The Old Man's Back in Town

Copyright

The Old Man’s Back in Town

Copyright © 2013 by Ann Charles

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or hereafter invented, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

Cover Design by Sharon Benton

Illustrations by C.S.Kunkle

First Edition

E-book ISBN: 978-1-62528-993-3

Ann Charles, Author

Email:
[email protected]

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All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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The Old Man’s Back in Town

Ann Charles

AUTHOR NOTE: This short story is a bit of a puzzle. Each scene is a different variation of the same story for a reason, which you’ll learn at the end. See if you can pick up on the clues along the way and figure out the puzzle before you finish the story. Thank you for giving it a try!

—Ann

Goldwash, Nevada

December 24th

Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh.

“Would you turn off that Christmas crap and help me clean up all this blood?” I said, throwing a wet rag at my cousin Buffalo as he nursed a mug of beer at the end of the bar.

Buffalo dodged the rag. “Jeez, Montana, can’t you let a man enjoy a nostalgic moment? Where’s your holiday spirit?”

“I think I flushed it the other night after you came by bearing green and red M&Ms and spiked eggnog.” I dragged the bucket of sudsy water over to the pool of blood, pulling the stools out on each side of Buffalo.

Damn, there was a lot of blood.

The ammonia in my mop water smelled almost clinical, reminding me of a hospital room, blocking out the coppery tang as the red mop-head creaked and swooshed.

He chuckled. “Girl, you really need to find some new friends.”

“And family.” I poked him in the ribs, making him grunt mid-drink. “I’m closing the bar early tonight. You can either help me with this mess or drag your sorry ass home to that pitifully fat bulldog of yours.”

“Leave Brunhilda out of this.” Buffalo wiped the beer foam moustache from his upper lip with the sleeve of his brown thermal shirt. “So, how did all of this blood get here, anyway?”

I paused, replaying the night’s events. Things had been a little hectic with the drunken caroling and smooching under the mistletoe, making everything jumble together in my memory. Since The Ugly Rooster was the only watering hole in over a fifty-mile radius, the annual holiday party lured in the wild life from the nearby ranges and basins in droves.

“I can’t remember. It just kind of appeared.” Yet cleaning it up felt like momentary déjà vu.

“How can you not remember this much blood? You must be getting daft from old age.”

Sure, all of my thirty-six old years. “You have two years on me, remember?”

“Yeah, but unlike you, I’m getting wiser.”

“Wiser? Weren’t you the one who broke your arm earlier this year wrestling with your neighbor’s pig?”

“There’s a rational explanation for that.”

I grinned, “Yeah, but you lost the bet, and then your girlfriend left you for the winner.”

“That woman was nuttier than a squirrel turd. Her leaving was my good fortune.”

I couldn’t have agreed more, especially after hearing she’d knocked Buffalo out cold with a cast iron skillet during one of her drunken fits.

“It just confirmed what I’d told you all along,” he continued. “She wasn’t the ‘one’ for me.”

“Right. I suppose you’re sticking with Brunhilda being your one-and-only still?”

“Well, she is the prettiest girl in this dusty pit stop. Except for you, of course, but kissin’ my cousin doesn’t pop my pup-tent.”

“Thank the Maker for that. Now help me clean up this blood or get the hell out of my bar.”

Buffalo hopped off his seat and started wiping down the legs of the stools. “What has you so ornery lately, Monty?” he asked. “You used to dig the holidays, putting up little trees all over in here, decorating the old joint with colored lights. Ever since Joel left for Vegas, you—”

I stopped mopping mid-swish. “This has nothing to do with that son of a bitch.”

“Right. I see you’re still ‘over him’ almost four months later.”

“If only I had the power to turn men into dung beetles.”

“Joel always could charm the skin off a snake.”

With just a wink and a grin that bastard certainly had made me rise up and dance a good too many times to count.

Leaning on the mop, I frowned down at the wet, scarred up wooden floor. “Honestly, it’s not Joel that has me feeling pissy. I have a gut feeling that something isn’t quite right out there tonight.”

“It’s just the wind. You never did like it when it howled. Remember when you were a little pissant and you’d hide under the bed during sand storms? Your mom would have to lure you out with Snickerdoodles.”

My eyes watered for a split-second, remembering my momma and her sweet, coaxing smile. It had been her idea to name me Montana, after her home state. Momma had said my big blue peepers had reminded her of Big Sky country as soon as I shot out of the womb and blinked them open.

“Yeah, maybe it’s just the wind,” I said. “But I’d feel safer at home.”

“Is this about those calls you’ve been getting with all that heavy breathing?”

Maybe. “Nah, that’s just some stupid kid screwing around.”

“I still think you should tell the sheriff about them. If not the calls, then at least he needs to know about all of this blood.”

“Enough about the blood. It’s all gone.” I dipped the mop-head in the red water. “All the sheriff will do is tell me to file a report and change my number. The calls will go away if I just keep ignoring them.”

“Fine, don’t listen to me, like usual.” He leaned against the bar, watching me rinse the mop-head. “So what makes you think you’re safer alone at home?”

“My 12-gauge.”

He laughed. “You want me to bring my forty-five over to spend Christmas with your shotgun?”

“Thanks.” I squeezed his shoulder. “But I’m not good company tonight. Too many memories. I need to re-align my chakras or some crap like that.”

“Have you been reading those books full of motivational mumbo-jumbo again?”

I shook my head. “Somebody keeps carving quotes on my bathroom stall doors.”

The bell over the door jingled.

“Bar’s closed,” I hollered.

“Even for an old friend?” The deep voice raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

I turned slowly, gripping the mop handle to keep from falling over.

