The McClane Apocalypse: Book One (20 page)

“Sir, I think that we should go back to the road where we left our Hummer. If it’s still there, then we should hide it somewhere here on the farm. I think it could lead people here, maybe,” Kelly says looking to her grandfather for affirmation.

“Hm, I don’t know if anyone could find this place, but I agree it’s best to leave no stone unturned. We’ll take the tractor up there tomorrow and just haul it back here, hide it out back behind the pig barn with the car Reagan brought...” her grandfather doesn’t finish. Her family doesn’t speak of her escape from the university and they don’t usually slip. But she can’t get angry with him. It was just a mistake to bring up the professor’s car. She had asked them during her recovery not to bother her about any of it, the car included. She had just been glad to make it home alive and that was all that really mattered. Kelly looks confused, John does as well, but Derek hangs his head. Sue’s obviously told him. Reagan understands, though. Derek’s her husband, and Reagan knows they share everything.

And just like that, she’s back there again. Her palms begin to perspire and her cheeks flame. If she took her pulse, Reagan is sure it would be elevated. There’s a huge lump in her throat that she forcefully swallows, and her fingertips float up to touch there of their own will.

“Um, ok. Yeah, we’ll go up with you and help get it moved,” Kelly adds, filling in the uncomfortable silence that has fallen over the table.

When Reagan looks up, John is staring at her with a look of puzzlement and concern on his face.

“Is this meeting over?” she asks rudely, coming to a stand so abruptly that her chair almost falls over. She doesn’t wait for an answer but practically sprints from the room. She even clumsily bumps her arm into the doorframe and swears prolifically. Grams will just have to get her for that one later. She
had
bumped against her new stitches so maybe she’ll let it go. Fat chance.

***********

Early the next morning after the men return with the Hummer, Reagan reluctantly leads the two goliaths to the horse barn. It’s one of her favorite places on the farm. A barn cat scurries across the dirt floor in front of them and Kelly jumps. John laughs at him, of course, which earns him a punch to his shoulder. Barn swallows chirp happily and dive with lightning speed to catch bugs. The sunlight streams golden through the cracks in the walls, and dust twirls like a first snowfall all around them. It’s a place of solace for Reagan.

She can get lost in the smells alone of sweaty horse flesh, sweet grains, minty hay, leather. The sounds are just as dear to her: horses crushing their hay and grain between their huge teeth, stomping in their dusty stalls, nickering to each other. John and Kelly follow a few feet behind her, their heavy combat boots kicking up dust as they go. They are talking about the retrieval of their military vehicle and how it had appeared to have been ransacked. Pieces of the motor components had been taken out and the remaining gas syphoned, two of the windows broken out.

“I don’t like it that someone even came down that road, not the kind of people who would steal off of a military Hummer. Kind of close to the farm if you ask me,” John says.

“At least it’s off the road now. Don’t want anyone finding this place,” Kelly says to John.

“Yeah, we’re full up on guests,” Reagan mocks snidely over her shoulder. They both look away and at their feet apologetically. It almost makes her feel bad. Almost.

The big doors on the barn are open. In the summer they are always open to let the barn “breathe” as Grandpa puts it. It always creates a nice cross-wind down the wide main aisle. She’d caught two of the more mellow mares and her own gelding this morning and put them in stalls. Most of the time the horses are left to roam the thirty-four acre enclosed pasture nearest the horse barn. There is an attached overhang on the back end of the barn with a sheet metal roof for them to take shelter under when the weather turns bad. But they rarely make use of it. Horses are like that. They don’t care about a little rain or snow.

“So what’s first, boss?” John asks her and shoves his hand into the front pockets of his worn jeans. His plain, olive drab Army tee is already dirty from morning chores and helping with the move of their abandoned Hummer. It hangs loosely on him. He’s probably lost weight during the last months of the U.S. civil war.

“Boss?” he asks again when she doesn’t answer. She’d been in a daze thinking about his stupid, loose shirt. Her cheeks ignite as she gives him a definitive scowl.

“Let’s go to the tack room. Maybe I can teach you the difference between a stirrup and bridle,” she grinds out through her clenched teeth. She doesn’t miss the look that passes between the two men. “Unless you’ve shell shocked your brains to mush.” Let them think about that one.

