lawrence had stayed away while Everett spoke and shared his story. He seemed nervous, skittish in a way Everett never was. This wasn’t Lawrence’s space, though. He had no claim to the man, or to his past. Or his future.
Everett stepped forward. He held out his hand and tried to smile. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “But I think my life is getting better.”
Lawrence took his hand and tugged, pulling Everett into his arms. He wrapped him up, holding him close, and breathed into his hair. “Seems like this is your chance, you know. Bein’ out here. And you’re takin’ it. You’re makin’ something of yourself.” His voice choked off. “You’re somethin’ special, Army.”
“So are you, Law.” Everett tipped his head up and kissed Lawrence, a soft press of their lips together. “Thank you. For everything.”
Lawrence smiled. “Anytime.”
* * *
Sheriff Braddock pulledinto the Delaney ranch just before two in the morning. His Sheriff’s Department truck rolled up the gravel drive, tires crunching dirt and rocks, headlights bouncing across the ranch house living room wall. He parked out front and came up the porch steps clutching a mug of steaming coffee and carrying a medical kit.
Everett and Lawrence met him at the door with nods and hellos. Everett took the medical kit. Braddock eyed Lawrence but held out his hand. “All right, Law?”
“Been better, Sheriff. We got a hell of a situation up here.”
“That we do.” Braddock sighed as he took off his hat. “Show me to Mister O’Donnell. I want to hear his story.”
Connor lay propped on pillows on the living room couch, wrapped in a blanket by the roaring fire. Earlier, Lawrence had dug out a fentanyl patch from the barn’s vet kit, emergency pain meds for the horses if they were badly injured, and had cut one into quarters for Connor. Connor’s breathing had evened out, and his eyes were less pinched with pain. “Sheriff,” he drawled.
“Mister O’Donnell. I’d hoped you’d found a good place to land at Endless Sky. Hoped all your troubles were behind you.” Braddock’s mustache twitched as he pursed his lips. “Well, let’s hear it.”
Connor told his story again, his voice rising and falling, sometimes trailing off as pain hit him, or as he rode a fentanyl wave. He told it all, though, working his way through being recruited by Jim Burke to join the rustling outfit the year before and how they’d stolen cattle from every ranch. How, after Dell and Aaron were fired from Endless Sky, Jim Burke brought them to the outfit and put them in charge of the others.
“When was this?” Braddock asked, taking notes.
“Spring. April, I think.”
Everett found Lawrence’s gaze. He sat on the couch arm beside Connor, leaning against the cool glass of the living room’s window overlooking the corral and pasture, the sloping hills rolling up to the mountain.
April. Right when Dell and Aaron went missing.
Connor’s story continued, rolling through Burke congratulating them all in the gulch, getting everyone drunk, and then shooting them all down. His escape, and then following Lawrence and Everett after they’d found the herd at Heart’s Rafter. “It was wrong what was done, Sheriff,” Connor said. “Dead wrong. We wasn’t in the right, stealin’ those cattle, but we wasn’t killin’ nobody.”
Braddock sighed, long and hard. He stood, flipped his notebook closed. “Well, you boys have certainly done a lot of work.” He rubbed the wide brim of his cowboy hat, fingers rubbing over the felt. Placed it on his head. “And you boys have it only half figured out.”
Glass shattered. Fire slammed into Everett’s shoulder. His bones burned, cracked, shattered. Blood sprayed in front of him, covered the side of Connor’s face. Numb, he stared, watching the drops fly, scatter across the living room floor.
He hit the floor before he realized he was shot.
“Everett!” Lawrence bellowed.
“Not so fast!” Braddock shouted. His pistol pointed straight at Lawrence’s forehead.
Lawrence stilled. Raised his hands.
Gasping, Everett writhed on the floor, breathing in the old dust from the throw rug. Blood pumped from him in time with his racing heart, falling from the burning hole blown through his shoulder. His arm hung limp and useless.
Half-blind with pain, the world swam, colors mixing with sound, reality spinning as he clawed the carpet, tried to hold on to the world.
“What the fuck?” Connor shouted. “The fuck is happenin’?”
“You weren’t supposed to survive, you dumb motherfucker,” Braddock spat. “Leave it to you to fuck everythin’ up. You are the worst kind of dumb shit I haveeverseen, O’Donnell.”
