The Eagle and the Fox (A Snowy Range Mystery, #1) (2 page)

He had. The lie he’d buried in the family plot had come back to haunt him. Marcus Colton, proprietor, was single and an upstanding citizen, a man who went to church and did more than his fair share for the town. A man with needs. She’d hit him in his vulnerability without knowing the particulars.

He could have said no, he couldn’t afford to hire, things being what they were... But he’d said yes because things being what they were meant that this sweet ray of sunshine with the blonde braids and shy, innocent smile would be bartered out to someone else who got the drift, who would say the words that put a child in harm’s way.

Hard times sometimes had a way of estranging folks from the straight and narrow. He’d taken on the onus of caregiver, because if he didn’t someone else would. If nothing else, with him the woman-child was safe and the family had food on the table. If it meant tightening his own belt and dealing with the occasional murmurs and innuendo, he was good with that.

Tommy would have understood. He always had.

“Mr. Colton?” She was twirling a loose curl, oblivious to his march down memory lane.

“Uh, yeah, Pet. They’re over in aisle four, in that bin next to the metal tag applicator. You know which...”

Petilune chirped brightly, “Oh, sure. I can find it,” and skipped off in the wrong direction.

Marcus was about to yell after the girl, but a hand on his arm stopped him short. “Don’t trouble yourself, Colton. I know where they are.” It was John Barnes, one of Josiah’s neighbors. The man chuckled and shook his head. “She’s a good kid. Tries hard. She means well.” He said it like the girl was a little simple, not quite all there. Like they all had to make allowances. He was probably right.

Marcus wandered back to the cash register and began the tedious process of closing it down for the night. When Barnes reappeared with a handful of tags and an applicator, they made small talk while Marcus rang him up.

Out of nowhere, the man asked, “Petilune still keeping house for you?”

The question carried an odd tone, something like
are you still beating your dog
, harboring a trick question vibe. Marcus was used to fielding those incursions into his private life. He and Tommy had kept their relationship secret for so long that after a while the lies and misdirections came so easy he didn’t need to think twice on it.

If the town only knew they’d been harboring closeted old queers all those years. Him and Tommy, distantly related via Tommy’s mother’s side of the family, had gotten away with it only because the ones who kept track of bloodlines had either died off or left. They’d played at cousins without the kissing, then business partners, and finally roommates without anyone blinking an eye.

The problem was, Marcus had been so very good at playacting that the current role of upstanding, single citizen was about ready to backfire on him. Nothing abhorred a vacuum more than the deep-seated ache of knowing you’d never, ever again experience the passion of touching a man who blew your body, mind and heart.

The girl interrupted before Marcus could fashion a reply. “Didja want me to do anything else, Mr. Colton? I done the dusting upstairs, but if you...”

Barnes looked down at the sprite, a small smile forming on his lips. To Marcus’ relief it seemed more paternal than lascivious, protective and not jealous.

Marcus replied, “No, everything’s fine, kiddo. You go on home, spend some time with your Ma. You’re here too much as it is.”

She giggled. “Oh, I ain’t going on home, Mr. Colton.” Both he and Barnes raised their eyebrows. “I’ve got a...” She blushed, furiously, and rubbed her tiny hands along her thighs.

Marcus and Barnes exchanged an amused glance. It was Barnes who teased, “Don’t tell me you have a date, young lady. Are you old enough to be going out?”

Stretching to her full five-foot-two, Petilune preened and spun in place, the worn peasant skirt billowing around her narrow frame. She grinned and curtseyed. “Yes sir, that I do.”

Marcus asked, “Who’s the lucky boy? Is it that Parks kid, the junior bull rider?” He looked at Barnes. “Jake, Jake Parks. You know him, John. He’s from over near the access road to the trailhead in the Snowys.”

They went back and forth, teasing the girl until she was blushing crimson to her roots. Finally she blurted, “He ain’t no one y’all know.”

Leaning over the counter, Marcus stared at the girl while Barnes crouched on his heels, bringing his lanky frame even with the wide-eyed kid. The man asked, “Is he from around here? Where’d you meet him?”

Marcus wasn’t so sure it was a good idea to interrogate the kid. Her expression had gone from wide-eyed innocence and joy to stubborn petulance. She shuffled her feet, preparing to bolt.