“Well, well, well,” Buffalo said. “Look what Santa brought you, Monty, a hunka-hunka burnin’ heartache. You must have been naughty this year.”

Joel Andersen closed the door, silencing the wail of a Nevada winter gale.

My eyes narrowed as Joel strolled closer. His black hair was ruffled from the wind, his chin covered with dark stubble. The lines bracketing his eyes showed a tension that his big, easy grin couldn’t hide.

Of all of the gin joints in all the tumbleweed-choked towns in the world, he strolled into mine. “I said the bar’s closed.”

“I heard you, Shooter.” He used my childhood nickname like he still had a right to, the jerk. He patted Buffalo on the back. “How’s the restoration coming along, Buffalo?”

Buffalo was in the process of fixing up the historic Goldwash Grand Hotel. A dilapidated monument of Goldwash’s prosperous past, the old brick hotel had been left to decay under the harsh desert sun for over forty years along with the rest of the town after the last of the gold had been hauled away.

“When I’m not tied up in historical committee red tape, it’s great. How are those Vegas lights?”

“Twinkling,” Joel answered, but his emerald-colored eyes held mine captive, fire burning in their depths like usual when he planned to woo my pants right off of me. “Always twinkling.”

My heart shook off a layer of dust and started to pitter-patter, the damned lonely traitor.

There went my plans for a sober Christmas Day.

“What do you want?” I asked, not mincing words.

His gaze trailed down the front of my green T-shirt, old blue jeans, and landed on my red cowboy boots. “I missed you, too, Montana. Got your Miss Claus getup on, I see.”

“Go back to Vegas.” I dragged the mop bucket across the floor and kicked it into the corner. “You’re not welcome ‘round here anymore.”

And here I’d had the silly notion that I was over the pain of his leaving me. The grinding sensation chewing away in my chest called me on that lie.

“Come on, Shooter. Is that any way to treat a guy just out of the cold on Christmas Eve? Where’s your holiday spirit?”

“She flushed it down the toilet,” Buffalo said, hooking a stool with his boot for Joel to sit next to him just like old times.

“Can it, Buffalo.” I moved behind the bar, pouring myself a shot of whiskey, my trembling hand itching to throw the amber liquor in Joel’s face. How dare he just show up on my doorstep after months of silence? Months! He could have at least sent a postcard. Or called to let me know he was still alive.

Hold up.
Maybe Joel was the heavy breather who had kept calling me this past week.

I glared at him. “If you’re the jackass who’s been harassing me on the phone, you can knock that shit off.”

His brow wrinkled. “Harassing you how?”

After several seconds of staring him down, I bought into his innocence. “Never mind.”

“Have you told the sheriff about it?”

“She refuses to tell your brother,” Buffalo answered for me. “She’s still more stubborn than smart. That hasn’t changed since you left.”

“She never has liked change much,” Joel said, watching me like I might drop my glass and draw on him. “That’s why it took so long to get her to stop thinking of me as just an old friend and go out on a date.”

And look what happened when I did. My heart had been flattened like road kill.

That was enough reminiscing for a Christmas Eve. Next they’d want to start singing Bing Crosby and Danny-freaking-Kaye tunes. “You both need to get out of my bar before I fill you full of holes.”

“She’s bluffing,” Buffalo said. “She just told me her shotgun is at home.”

“How about one drink for old times’ sake?” Joel suggested, leaning his elbows on the bar. His grin said good times, but his eyes warned of something darker.

I slammed back the shot, thunking the glass down on the bar. The whiskey burned a trail all the way to my boot heels. “There. Consider that drink done had. Lock the door on your way out.”

Without another word, I pushed through the swinging half-doors that led back to my office where I planned to hide until Joel went back to Vegas and took his heartbreaking eyes with him.

The bastard didn’t let me make it that far.

“Montana,” Joel said from behind me, his tone no longer full of jest. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m busy,” I called over my shoulder without slowing. “Stop back next year sometime.”

He caught my arm. “This can’t wait.”

“Really?” I whirled on him. “After months of dead silence, you suddenly feel chatty? I don’t think so. Go home to your fancy Vegas condo and leave me be.”

I tugged my arm free, stormed into my office, and tried to slam the door behind me. But his foot screwed up my grand exit, sneaking in between the door and frame, keeping me from locking him out of my office and my life.

He shoved his way inside, closed the door, and leaned against it.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I hit him with a double-barreled glare. “We have nothing left to say to each other, Joel.”

“I’m not here because of us.”

I took a step back. Damn, that stung. If there was one thing I could always count on from Joel, before and after we’d started having knock-my-boots-off sex, it was his brutal honesty. “Yeah, well, there is no ‘us’ anyway, so that point is moot.”

“You are such a lousy liar,” he said, his smirk making a show. “But we’ll get to that later.”

There wasn’t going to be an “us” involved with “later” as far as I was concerned. My heart was still duct taped from last time.

“You’ve got trouble coming your way,” he said, all serious.

“Yeah, I’m looking at it.”

“You’re going to wish it was just me.” His face hardened. “Your ex-husband escaped from prison a week ago.”

What!
“Are you serious?” He nodded and my knees wobbled. “Oh, shit.”

Joel grabbed me as I started to fold, leading me to the old silver couch I used as a bed when I was too tired—or drunk—to make it home. He kneeled in front of me, pushing my long bangs out of my eyes. He smelled like the desert, all fresh and spicy, yet sweet and earthy—his scent. I wanted to wrap it around me, to roll around in it like a wild horse in a spring meadow, and forget about my ex out from behind bars, free to kill again.

“Who escapes from prison in this day and age?” I asked.