The day wore on as Garrett placed the few mementos he found in the trunk of his rental. He opened the freezer and took out another premade meal his grandfather insisted on making. The date on the container marked the contents as three weeks old. He microwaved it to thaw, then placed the ingredients in the oven to bake. The smell of freshly roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and garden-fresh green beans filled the air.
Garrett smiled as he recalled his grandfather teaching him how to can, garden, and waste nothing. The old bastard made it hard to live with him, but the knowledge he passed on became Garrett’s saving grace with his mother’s last boyfriend.
He dined alone and washed the dishes. Garrett debated whether to keep the place and make it a home when he finally returned from his tour.
Headlights shone in the driveway, and he watched as his mom and her boyfriend got out of their car. Refusing to deal with them, Garret locked the door and sat in the dark of the living room.
Kenny, his mother’s new boyfriend, belonged to a biker club and never played fair.
“Garrett,” his drunk mother screamed. “You owe me. I saved you from him. I want my money.”
He rolled his eyes. Knowing she’d blow through every single penny within a month, he didn’t bother to respond.
“I know you’re in there,” Bernice said as she pounded on the door.
He continued to stay quiet, hoping she’d grow tired and leave. Kenny, on the other hand, appeared sneaky. Garrett didn’t trust him.
“If you don’t give it to me, I’ll make you pay,” she threatened.
Her presence already did. The window crashed as a flaming missile made its strike on the couch, instantly setting it ablaze.
“Fuck,” he swore, grabbing a blanket, attempting to put the fire out.
“Garrett,” Bernice yelled above the roar of the flame.
Another missile crashed through the upstairs window, and he heard the explosion following it.
“Shit,” he muttered as he crouched low, spotting Kenny with a gun, aiming it at the front door. The moment he tried running out of the fire, the man intended to shoot him.
Garrett stayed low to the ground and worked his way to the back door, where he spied a few of Kenny’s biker buddies with their weapons trained on the exit there.
Detouring to the basement door, he opened it and grabbed the flashlight hooked to the wall. He turned it onand ran down the steps, following the small tunnel where his grandfather hoarded potatoes and onions. The storm cellar lay beyond and opened up at the end of the cornfield. Something his grandfather added after getting caught in a tornado. His attackers continued their ambush while he made his way through the tunnel and opened the door on the opposite end of the field.
When he didn’t come out, his mother went into hysterics, beating Kenny on the chest. One swift punch to her face stopped her in her tracks as he picked her up and loaded her into the vehicle. His buddies glanced inside his rental car, and a few minutes later, he heard them take off with all his belongings.
Garrett rubbed his jaw and pulled out his cell. He dialed 911 and waited for them to answer. “My name’s Garrett Johnson. My mother, her boyfriend Kenny, and his gang set fire to my late grandfather’s farm. Can you send the fire department and the sheriff?” Fifteen minutes later, he heard the sirens of the volunteer fire department.
The chief met him in the yard as the men ran to put out the blaze. The house crumbled before his eyes as the smoke burned them, and he coughed. He described Bernice’s car and the bikers. The police chief offered him a ride to the small-town hotel for the night.
The following morning, they caught his mother, Kenny, and his friends still in possession of his car. He didn’t hesitate to press charges. Giving the sheriff his contact information, Garrett left the following day and never looked back. He didn’t bother using the rest of his leave. Why bother? With no family and no home to come home to, Garrett had nothing else to lose.
Four months later, he lay in his bunk. “Johnson,” one of his teammates called out while delivering the mail.
Garrett rose halfway in surprise. He never received anything. His buddy tossed the thick packet to him, and he ripped the edges.
Mr. Johnson,
The insurance company deposited a check into your account two months ago. In the meantime, you asked me to find a buyer for the land. It turns out a manufacturing company wants to purchase it all. I have sent you the following contracts for your signature if you agree.
Yours,
Boyd Cofield
Garrett sat up on the bed and flipped through the pages until he found the amount. His mouth dropped as he read the sum of three million dollars. He grabbed a pen, scrawled his name on the dotted line, and posted it the same day.
When his tour ended, Garrett spent days doing nothing until he felt like he lost his mind. Women, liquor, and bars grew old. He needed a job. His grandfather ensured Garrett never knew what idle hands felt like. The man taught him the ways of the small ranch from daylight to dusk. Despite his grandfather’s hardness, he somehow discovered his love for the land. Ranching called his name. Money meant nothing. As his grandfather taught him, he saved it for a rainy day.
The day wore on as his mind recalled the women who passed through his life. Garrett never found someone who spent the time to get to know him. As soon as they learned about the money, they hinted at expensivegifts, seemed more interested in the bedroom, and demanded he take them to a fancy restaurant.