Marcus assured her they didn’t mean to pry. “We just want to make sure you’re okay, sweety. You know us, just a couple of old farts, acting our age.” He grinned, hoping to disarm her enough she’d at least share a few details about the mysterious date.

Petilune refused the bait and instead said, “Oh, y’all ain’t so old,” in a way that clearly indicated otherwise.

Guessing they weren’t getting anything else from the girl, Barnes stood up and backed away enough to give her some breathing space. “Well, like
old
Marcus here says, we don’t mean nothing by it.” He picked up the paper bag with his purchases and wished them goodnight, ending with, “You have a good time, little lady,” but gave Marcus a pointed look that left no doubt he was still concerned.

Easing toward the door, Petilune said, “He’s picking me up. If it’s all right, I’ll be on the front porch.” She didn’t bother waiting for a reply.

Marcus chewed his bottom lip. Something was off about how Petilune was acting. To his knowledge the kid had never been on a date. Not that he’d be the first person she’d think to tell, but over the last few months, she’d opened up about this and that, asking him questions. Listening politely to the wisdom of a man who didn’t have a clue most times. He’d thought maybe there’d been some trust going on.

As it was, he asked himself if he had a daughter would
y’all don’t know him
make the cut. That was a hell no, because anything less than a signed affidavit from the boy’s father would’ve gone down like a lead balloon.

When the door opened again, Marcus expected to see the kid coming back inside. Instead, he was surprised to find Josiah Foxglove standing in the doorway.

“Josiah? Did you forget something?”

Having the man in his store twice in the same day would normally have sent Marcus’ libido through the roof, along with a healthy dose of guilt that he was dishonoring Tommy’s memory.

It’s an attraction. The man is... interesting. Nothing more.

“I, uh, I was wondering...” Josiah was at the counter, his face carefully blank, but his eyes gave him away. They’d turned from pale ice to glacial muddy blue, the crinkles at the corners etched deep with worry or concern.

Marcus excused himself and murmured, “Hang on a minute, will you?” He strode to the door, yanked it open and called, “Petilune? Honey?” There was no answer.

He walked outside, leaving the door open. Josiah followed him out, asking, “Anything wrong?”

After pacing around the perimeter of the parking area, Marcus concluded the mystery date had already picked the girl up and whisked her off to wherever.

Josiah asked again, “Is something wrong, Marcus?”

Shrugging, he said, “Probably nothing.”

“Don’t sound like nothing.”

“Shit. Well, it’s just that Petilune has a date.”

Josiah scrubbed at the rough whiskers on his chin. He skimmed over the scar tissue and winced. Marcus wondered if it still hurt. Burns were a bitch and probably took forever to heal. After some consideration, Josiah said, “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, she’s a cute kid and it’s Saturday night.” The corners of his eyes puckered more.

“She wouldn’t tell us who it was.”

“Oh.”

Marcus inhaled, exhaled, then explained, “He picked her up here. Shouldn’t he have picked her up at home?”

Josiah snorted. “With Janice waiting like a vulture at the door? Probably drunk as a skunk. If you was her, would you want your date meeting your mom when she’s already three sheets to the wind?”

Blinking at the run of words coming out of Josiah’s mouth, Marcus simply gawped at the mountain of a man taking up most of the real estate on the steps.

Marcus sighed. “I guess you’re right. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Won’t she?” Since there was no point trying to pull an answer out of thin air, he changed tack and asked, “Is there something I can help you with?” He waved for Josiah to follow him into the store.

At the door the big man paused. “This probably isn’t a good time. I’ll uh... um, never mind. I’ll catch you next time. Have a good night.”

Before Josiah could shut the door, Marcus grabbed the handle and held it open. He winced as the desperation leaked through his pores, making his voice warble and waver as he asked, “Would you like something to drink, maybe? Unless you have to be somewhere...”

“No. I’m good. I mean...” Josiah inched toward the door. “A drink would be good.”

“Okay.” Marcus held the door ajar and stepped aside as Josiah sidled through the opening. After leading the man to his makeshift office, Marcus pointed to the folding wooden chair and wondered if it was sturdy enough to hold the man’s weight. The bottle and tumbler were still on the desk where he’d left them. He reached into the bottom drawer, extracted another glass and poured two fingers into each.

