Pat Warren - The Way We Wed

He’d done exactly what East had repeatedly warned him not to do, settled something with his fists instead of his brain. He’d been young those years he’d lived on the run and the only way he’d survived was to be a street fighter out of necessity when bigger runaways had tried to take advantage. But he’d given that up ten years ago, or so he’d thought until Mac had gone too far.

Nearing the barn, Jeff heard running footsteps, then felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Teddy, looking awkward and shy. His crooked smile would have made an orthodontist’s hands twitch.

“Thanks,” he muttered, his face reddening.

Nodding, Jeff walked on and almost didn’t notice Tish standing in the doorway, in her eyes a new respect. Still, he marched on by, knowing he’d made a formidable enemy in Mac.

He went straight to his room, took a long, hot shower, then lay down on his bed, trying to rest his overtaxed muscles and his throbbing right hand. Ever since his ordeal of being buried alive, of not knowing if he’d ever see daylight again, he’d noticed that he had a much shorter fuse. He was grateful to be alive and wondered why others didn’t see what he saw, that each day was a gift. The petty arguments, the anger, the need to best someone smaller and younger, all of it made him see red. Jeff sighed, thinking he’d have to work on these sudden temper flare-ups or he’d become just like the bullies he disliked.

Feeling restless, he got up and tried watching television, but nothing held his interest. He flipped through a couple of magazines, but he didn’t feel like reading. Pacing, he thought of Tish Buckner and wondered why she showed signs of interest, yet only from a distance. And he wondered how he could change that.

Jeff hadn’t done a lot of dating, mostly because living at Condor with East when he’d been a teenager didn’t give him much opportunity. Except for school kids, the only people he’d spent time with had been SPEAR agents much older than he. And East had kept him on a fast track of learning, year-round classes to make up for studies he’d missed as a runaway, then college and finally med school where he spent the few free hours he had falling facedown on the bed, dead to the world with exhaustion.

Sure, there’d been a few women; after all, he wasn’t a monk. Enough so that he recognized that certain look in a woman’s eyes when she was sizing up a man, considering possibilities, wondering, imagining. That special male-female connection that is difficult to explain but is unmistakable to the parties involved.

And Tish Buckner was definitely sending out those signals.

Maybe he’d try getting her alone after dinner tonight, ask her to go for a walk, get to know her. Checking the time, Jeff saw that it was nearing six. He went back to the bathroom and took pains getting ready, combing his thick blond hair just so, choosing pressed chinos and a navy shirt, loafers instead of cowboy boots.

Patting shaving lotion on his face, he studied his image and spoke to the mirror. “That’s as good as it gets, folks,” then smiled at his flight of fancy. Was Tish causing him to talk to himself? he wondered as he grabbed his leather jacket and left his room.

She was already in the dining room, seated at Slim’s table for six as usual. Reggie Miller, a fortyish agent who thought of himself as God’s gift to women, was regaling two female agents and Tish with tales of his days as a lumberjack in the Pacific Northwest as Jeff took the last chair after filling his plate at the buffet table. There were greetings all around, though Reggie barely stopped in his recitation to nod toward him.

Apparently Reggie’s story had been quite funny since there was hearty laughter when he finished. Jeff concentrated on his food with occasional glances at Tish, biding his time.

“I heard about what you did at the branding,” Slim said in a quiet aside to Jeff. “I guess you loosened a couple of Mac’s teeth.” The normally taciturn manager grinned. “Wish I’d have seen that.”

“It’s about time someone punched out his lights,” Marge Collins on the other side of Jeff commented. “But I’d watch my back, Jeff. He’s a mean one.”

“I think Jeff can handle himself,” Tish said softly, her eyes on him.

“Then again, could’ve been a lucky punch,” Reggie said, anxious to turn the attention back to himself. “I did some boxing awhile back. That old one-two punch comes from street fighting, right, sonny?” he asked, his cool gaze on Jeff.

Every time he’d been around Reggie, the man had called him sonny even though he knew his name. It was a subtle put-down, but Jeff wasn’t about to rise to the bait tonight. One fight a day was more than enough. “Call it what you want, it worked.”

Reggie couldn’t think of a clever comeback, so he changed the subject to the ride up into the high country scheduled for the next day to deliver salt to the cows in the far pasture. “We could go together, Tish. It’s real pretty up there this time of year.”

Jeff heard her say something noncommittal before he turned to answer a question Slim had asked. The conversation shifted to other topics as they finished their meal. Finally, Reggie left the table to get his dessert and Jeff saw his chance. Sliding back his chair, he rose and walked around the table to Tish’s side.

“It’s a nice night,” he began, standing behind her chair, inhaling the fresh scent of her hair. “I was wondering if you’d like to go for a walk.”

“I’d like to, Jeff, but…”

“But she’s promised to take me on in a game of chess,” Reggie said as he returned with a generous slice of pie. “I don’t suppose you play, eh, sonny?”

For the second time that day, Jeff wanted to hit a man, and he wasn’t very happy about it. “Some other time then,” he said more curtly than he’d intended, and left the dining room.

He needed fresh air, Jeff decided, to be outside where he could walk off his anger and this pent-up energy. Detouring through the kitchen, he stopped to praise Elsa’s barbecued brisket while he snitched a couple of small carrots and apples. He stuffed them in the pockets of his jacket, gave the cook a quick hug and escaped.

Finally outdoors, he stood on the back porch, breathing in the fresh mountain air. He walked out toward the barns, then stopped, closed his eyes and listened. Here, away from the people and buildings, it was so different. The world was alive with sound—the muted gurgle of water rushing over stones in the nearby creek, the flutter of wings as a night bird flew by, crickets singing and small, furry creatures darting about in the underbrush. A distant owl sent up a protest as Jeff slapped at a mosquito.

He slipped on his jacket and strolled. From the barns came the sounds of a horse whinnying, probably a stallion picking up the scent of a mare.

Walking briskly, he headed for the stables, circling the entire structure before going inside. The horses were housed in a long aluminum building with stalls on either side and cement flooring on the center aisle plus overhead track lighting, now on dim as Jeff pushed open the sliding door. Thoroughly modern, all of Red Rock’s barns were electronically monitored by the ranch manager or his assistant so that it wasn’t necessary to have a person on hand to check on the animals at night. But the ranchers often wandered in to inspect their mounts or to tend to a sick cow or newborn calf.

Tonight, the horse stable appeared to be empty of humans, Jeff noted as he strolled down the center aisle. As he passed the stalls, he noticed ears twitch as the horses turned their big heads toward him, acknowledging his presence. One or two snuffle-guffed or snorted and from the far end came a short whinny. The combined scent of leather and animal hide wasn’t altogether unpleasant, he thought as he sauntered along, whispering a soft greeting to this one and that.