Rustler's Heart (A Kinnison Legacy Novel) (10 page)

Rein picked up his uncle’s old leather journal weighing it in his hand before he unwound the leather strap holding it shut. He skimmed first over a few of his sketches, read a couple of Jed’s notes, effectively avoiding the piece of lined notepaper he knew lay tucked somewhere amid its pages. He hadn’t looked at it in years. Hadn’t felt the need. But the whole business of the wedding and Liberty’s comment about his family, well he knew it wasn’t true. His upbringing hadn’t been perfect.

A piece of paper slipped from the pages and fell to the floor. His heart squeezed tight knowing the content. The words on the yellowing note were those of a young boy, barely eleven. The psychiatrist had suggested that he get out his recollection of the event on paper, so he could externalize his emotions instead of keeping them inside where they would fester.
Had it been eighteen years?
It seemed like an eternity. It felt like yesterday. Swallowing hard, he carefully unfolded the note and began to read the words of that devastated eleven-year-old boy.

It kind of all started because I wanted to go to summer football camp. My dad thought it’d be good for me. My mom didn’t.

“I thought we were past this discussion,” my mom said when he brought it up. We were in the car. Dad drove. Mom looked back at me. She was angry. Her lips for—formed—this thin line when she got really mad. She blamed being mad on my “eleven-year-old” behavior. I never understood that.

“Come on, Bev,” my Dad said. “It will be good for him. He doesn’t have many friends. He needs to get out and socialize.” I felt the car as it jarred off the edge of the road. My mom grabbed the dashboard, and glared at my dad.

“Will you pay attention to what you’re doing, Liam? These roads are treacherous at night.” She leaned forward as though she could help my dad see. “Why on earth did we ever agree to this?”

“Because,” Dad said. “We haven’t seen your brother Jed in almost five years. The man invited us up for Thanksgiving. We’re going.”

I tried to reason with her myself. Give Dad a break.

“Mom?” My voice cracked. I remember it doing that when I got upset. I hated it, and I hated my mom for being so lame. “If Uncle Jed agrees I should play, can I?”

She faced forward, her eyes on the road. She didn’t answer.

“Will you relax,” I heard my Dad say. “There’s not a soul out here tonight. Look the road is clear as can be. Now about this football camp, just let the boy play. What harm can there be in that?”

I remember hearing her take a deep breath. It seems so clear to me now. I knew what was coming. The “story”. The same excuse she always used. She hated the idea of me playing a sport—any sport. But especially football. It was so unfair.

Rein struggled and stared at the pages, debating whether to continue, but he did, determined that he could disassociate himself from the young boy trying to claw his way back from his guilt.

“You know very well what harm can come of those summer camps. Dehydration, exhaustion, heart problems. You remember what happened to Jonathan, my cousin’s boy. Not a thing wrong with him until he started playing high school sports. Then suddenly he’s passing out, and then came all the doctor visits, and then they discovered his bad heart.”

“Bev, you’re being unreasonable. Just because one boy has those problems, doesn’t mean Rein will.”

My dad understood. But it was no use. She would never give in. I looked out the window and tried to block out the argument that followed. What happened next. I remember in small fragments, like pieces of a puzzle, but some of the pieces are missing. Their voices grew louder in the small car. So loud, I wanted to cover my ears. I wanted to make them stop. God, all I wanted was to be like the other guys in my class. Why couldn’t she just let me be like everyone else?

“Just stop,” I said. I remember seeing the side of my mom’s face, the way she always wore her blonde hair cut in the same style, just below the ears. Her mouth moved, but I didn’t listen. I knew the excuses, the arguments that were once more shooting down my dreams. I hated her at that moment more than anything.

“Shut up!” I screamed it at the top of my lungs. “I hate you! I just wish you would die!” That got their attention. I remember their startled faces looking over the back seat at me, like they were shocked to see me there.”

Rein blinked, steeling himself for what came next. He reminded himself, as the psychiatrist and so many others had, that the accident hadn’t been his fault. But part of him would always feel responsible.