Josiah accepted the whiskey and tilted his chin in salute before tossing it down. Both of them shuddered and grinned. Marcus asked, “Another, Josiah?”

The man extended his glass for a refill. “You can call me Josh. I like that better. Sounds less... biblical.”

Relishing the burn in his throat, Marcus murmured, “That’s good. So, Josh, what did you want to talk about?”

“I need a favor.” He shifted on the chair. It creaked. “Thing is, I don’t got the right...” Josh grimaced, his face a war of emotions Marcus could barely fathom. Finally he said, “It ain’t like we got history or we’re friends or nothing like that. We hardly know each other.”

Marcus listened to his own heartbeat, wondering what was driving a man like Foxglove to come and ask for a favor and to be so obviously torn up about it. So he said, “Friends give favors. That’s what friends do.”

“But, we ain’t friends.”

Marcus held up the half empty bottle. “Then I guess we’re gonna need more of this.”

––––––––

J
osh tried to be mindful most times—of who he was, what he had been, what he might be if the good Lord ever saw fit to lay on some healing. He was thankful for the small gifts—the kindness of neighbors who left him alone to deal as he saw fit, the way each day he got to wake feeling a little better than the last, the simple fact he got to wake up at all.

Coming home had seemed a bad idea at first, but with his folks both gone and Becca struggling to handle what was left after the vultures had their day, the choice had boiled down to doing the right thing. That was how he’d learned to measure his life... doing right, even if you didn’t have a clue what that meant or how it would play out down the line. Especially now.

The whiskey was working a bit of magic, sending tingles to his fingers, fogging up his head enough he’d almost forgotten why he’d hung around like a lovesick suitor, pacing the parking lot, and measuring out all the reasons why asking for help from a man he barely knew was such a good idea.

They’d drained the bottle. Marcus looked up, his face oddly sad, road-mapped by lines around his eyes and deep cavities outlining his mouth. The sprout of stubble marked time like it always did. Five o’clock shadow. It was peculiar how a man’s body worked, measuring the passage of the day in small tells that shaded and defined the face, changing the texture from slick to scruff, and painting the flesh in a hue of weary each man could claim for his own.

On Marcus, the stubble gave away the wear and tear of time. The wink of silver invaded from a strong chin and jawline, blossoming in splotches until it evened out at the short sideburns. The pattern of growth was uneven, much like his own, though his had the excuse of an abuse you couldn’t ever completely mask. Josh wondered if Marcus liked it, his new beard. Then he wondered why it mattered.

“Looks like we’re done here.” Marcus pushed the rolling chair against the wall, using it to brace himself as he stood, unsteady on his feet.

Taking his cue, Josh rose and braced his hands on the desk. Slurring, “Right, thanks,” he nodded at the empty glasses and the empty bottle sitting in forlorn unity on the desk. He thought,
good talk
, but they hadn’t. They’d just downed the amber acid until it wore the edges smooth, keeping company, avoiding eye contact but unwilling to step out from behind the protective barrier shielding them from each other.

Feeling like the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room, Josh spun to leave but Marcus beat him to the door.

“Don’t...”
Don’t what?
“I mean... We aren’t finished. Are we?”

His head spinning, Josh tried focusing on the words. They hung out there, in a bubble, all gobble-di-gook foreign to his eyes. He could so easily pick the man up, set him aside and leave, but instead he asked, “Are we what?”

“Friends.”

Well, that was a good question. And for once he had a good answer. “No.”

Marcus sighed and scratched his crotch, staring off into space. Josh bit his lip, trying not to laugh. He had a buzz going, but the man straddling the opening with a hand clutching the door jamb and the other his junk like it was a lifeline, that man was slip-sliding into la-la-land.

The face that had oozed into an expression of bone-weary morose now morphed into perplexed. It was like watching wet clay being formed and reset. A little pressure here, a shove there, and presto-bingo. A new, and clueless, Marcus Colton.

The man frowned and muttered, “Harsh,” as he left the confines of the doorway and minced his way carefully toward the rear of the building. Curious, Josh followed. The feed store was laid out in a long rectangle with the small warehouse and loading dock at the rear. There was a second story with a set of steep stairs on the outside of the building that terminated in a narrow landing and a door that led, presumably, to Colton’s living area. They weren’t headed in that direction.