All of which were thoughts he let fly free, rather than focusing on the unanswerable question of what the energy running at that moment between him and Blaze could be labeled as. Nothing, that’s what. All his imagination, and besides, it was time for dinner.
“Grab your towel and those socks,” said Gabe. “You can drape the towel over a chair while we eat.”
Blaze followed Gabe out of the Quonset hut, patiently waiting while Gabe latched the double doors. Then he followed Gabe to the mess tent, perfectly silent, though it looked like he wanted to ask Gabe why he kept fussing with his damp towel. At which point Gabe would explain about how mold grew in dampness, and how it was easier to launder towels if they weren’t also caked with mold. Which would have been a great conversation to distract Gabe, settle the odd jitter beneath his breastbone.
They arrived at the mess tent, and Kurt and Wayne and Tom had all been served and were just about to eat. At the sight of Gabe, they paused, looking at him with wide eyes.
“We were just about to start,” said Wayne at the same time Tom said, “The food was hot.”
“Not to worry,” said Gabe, coming over to them. “We should have been quicker to get here.”
Del was already on his way with the rolling cart that held two covered dishes. Gabe sat down in the empty seat near the still and silent buffet line, and Blaze, after he draped his towel on an empty chair, sat down across from him, grasping his cutlery in his graceful hands, then shifting back on the bench seat as Del placed one of the covered dishes in front of him, and then one in front of Gabe.
Gabe looked around as he unwrapped his own cutlery, rolled in a napkin, and smiled as Del made an overly dramatic gesture and uncovered both of the covered dishes at once. It was then that Gabe realized why the others had been unable to wait.
On the plate were three street tacos stuffed with meat and cheese. Swirls of grilled onion and fresh green onion sat snuggly on the plate with a mass of homemade refried beans and a pile of aromatic Spanish rice. And for a moment he forgot himself because, quite simply, he loved to eat.
Food in the army had always seemed a half-assed affair, but food at the guest ranch had always been excellent and it looked like food in the valley was going to be just as good, maybe even better. Though as he looked up at the four parolees, he wondered if they thought that this meal was a fluke and that the rest of their stay would be fortified by generic cans of creamed corn, frozen tater tots, hastily baked without enough salt, or dehydrated milk with enough water added to it to make it turn blue.
“Eat up, guys,” said Gabe, pulling up one taco and inhaling the warmth and spices. He took a bite and hummed, maybe to show them how to enjoy their meals, or simply to show them that yes, the taco was amazing.
It took a little while for the parolees to start enjoying their meals as if they were not ex-cons freshly out of prison, that their lives had not been a Humpty-Dumpty mess up until this point. They would get used to abundance in time. Also, in time, perhaps they would get used to actually using their napkins, rather than crumpling them up after unrolling their silverware.
They finished dinner mostly in silence, but there were murmurs of enjoyment over the cinnamon and sugar churros. As well, the parolees copied Gabe’s movements as he took his own plate and scraped off what little remained before placing the plate and cutlery and his plastic glass in the bussing tub that the cooks had left out for them.
Of course, the parolees had probably all bussed their trays in prison, having eaten cafeteria style, but Gabe, were he a betting man, could have bet real money that even if in the past they all had left something on their trays, they wouldn’t be doing that moving forward, the food was just that good.
“What do we do now, boss?” asked Blaze, being bold, moving to the front of the little group, hands in his pockets, a toss to his head to show he knew how flirty he was being.
“Whatever you’d like,” said Gabe, almost laughing at the shocked look on the men's faces, as though he’d yanked the floor out from under them, and the drop to any hard surface was about thirty thousand feet. “Too soon,” said Gabe, half laughing to himself. “How about a little bonfire?” he asked. “The fire pit by the lake is ready for use, though the path is a little rugged. Why don’t you grab your jackets and flashlights—”
“What do we need jackets for?” asked Kurt, in the rude way that every statement he made seemed to have.
“It can get chilly in early spring,” said Gabe. He made a mental note to talk to Jasper, who had experience at this sort of thing, whether it was okay to simply not like someone you’d just met, because in this case, Gabe was supposed to remain neutral, but that was already proving to be impossible. “You’ll be glad of it when the sun goes down, especially. As for me, I’ll grab some wood and kindling.”
“Get mine for me for me, would you, Tom?” asked Blaze. “And take this?” He held out his towel, which Tom took. Then Blaze turned to Gabe, his mouth in a tender curve as though he were on the verge of smiling, but was holding back. “I thought I’d give you a hand. I like bonfires.”
As Tom and the others strode off to their tents, Blaze looked at Gabe, sweet-faced and not at all like a man freshly out of prison. Which, according to what Gabe had learned, could be a warning that Blaze was about to shift gears and become a little mean, which parolees could sometimes do, as it was said, to test the waters, to test their own strengths now that freedom was at hand.
It didn’t feel like that, though. There was no meanness shifting from Blaze’s stance, no sense of menace or malice.
“Sure,” said Gabe, pleased at the offer, enjoying the moment between them.
He had to make himself start moving rather than doing whatever it was he was doing—looking at Blaze like they could be friends, that something more could grow between the two of them. Rather than what was supposed to happen, him guiding Blaze into a new life, with Blaze heading out on his own at the end of summer.
Together they tromped through the weeds in a mostly companionable silence, as if this wasn’t the first time they’d fetched wood for a fire together. On the other side of the Quonset hut, tucked between the hut and the small building that served as a kitchen, was the log rack, currently only one-third full, though Gabe hoped to remedy that with his team’s efforts.
“Grab about three or four logs, if you would,” said Gabe. “I’ll get the kindling and the matches.” The kindling was in a small cardboard box, which would hopefully soon be replaced with something larger and more waterproof. The matches were in the kitchen building, stored on a shelf just inside the door.
Then, walking along the half-trodden path to the fire pit, Gabe led the way, inhaling the air that was quickly growing cooler as the sun slanted in the sky, half hidden by pine trees. At the fire pit—an elegantly rustic arrangement of broad stones surrounded by unpainted Adirondack chairs—Gabe built the fire, making his movements slow so that Blaze could get an idea of how it was done.
Kneeling by his side, Blaze watched him with as much eagerness as a Boy Scout on the verge of getting his fire safety merit badge. The closeness between their bodies felt right, as if Blaze was someone he’d known and liked for a good long while.
But he shoved those thoughts aside as he finished building the fire, and by the time the flames flickered up like orange and gold plants waiting to grow, he realized that he needed his jacket, too.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “Keep an eye on this for me, will you?”
Perhaps the manual would have told him never to leave a newly sprung parolee in charge of a fire out in the middle of nowhere, but Gabe knew that second guessing himself every step of the way would only hamper the parolees’ transition into the real world. Besides, there was an honest glow of anticipation in Blaze’s eyes as he picked up a loose stick and moved closer to the stone circle, as if he was proud of being left in charge like he was.