“No, ma’am, our brems are just fine,” Kelly jokes. A crow, probably perched on the barn roof, squawks obnoxiously as if laughing at Kelly’s stupid joke. She hates crows, too. What a worthless, pain in the ass bird. The similarities between them and the men she’s about to train is not lost on her.

Once they are in the tack room, John stands next to Reagan as she patiently- or as patiently as she can manage- explains the different tack. Which bridle is for what horse and the differences in the variety of bits. Almost all of the saddles are Western style with the exception of an English and an Australian saddle. They project from the wall on racks she and Grandpa had built years before. She chooses two, seventeen inch seat Western saddles with thick trail riding padding and two gentle snaffle bit bridles and tells them to carry it all out and set them in the aisle. Reagan’s glad they are both gone. She takes a moment to breathe deeply a few times to relax. The eight by ten foot tack room with only one tiny window had felt as big as Grams’s linen closet upstairs in the farm house with the two huge men in it with her. She doesn’t like being in such tight quarters with them both. Her palms had grown sweaty, sticky. Too many damn bad memories, she supposes.

Taking her smaller, fifteen inch Australian saddle off of its rack she turns and rams it straight into John’s stomach which makes him grunt. Serves him right for being so sneaky. How’d he get back here again so fast?

“Thought I’d get yours for you. You know, with your arm still healing and all,” he explains. He looks directly into her eyes and grins. It’s unsettling for Reagan.

Her stitches are pulling and burning like hell, but she isn’t about to admit that to him. Her Australian saddle is actually heavier than the men’s Western saddles even though it’s smaller.

“I’m fine, and for the last time I don’t need or want your help. So move it,” she hisses. He snatches the heavy saddle out of her arms quick as a dirty, rotten thief, as if it weighs no more than a damn feather pillow.

“Too darn bad!” he growls back.

She stomps after him in a huff of anger and pride but doesn’t say anything more. Men and their stupid chivalry. Where does he actually think it is going to get him? She is never going to like him no matter how many damn saddles he carries for her.

“Ok, girls, the first thing you need to do is get a lead line,” she shows them where they are hanging on a steel hook attached to the oak wall. Then Reagan opens the heavy, wooden stall door with the black metal pipes along the top, letting it slide smoothly in its track. Harry, her bay gelding, is ready and waiting eagerly for her. He paws twice at the floor.

“Easy, big boy,” she coos gently. He responds by rubbing his wide forehead against her chest and shoulder effectively covering her black concert tee with pale gray dirt. Why are horses easier to understand than people?

“Just stand back and watch. I’ll show you how to tack up, and then I’ll help you do it with your own horses,” she explains. Reagan ties Harry to a cross tie in the wide aisle, shows them the safety release on the clip and tells them the what if’s of horse ties. “Sometimes, it’s rare, but sometimes a horse will freak out on you or rear up in the cross ties. So don’t let them hurt themselves or you. Just unsnap it as quickly as you can and try to get them calmed down. But don’t get yourself killed, either. If it gets out of control, let them go. The most they might do is run out into the yard. They are usually easy to catch and don’t go far. Just take a coffee can half full of grain out there and give it a few shakes. Horses can be responsive to food. And ours know that sound by heart.”

When she turns to look at them, they are both staring at her as if she’s telling them the most important thing they’ve ever heard. At least they pay attention. She goes through the equipment, showing them how to get the blanket and pad on the horse’s back in just the right positions and then the saddle. They even ask questions, which tells her they are still paying attention. Next, Reagan reaches under the big belly of Harry and hooks her finger through the cinch and pulls it fluidly under him to her side.

“See? Make sure it’s pressing smooth and flat on his belly. If you get it twisted, he’ll let you know real quickly by tossing your ass in the dirt.” They both look concerned.

She finishes showing them how to correctly cinch the saddle tight, explains the two finger tightness rule, and then goes over how to get the bit in the horse’s mouth correctly.

“Don’t clank it against his teeth. You’ll make them bit shy. Our horses are all good about taking their bits, so don’t fuck up or I’ll know.” She narrows her eyes on John who appears unfazed by her look. Damn him.

