Clay’s truck was not a beater, but it was old. It’d been old when he bought it to drive out west, when he and his dad had fixed it up together. That it was a bright lemon yellow and was developing tiny spots of rust over the wheel wells meant it wasn’t likely to be stolen, so he always left the keys in the ignition, like Leland often did.
Swinging into the driver’s seat, Clay buckled himself in, started the engine, and tapped the steering wheel as he listened to the engine ping as it warmed up. He would fill up near the interstate and get this errand over as quickly as possible.
“You got something loose in that engine of yours.”
Clay turned his head to see Quint McKay, the ranch’s trail boss, looking at him with appraising eyes from beneath a sharp-edged black felt cowboy hat.
Quint was the guy Clay never wanted to mess with, let alone ask to the Rusty Nail to be his wingman while he got his rocks off. Not that Quint was an asshole or anything, but he’d been around the block a time or two, it seemed like, and never suffered fools easily. Plus, he was older, older than Leland, and though good looking in a handsome, solid way, was not to Clay’s tastes, so he’d never even considered flirting with him.
Sometimes when Quint was looking at him, Clay felt a bit like a fool. Though in reality, while Quint seemed too distant to easily be friends with, he’d never been other than polite to Clay.
“Yeah, I know,” said Clay. “I looked in there and poked around last week, but couldn’t see what was going on.”
“You want me to take a look?”
“I would, but I’ve got an errand for Leland.” Clay nodded his thanks. “Maybe when I get back?”
“Just let me know,” said Quint. “I have the tools, so at least we can figure it out even if you have to take it to a garage. At least you’ll know what to tell them so they don’t overcharge you.”
“Appreciate it,” said Clay. “All right, I’m off.”
As Clay backed up his truck carefully, so as not to run Quint, or anyone, over, Quint did not ask where Clay was headed, didn’t seem the least bit interested. But that was like Quint, who, like Jasper, preferred to keep to himself. According to Leland, who had been hired by Bill when Quint didn’t want to be the ranch’s manager any longer, some years Quint worked year round, keeping the roads to the ranch clear during winter. Other years, Quint went off, though to where, nobody knew.
As for now, Clay trundled down the dirt and gravel road to the gate, let himself through, carefully locking the gate behind him, and zoomed as fast as he could to the interstate where he stopped at a Flying J truck stop to fill up. He also grabbed a small bag of Bugles and a large fountain drink Coke, just to tide him over while he drove to Thornton, where the accountant was.
Sucking on his straw and putting each Bugle on his pinkie before eating it helped keep him entertained for the first hour. The second hour, it started to rain. Traffic, just about the time he hit Johnson’s Corner where the best cinnamon rolls known to man were to be found, got thick as it started to rain hard.
It was the kind of rain that was brisk enough to rinse the film off the roads and make everything slippery. Clay knew better than to speed, though it rankled that he had to get in the slow lane to let the idiots who didn’t know any better pass him by.
He didn’t stop at Johnson’s Corner though he wanted to, but kept trundling along, adjusting his windshield wipers as needed, and wished he’d not drunk all of his Coke so fast. I-25 was a highway constantly under construction, especially in summer, so there were several lane changes, several close calls with the concrete highway barriers, and by the time he pulled off at Exit 219, he heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe on the way back he’d take Highway 85, which was more in the country, more to his liking.
The Motel 6 was easy to find, an L-shaped structure with metal doors painted bright blue to match the garish sign. Everything else was painted the same bland cream. Clay pulled up to the office, squinting through the rain. He should have called the number Leland had given him to let Austin Marsh know he was on the way, but even as he pulled out his cell phone to enter the number, someone stepped out of the front office, pausing beneath the small overhang.
The guy put down one of his boxy suitcases to wave at Clay, which was puzzling until it became obvious that Leland must have called to alert Austin Marsh what Clay’s truck looked like. When the guy, Austin, picked up his suitcase and re-hefted his dark green backpack over his shoulder, he stepped out into the rain. Like it wasn’t raining. Or, from the expression on his face, like it didn’t matter that it was raining.
He was on the tall side, with dark ginger hair. He was wearing a thin windbreaker type jacket and plain beige trousers, and everything he wore was getting splatted with oblong black raindrops as he stood there.
“Hey,” said Clay as he got out of the truck and hustled to the guy’s side. “You’re Austin Marsh, right? I’m Clay. Clay Pullman. I’m your ride. Did Leland call you?”
“Hello,” said Austin as he shook Clay’s hand. His voice was low and soft, not shy, but diffident, as if he felt he’d arrived at a party to which he’d not been invited. He looked at the truck, eying it up and down. “Are you from the ranch?” he asked. Then he added in a way that told Clay that Austin was only confirming this detail out of his habit of attending to details, being he was an accountant, after all. “Where will we put my luggage? It’s raining.”
“Yeah, I’m Clay,” said Clay. “Nice to meet you. Leland sent me to pick you up, and I’ve got a tarp. We can store everything under that, but we better hurry before the clouds really break loose.”
Austin looked at Clay with careful eyes, eyes that were a moss green shade, made darker by the color of his hair. He shrugged, moving his broad shoulders beneath the helplessly inadequate windbreaker and nodded like he was all in, but didn’t much care about what happened to him now.
Clay hurried to grab one suitcase, and together they stowed the two suitcases in the truck bed before covering them with a tarp, which Clay tied down with bungee cords.
“Your backpack?” asked Clay, holding out his hand.
“It’s got my computer and backup disk. My paints,” said Austin. “I’ll keep it with me, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” said Clay. “Hop aboard.”
As Clay got into the driver’s seat, he didn’t ask why Austin had so little with him. Of course, as Leland had mentioned, Austin’s ex-wife had taken his car so maybe she’d taken a whole bunch else, as well. Or maybe Austin preferred to travel light.
Clay wanted to know all about the divorce, which sounded messy and interesting, but it wasn’t polite to dig like that. Besides, Austin seemed a quiet kind of fellow who was loaded down with memories he couldn’t bear thinking about.
“How long till we get there?” asked Austin as he placed his backpack between his feet and buckled himself in.
