“He owns the Rusty Nail, which is the closest bar to the ranch.” Clay shook his head, his mouth thinning. “Looks like I can’t go back there until Eddie sells up or hell freezes over. So now it’s a bar in either Cheyenne or Chugwater and they’re at least half an hour’s drive. Not fun to drive that far late on a Saturday night.”
Considering this again shifted ideas in Austin’s head. He was going to Wyoming, to the middle of virtually nowhere, and now he learned that while Cheyenne and all its diversions were only half an hour away by car, the closest bar was run by someone cruel enough to smack the kitchen help around. As to what the rest of the bar was like, as to what the beer tasted like, he’d probably never get to find out now. Which might be more a blessing than not.
6
Clay
There was a part of Clay that always loved a good road trip, even though sometimes his hands grew numb on the wheel and the windshield wipers were going so fast it was giving him a headache. Just a little one, as he wasn’t prone to them, but enough to take some of the joy out of the experience. Plus, his passenger looked like he wanted to barf just about every other second, and while Ladybelle had seen worse than a little barf, he felt bad for the guy.
“Are you okay?” asked Clay. “We could stop an’ take a break.”
“No, thank you, I’m good,” said Austin in the way he’d said it before, like he was going to say it again and again, as many times as might make it true.
For all he was holding himself so narrow, Austin Marsh took up the whole passenger area of Clay’s yellow truck, and though his energy seemed low, and his beige windbreaker seemed too thin, there was something Clay couldn’t quite put his finger on. Or maybe that’s how he always felt when he met someone new. After all, Leland hadn’t been hiring much all that season, so it’d been a while since he’d met someone new. Of course, there was Ellis, but Ellis just was, somehow becoming part of the ranch the moment he set foot on the property.
“Do you hear that?” asked Austin, sitting up, attentive, like an unexpected thought had just occurred to him.
“What?” asked Clay.
“It’s coming from the engine.”
As though alerted to its own plight, the engine gave a loud shriek that went round and round, and though Clay’s hands were steady on the wheel, the truck yawed to the right.
Quickly, checking his rearview mirror, though it was impossible to see through the rain on the back window, Clay pulled over to the side of the road and turned the engine off. He could smell the effort the engine had given to get them that far, though that was eclipsed by the sudden realization that they’d broken down in the middle of nowhere. If Clay hadn’t been in the doghouse before, he certainly was now.
Though Leland wasn’t the kind of boss to throw his weight around, he was going to be more than displeased at Clay’s lack of maintenance and upkeep on Ladybelle, and the delay in bringing their new employee home.
“At least there’s no smoke coming up from the engine,” said Austin. “What do you think it is?”
“No idea—” started Clay, but he had to stop when there came a light rapping on the driver’s window from a highway patrolman dressed in rain gear who no doubt wanted Clay to move along. He rolled down his window, chest growing tight. “Hello, sir.”
“Hello, young man,” said the officer, whose badge indicated his name was Emmett Carvelle, badge 348. “Engine trouble?”
“Yes, sir,” said Clay, reaching for his wallet while he pointed at his glove compartment. Luckily, Austin seemed to know what he needed, for he clicked it open and started digging.
When Clay handed over his license and registration and insurance card, Patrolman Carvelle looked at it, rain dripping from his plastic-wrapped hat. Then Carvelle handed back the paperwork, which Clay blindly handed to Austin, who took it.
“I appreciate your troubles, sir, but you’re about three feet from the railroad tracks on one side,” said Patrolman Carvelle. “You’re also two inches from the edge of the road leading from the grain mill on the other. Sunday night is shipping night, so you’re going to have to move your truck before the bigger trucks start coming through.”
“Yes, sir,” said Clay, though he couldn’t think beyond this moment. He needed to move his truck. He needed to get his truck fixed. He needed to call Leland and let him know what the delay would be. And he needed to make sure the ranch’s new accountant didn’t end up standing in the rain, getting soaking wet.
“Who’s your passenger?” asked Carvelle, leaning down to gaze into the cab of the truck.
“I’m Austin Marsh,” said Austin, with a small, friendly wave, like he wasn’t bothered by the patrolman’s presence at all, not one bit, and all the while Clay’s heart was pounding. “Do you think you could help us with a tow?”
“Certainly.”
And with that one word, the patrolman was on his radio, talking to someone from R & B Auto and Diesel Repair. Within five minutes everything was arranged and the tow truck was on its way.
Clay squirreled the information away for future need, for he’d had no idea you could just ask a state cop for help like that. Maybe it had to do with their precarious position in the shipping lane of the grain mill. Or maybe it had to do with Austin’s confident air when he’d asked the question.
He looked at Austin and nodded his thanks, eyes wide. Austin nodded back and seemed to reassure Clay with a glance. Some guys were like that. They knew things like Leland did, and readily shared them. Clay absorbed everything Leland taught him, but sometimes, like now, he was still a little amazed at how easily things could go if you just spoke up.
“Thank you,” he said, remembering his manners. “I get a little, you know, flustered when I get pulled over.”
“Does that happen often?” asked Austin.
“Not so much as you might think, me being who I am,” said Clay, a bit rueful.