“They were looking at me. I’m sure they were about to ground me for a month, maybe longer. So, they didn’t see it coming. They couldn’t see what I saw from the backseat. I couldn’t warn them in time. The dump truck. Yellow, I think, maybe orange—came flying out of a dark entrance road. It ran the stop sign I found out later, and barreled straight into the front half of our car.

My head snapped back. I felt like a rag doll thrown across the seat. Then came a loud roar and the sound of shattering glass. I heard the high-pitched screech of metal on metal, like the sound a can makes when it’s being crushed, only a thousand times louder. Then, I heard screams. Maybe they were mine. I shut my eyes. I didn’t want to know how I was going to die.

Then I waited. I don’t remember how long before I opened my eyes. My head felt fuzzy, like I’d been asleep for a long time. But I could still smell the stench of gas and hot rubber.

It was dark, but somewhere above me I saw flashes of light—blue, white, a glimpse of red, and then blue again. Voices. Muffled. Someone called out orders. He sounded mad. In a hurry. Could it have been my Dad? I couldn’t tell what was happening.

Somewhere close by, the sound of a chainsaw, its ragged teeth sinking into the metal, shot a fear in me so deep, I thought I’d suffocate from it. My face felt wet. If I’d been crying, I didn’t remember. I was scared. So scared. Where were my mom and dad? Were they outside waiting for me?

My chest hurt. Something pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. I realized one of my hands was free. I fished around looking for something, anything familiar. That’s when I found her hand. I knew it was my mom’s. I felt her ring and her manicured nails she’d just had done. But in the smoke and rubble, I couldn’t see her face. I called out to her.

“Mom.” My voice sounded weird. Not like me at all. A hot pain shot through my leg when I tried to move, and I bit my lip to fight screaming out and scaring her any more than she probably was. “Mom, are you okay?” I tried to get a better grip on her hand, relieved when her fingers closed around mine. She was okay. It was going to be okay. But she didn’t respond. “Mom! Mom I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I yelled it over and over. I wanted to cry. It felt like this huge lump was stuck in my throat. I could barely breathe. Tears ran down my face, but I couldn’t reach them to wipe them away. I didn’t want to let go of her hand.

“I won’t go to camp, Mom, I swear. I won’t. Just tell me you’re okay. Please, Mom. I love you.” I began to get scared that I might not make it. That she might not hear what I needed her to hear before I died. The voices grew louder; I tried to hear her tell me that it’d be okay.

“I didn’t mean it Mom. I don’t hate you. Please, please.” I felt the air leave my lungs in a rush. The pressure on my chest lifted and I saw the blood…so much blood.

I still held my mom’s hand, but I couldn’t see the rest of her body. It was somewhere beneath the massive front tire of the truck. I screamed her name and tasted the blood running down my cheek from a cut on my head. But I gripped her hand tight.

“No. No, you’re going to be okay. I love you, Mom.” I felt her fingers squeeze my hand, and then it went limp. I must have blacked out after that, because I woke up in the hospital and my Uncle Jed said that I’d be coming to live with him from now on.”

Rein quietly folded the paper and tucked it between the journal’s pages. His chest ached. Rubbing his hand over his heart, he looked through the open framework of the window and watched the sunset in the western sky. His eyes stung with fresh tears.

That day changed him. And while Jed had been the best father figure a guy could ever hope for, he wasn’t his dad. Despite counseling, and the years that had passed since the accident, Rein still carried a residual guilt. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids and felt nauseous. Old feelings stirred in his gut. How could he have known it would be the last time he’d see them alive?

“Hey man, Wyatt’s just about got the steaks done.” Dalton walked through the open shell of a front door and looked around. Rein was supposed to be setting the posts for the kitchen wall. “You feeling okay?”

Rein nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be good in minute.”

Dalton’s gaze darted to the journal. There’d been a number of times over the years that Rein had tried to get through the letter without shoving it and his memories aside. Today had been the first time he’d managed to get through to the end. The outcome, like the guilt, remained the same.

Dalton regarded him carefully. “You read it, didn’t you?”

Rein went about re-wrapping the strip of leather around the book. He nodded.

