The Eagle and the Fox (A Snowy Range Mystery, #1) (3 page)

“Thish way.” Marcus shoved a curtain aside, revealing an emergency exit to the outside on the left, and to the right a stairwell to the mystery quarters above.

Josh wasn’t sure about the old wood steps. The risers weren’t up to code and the handrail left a lot to be desired. He asked, “You okay, buddy? I mean...”

The look that crossed Marcus’ face was a wash of embarrassment fueled by concern. “Oh man, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t think...” He pointed to Josh’s left thigh, the one with enough hardware and fake parts to qualify him as a bionic man.

Josh said, “It’s okay. I can do stairs. If I take it easy.” Real easy, one step at a time, thinking on it before you tried kind of easy. Why he was even contemplating following Colton up the damn steps was another issue entirely.

The stairway did a dog leg. They paused at the landing and angled themselves for the final push. Marcus grunted and wavered unsteadily. Behind him Josh set his hands on the man’s hips and guided him in the right direction. It didn’t help the stairwell was dark as pitch with only a lone twenty-five watt nightlight in the overhead casting weak lumens on the scarred wood door.

Marcus asked, “Why you doing this?”

Grinning, Josh replied, “Friends don’t let friends climb drunk.”

“You said we weren’t friends.”

“I lied.” He nudged Marcus forward, guiding him the rest of the way.

The inside was about what Josh expected—a large open space that at one time probably was used for storage of inventory. Near as he could recollect, the building was one of the original from when Centurion was founded in the mid-eighteen hundreds. The town sat in the low ridges tumbling east of the Snowys. Back in the day it acted like a fork in the road, the wagon trains splitting off to head northwest toward Oregon or nearly due West to the California promise of a new life and untold riches.

The store had history carved into its very bones. Marcus had made himself part and parcel of it, yet upstairs the package of store keeper and monument seemed incomplete, like a hasty add-on, especially in the loft with the furniture arranged haphazardly. Like he’d just moved in and had yet to figure out the best placement, keeping the pieces tucked in tight and leaving bare the darker edges of the cavernous space.

To his credit it was spit-polish, eat off the floors clean. He expected young Petilune had something to do with that. If Marcus was anything like him, housekeeping probably wasn’t a high priority. The boxes piled neatly around the periphery of the room spoke to the young girl’s sense of order, though in truth it was probably more an indication of Marcus’ unwillingness to commit. The man had been living at the store for a few years. Perhaps living wasn’t the right term... squatting seemed more like it.

Of course, it was none of his business, after all. But that didn’t mean he was willing to shut off trying to learn what he could about the older man who offered friendship and perhaps a glimpse into something personal he wasn’t sharing with the rest of the world. A man’s space tended to be like that. It said things about who you were and how you dealt with shit. Colton’s loft—barren as it was of the particulars, the personal stuff that sometimes revealed your secrets—wasn’t forthcoming like that. The vibe was temporary, vacant like a blank stare, and that alone had a lot to say if you had a discerning eye. It was a skill he’d honed in the military, zoning in on what fit, what didn’t.

The loft didn’t fit Marcus Colton, not at all. Downstairs, with the stacks of grain and the tools and their stark practicality, that bit of real estate was fine. On that stage Marcus was fine. But up here, there was a piece of the man missing. Josh couldn’t put his finger on it, and it annoyed him.

Marcus stared at him, maybe expecting a compliment, so Josh said, “Nice place. Big.”

There was a table with an assortment of kitchen appliances: a toaster oven, coffee maker, electric fry pan. Underneath the table, plastic boxes with the lids cracked revealed ceramic plates and cooking utensils laid out for easy access. He accidentally backed into a freestanding utility shelf holding canned goods, bread and other foodstuff. Marcus darted behind the tottering unit and kept it from toppling to the floor.

“Shit, damn it, I’m sorry.” Josh cringed. Maybe it was time to go. Being here served no purpose. He’d seen the man up to his... home. Damn, could he even call it that? He’d been at drover camps with more amenities and sense of refuge than this hovel.

Marcus disappeared into the murky recesses, then returned with the coffee carafe filled with water. He held it up. “Coffee?”