“Yes, boss. Don’t screw up, got it,” he kids with her and grins. She squints harder which for some strange reason makes Kelly laugh.

“Now, I’m gonna put Harry away, and you guys go get your horses. Don’t just open the door because they will sometimes run past you. That’s a pain in the ass, too. I’m not chasing your horse if it gets loose. So just remember to always block the door with your body. Make the horse come to you and hook onto her halter in the stall, then come out.”

Both men successfully come out with their horses. Kelly is taller than his horse. It’s almost comical. She thought she’d chosen the tallest mare they own, but maybe a draft horse is better suited to him.

“Kelly, why don’t you brush her down first and I’ll help... him get his horse saddled,” she says and angles a thumb toward John.

She stands next to John and tells him, “Now, Lady doesn’t like to be in the cross ties, so we just hook her on one side only. She gets spooky in the double.”

“Oh, I see. You gave me a freak, right?” John asks warily and raises one eyebrow at her. But he does snap her halter to just one of the hanging cross ties that is screwed into the tongue-and-groove oak wall. Grandpa had updated the horse barn for him and Reagan because it was always more of a loafing shed for cattle and sheep before he owned it. Now the cows have their own separate barn and the horses have nice stalls and all the areas a person needs to deal with them. There is even a wash bay near the tack room, but it is rarely used.

“No, idiot, I gave you Lady, and she’s a good enough horse for you. She just doesn’t like the cross ties ‘cuz she had a problem in them when she was young. Thus the lecture about cross ties earlier?” she chides with exasperation.

“Ok, boss,” he answers, still eyeing her. He cracks a lop-sided grin as usual.

“Plus, it’s either ride these two mares who are on the tall side or have your feet drag the ground, ya’ tall weirdoes,” she says as she picks up a curry comb and starts removing a layer of pasture-rolling dirt from Lady.

“Hm, seems like you’ve been checkin’ me out, if you ask me,” John says and raises an eyebrow at her.

“What? Get real. You and the giant over there are just freakishly tall,” she is quick to correct.

“Nah, you’re just freakishly little, boss,” he teases quietly so as not to be overheard by Kelly.

“I’m big enough to kick your ass, so you better watch it,” Reagan comes back. “And... I’m not short.”

“Well, I’m no expert doctor like yourself, Doc, but you aint exactly tall, either.” His smartass, condescending tone pisses her off to no end. She’d like to punch him or ram her saddle into his gut again.

“Whatever. Just put the blanket on and then the pad and saddle,” she commands more loudly than she wishes to. He does what she says surprisingly well. But it doesn’t stop her from criticizing his every move. Luckily for him, though, he doesn’t back-talk her. He’s patient, too patient. It’s just plain annoying.

“Ok, now the cinch,” she snaps. Reagan steps forward to correct him as he pulls the cinch strap through the cinch ring backward and twisted. She just takes it from him impatiently.

“Oops, yeah I put that through the wrong way, didn’t I? I can do it, boss. Seriously, I can do it. Give it to me,” he says finally losing his own patience and places his hand on top of hers to take back the strap from her. She inhales sharply, her heartbeat skips erratically in her chest.

It stuns her to the core. An instant panic attack hits her, and she literally loses it. Nobody ever touches her; everyone knows better. She can’t stand being touched and sure as hell isn’t going to tolerate it from a strange man. Especially one John’s size. Being helped around the house when she was too weak from blood loss was one thing, but this is intentional, unwanted touching. Using moves she’s studied recently in a book on evading an attacker, Reagan yanks her hand back while lightning quick smacking down his other hand. John doesn’t even have time to react, and she gives a huge, forceful slap-shove to his center chest with both hands. He’s visibly and physically stunned and staggers backward one full step before regaining his balance. She’d shoved hard, but he doesn’t fall.

Before she can stop herself, Reagan’s hand is on the butt of her thigh pistol. Because she is wearing black riding pants that fit very snugly she is able to still wear her thigh holster. John raises both of his hands, palms toward her in supplication. Her teeth clatter audibly, and her hands tremble with fear.

“Hey, what’s going on over there?” Kelly calls and starts toward them. Reagan’s heart is pounding in her ears. Her free hand finds its way of its own volition to her abdomen and brushes over the scars hidden under her shirt.