“It doesn’t get any easier, I know. But Rein, it wasn’t your fault, man.”

Rein tossed the journal in his workbag, effectively shoving the entire episode the back of his mind. He blew out a deep breath, no longer that scared little boy who’d come to live with his Uncle Jed. “Come on, I’m starving. This might well be one of our last decent meals while those two are off on their honeymoon, unless one of us learns how to cook.”

Dalton laughed, seeming to understand his need to let the topic remain where it should—in the past. They walked shoulder to shoulder up the lane to the main house. “With any luck, Liberty can share in the cooking,” Dalton remarked “Then again, there’s always Betty’s café.”

Rein figured he’d put his money on take out from Betty’s, pretty certain that right now. Liberty would prefer to poison him.

“I’d like to propose a toast.” Dalton stood at the end of the massive picnic table Rein had made years ago when he’d first discovered his love for furniture making. Made of cypress, it accommodated up to a dozen people comfortably. Two long benches with short backrests ran the length of the table on either side, with matching single chairs at opposite ends. In its day, Jed had hosted many steak fries for his ranch hands. Not until recently had they resurrected as a gathering spot for family and friends.

“So you think that one wedding toast makes you a pro at this now?” Wyatt joked as he dropped his arm over the backrest behind Aimee.

A smile lifted the corner of Dalton’s mouth. “A toast to Aimee,” he said, raising his beer bottle. “To the woman who has brought new happiness to our family, first by rescuing my sorry-ass brother….”

Wyatt quietly lifted his hand behind his wife and flipped Dalton off.

“And by giving us more happiness to look forward to.”

Wyatt raised his glass of lemon water, joining his wife in abstaining from beer.

“Why Dalton Kinnison, I believe that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Aimee reached out her glass to touch his bottle.

“And good God in heaven, I hope that changing diapers is going to be a helluva whole lot easier than listening to you getting sick every morning.”

Aimee chuckled and leaned her head against Wyatt’s shoulder.

Dalton’s gaze moved around the table. “It used to be just the three of us, but seems like each day our family is expanding. I like to think that Jed would be happy with the way things are turning out.” Rein noted that his brother’s eyes landed on Liberty. “To family.” A reverent response of raised glasses followed from Dalton, Michael and Rebecca Greyfeather, Liberty, Wyatt and Aimee. Rein joined in reluctantly avoiding Liberty’s gaze.

“This brings up an idea that I wanted to run past you all, especially you Liberty and of course, Rein.” He leaned around his wife to speak directly to his newly discovered half-sister. “I know you haven’t been here long and that you may not have made up your mind about what it is you want to do. But I hoped maybe that I could convince you—we could convince you—to stay on at least through the summer. We thought maybe you could put some of those design skills of yours to work by helping Rein with the interiors of the cabins.”

“And I’d love having the help with the baby coming,” Aimee chimed in with a smile.

Rein’s fork stopped short of his mouth.
What the hell?

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea.” Dalton piped in. “Save me from buttin’ heads all the time with Rein the Impossible. I like the idea. What do you say?”

Rein stuffed a chunk of steak in his mouth, pretending to take his time eating it, until it all but dissolved in his mouth. He realized then how the conversation had stopped and all eyes were on him. He swallowed and chugged a swig of his beer.

“Well, guess we’ve heard from everyone but you,” Wyatt stated. “What do you think? Could you use a little help?”

Clearing his throat, he avoided looking at Liberty. “To be honest, I’m not sure we have the same vision of how these cabins should look. My style is more local tradition, while hers is likely to be more…well, modern.”

He caught Wyatt’s curious look before he passed a side-look to his wife.

“Thank you, Wyatt, I appreciate the offer,” Liberty interjected into the awkward silence. “That’s a lovely offer, and I would have considered it, had Betty not already asked me to help her with renovations on the café. She’s also offered me a part-time waitressing position. However, if your offer to stay in one of the cabins still stands, I would really appreciate being able to live here. And of course, I’d be happy to pay rent.”

He stopped her with his hand and glanced at Rein. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. That was our arrangement. And congratulations, I’m glad Betty saw fit to give you a chance with your designs.”