“Thanks, no. I’m fine.”

Marcus waggled a finger. “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”

“I ain’t drunk.” Josh was but if he had to, he could walk the five or so miles back to his sister’s place. If she was still awake, she’d give him a lift to the ranch, or at least put him up in the cabin out by the creek. And give him meds, lots of them.

Ignoring him, Marcus poured the water into the well, inserted a filter and measured out a few scoops of coffee from a tin that magically appeared from somewhere under the table. Bending down, he fished around in a box and emerged holding up an unopened bottle of booze.

“Marcus, don’t you think...”

The man grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. Josh had rarely seen him smile like that, all toothy and so pleased with himself he seemed like a naughty elf hell bent on getting into trouble. Some men were ugly drunks, mean and ornery, looking for a pissing contest and too often finding one. Marcus was the exact opposite. A man didn’t get to use the term endearing very often, but with Marcus it was perfect. Perfect and sort of cute.

Josh tried not to think too hard on how Colton made him feel. He’d sensed a kindness in the man, a level-headed approach to life that was shot through with sympathy for others’ plights. Hell, he’d taken on Petilune, and given how the town was unravelling in hard times, he doubted the store could support the extra hand. Yet Marcus had done the right thing and seen to the girl’s safety.

Sometimes Becca overheard stuff, gossip from the old crones who could level a barrage of criticism that’d rival suppressing fire from a unit on the move. What she’d heard about the kid’s mother curled his toes, making him think on social services, though that was a last resort if truth be told. There’d been a fair amount of concern in town so when Marcus had stepped up, the biddies had zipped their collective lips but not their eagle eyes.

When he got home, he’d be sure to share with his sister Marcus’ worry over the kid dating a stranger, if that was indeed the case instead of a convenient way to put off further questioning. However it turned out, it never hurt to line a man’s pocket with additional good will, especially in a small town like Centurion.

The smell of fresh coffee mingled with the heady scent of whiskey. Marcus had set a sugar bowl on the counter. Dried creamer and the liquor bottle nestled side-by-side in a strangely pleasant way, all three condiments dueling for pride of place in the steaming mugs of dark roast.

Marcus shoved the mug toward Josh. He said, “Casual friends,” and followed that by picking up the bottle and waggling it. “Or good friends?”

Josh bit his lip, then asked, “Is this a test?” Before Marcus could answer he barked, “Wait, hang on. I think I got this.” He took the whiskey from Marcus and poured a dollop into his mug, then the other man’s. Holding his own mug up, he intoned, “To best friends,” and took a sip.

Toasting their new bond, Marcus said between swallows, “Let’s sit on the couch. Now that we’re... What’s the term? BFFs? It’s time you spill about that favor you need from me.”

Josh wasn’t sure he wanted to impose on a friendship that still had that new car smell. When he’d been driven to the edge and knew that his sister and her kids’ futures rested on him coming up with a solution to their dilemma, it seemed a hell of a lot easier to approach Colton, the proprietor, and ask for some extra time. But Marcus, the newly minted best friend, was a whole other situation.

The proprietor could say no and Josh would understand. Business was business, it was nothing personal. He’d already been to the banks and the loan companies, making all the rounds in the vague hope that the last piece of hardscrabble dirt they owned was enough to rate some consideration. What he hadn’t realized was how it’d gotten mortgaged to the hilt, his parents doing what needed done to see to his surgeries and a future he’d gladly have given up... if he’d only known.

Now he’d worked down his list to plan zed, bottom of the barrel. He’d finally gotten up the courage to shove his pride where the sun don’t shine, opening that door, only to find his plans once more derailed. Two minutes with Marcus had tossed everything he thought he knew right out the damn window, turning a stranger into a friend. A friend he needed a favor from.

It was one thing to ask a buddy to come water the house plants or to feed the horses for a couple days, but it was an order of magnitude different to ask for something when the outcome might harm a man’s bottom line. And a friend being forced into a decision where a no was the only logical answer put both of them at a disadvantage. Even worse, a friend manipulated into saying yes risked more than the consequences of offering a hand. It risked trust and that was a commodity too hard to come by in Josh’s book.

He was already the source of all their problems, not that he’d done anything intentionally. But there was no reason why his run of bad luck should bulldoze everybody and everything he cared about.

There was no place to set the mug, so Josh leaned down and placed it on the floor, moving gingerly to avoid cramping. By the time he was upright and considering how he was going to exit the trap of soft, saggy cushions, Marcus had placed a hand on his arm, gently but firmly holding him in place.

“I’m listening, Josh.”

The man had no idea how that simple touch set his alarms ringing. Whenever he thought he had his symptoms under control, something innocuous, like a friend extending a kindness, would light him up and rocket him back in time. He hated losing it, hated what it did to those around him, forcing them to tippy-toe around him, having them forever fearful of triggering the dam break.

He lived his life in saturation—mostly of colors and sound. Sometimes a scent or a movement caught out of the corner of his eye would bring on the sweats and the gnawing ache that pummeled his gut. He’d want to run and wasn’t that the biggest joke? When it lit him up, running was the very last thing he could do, his body shutting down and making a mockery of the effort when he tried.

From a great distance he listened to the drone...

Tell me what to do. Josh? I don’t know what to do. How can I help?

You can’t Marcus, I wish you could but you can’t...

The shrinks and the groups chattered in the background, useless. Senseless. Only one thing mattered. Only one person mattered.

“Drink this. Come on, Josiah. Focus on this one thing. You can do it.”

“One thing?” Josh wondered if that was possible.

“Yes. Just one. Then you can stop thinking about anything at all. Is it a deal?”

Josh sipped. The water was cold. That shocked him into awareness. How did Marcus get icy cold, delicious water up to his attic, to the hidey-hole where he drank his whisky in the dark of night?

Alone.

Marcus was alone. Like him.

Josh croaked, “Good, that’s good. Thank you.”

He shut his eyes and rested his neck against the back of the sofa. It felt nice. Warm and welcoming, much like Marcus. The need to apologize, to justify and explain, hit like a runaway train, but Marcus murmured words that slowly made sense, assuring him it was all good, he was all right. All he needed to do was let it go.

For the first time in forever, he believed...

––––––––

M
arcus groaned and stretched, his back in knots from slumping in the old recliner. From somewhere in the recesses of his space he heard the toilet flush and the truncated “Shi—” as Josh’s head connected with the low beam under the eave where he’d set up a makeshift bathroom.

When he’d moved into the loft, the one concession he’d made to his comfort was installing plumbing, tying it into the store’s restroom directly below. What he hadn’t considered was having a guest Josh’s size. The man hulked out at six-three if he was an inch. Add cowboy boots and a hangover and the combination made for a concussion-prone zone. Not something he worried about with his modest five-ten frame.

It was the mirror that was his danger zone. That and the receding hairline and advancing gut and knowing he was fast-forwarding when all he wanted was to apply the brakes. Kind of an oxymoron when he thought about it. With Tommy gone, he’d done nothing but pine for what had been, drowning himself in memories, yet at the same time trying to wipe them out so he wouldn’t have to hurt so much.

Josh appeared, looking like Marcus felt, and waved a bottle of aspirin, his face in a grimace. “Sorry for snooping. Found this under the sink. How many you want?”

“Four. There’re some bottles of water on the shelf. Juice too, if you want.”

Watching the man maneuver around the cluttered area, his movements slow and awkward, gave Marcus time to think about the night before when the big man had damn near convulsed and gone somewhere inside his head. It was like he’d been skipping over thin ice, punching through, then recovering, only to repeat it over and over.

Marcus wasn’t afraid to admit he’d been scared, worried, and damn near helpless. It’d been too much like being with Tommy those last days, looking at how something alien had taken over his lover’s body, eating him from the inside out. They’d told him... No, the doctors and nurses, all the specialists and social workers had
assured
him... Assured him Tommy was as comfortable as they could make his final weeks, days and hours.

Somehow, watching his man suffer, seeing the pain in his eyes, pain he hid with a brave smile and a
don’t worry cuz
, pain he refused to share in a final act of love... That wasn’t comfort, and it was wrong, just plain wrong.