Interlude

By Emily Brunson

©2005

He started feeling restless just after Easter. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling; just the opposite, in fact. And the timing couldn’t have been worse. Busy time at the ranch, cattle just in from the winter pastures and all sorts of work to be done. No, it wasn’t a good time. Not a good time at all.

Didn’t make the restless feeling go away. Maybe made it worse. He took it out on those around him. Most of the hands, in one way or another. Never Mother, but Audra a couple times. And Nick felt the sharp end of his tongue far more than once, and often for no reason at all; the confused, sometimes hurt look in his eyes spoke louder that his own retorts as to how it felt. Heath thought about explaining, but couldn’t, of course. It ain’t you, Nick, it’s me. And only one thing will set me right again, but it’s just about the last thing I’m gonna find around here.

By May he was flat-out miserable, and volunteered to do a week of line work himself. A job for a couple of hands, certainly not one of the Barkleys themselves, but no one objected. Nick looked relieved. And Heath went away feeling as if he might just crawl out of his own skin pretty soon, like a snake.

And like a snake, the feeling curled up inside him and lived, feeding on his frustration, his bleak self-hatred, festering with no one to take it out on, talk him into thinking about other things. Up at the line shack it all got worse, much worse.

His third morning on the line, he stood in the doorway of the little cabin and smoked, and thought, I’m gonna go crazy, if I’m not already. Doin’ my best to be the perfect son, the brother, the Barkley, when I ain’t got experience at any but one and didn’t do a bang-up job of that one the first time.

The needing, the wanting, crowded up in his throat like bile, and he drew hard on the smoke, held it as long as he could and let it out slow. Only one thing that would help. Wouldn’t be perfect, wouldn’t last, but it would do. Take the edge off it, and maybe when that was done he could think about how to stop it this time. At one time he’d reckoned he’d grow out of it, but that hadn’t happened. So that left self-control, and he had it in other areas, didn’t he? He’d kept from turning to drink when things got rough, and that was the balm of many a man he’d known. Hadn’t let his gun become an overfamiliar companion in his right hand. Kept from doing violence until it was done to him. He’d controlled his impulses, and that was an accomplishment, considering his existence was the result of an impulse. Or maybe that was why, he wasn’t sure.

But this, now. This had always been his undoing. Always led to bad things. The leaving, for one. All the leaving. Always going away from what he’d done, even when no one’d been the wiser. Left because he couldn’t face it, didn’t like what it said about himself. Had some good jobs here and there before he’d learned the truth about his parentage, jobs he’d have held onto, all other things being equal. But they weren’t equal, and when it had come apart he’d left each one, stomach churning with regret and weary resignation. Left, and couldn’t go back.

Couldn’t leave this one here. This wasn’t a good cattle job, wasn’t deputy work, wasn’t logging. This was life’s work, this was his family, brothers and sister and a woman not his mother, but come to feel as treasured as one. This work here, wasn’t the sort you could shrug off, say your regrets and ride on. This time, if he did that, there would be no more good jobs. Nothing would touch this.

And so he had to learn to control it. Get it out of his system, maybe see one of them popish priests and get himself exorcised. Because it was a demon, what he had. A demon of lust, of dark wanting, and until it was vanquished he wouldn’t rest. Even as a Barkley, even with a quality name of his own, it wouldn’t be over. He might not leave, but in the not-leaving, he might find something even worse.

He shuddered to think what worse might turn out to be.

He field-stripped his cigarette butt, and went to saddle the Gal.

It was a hard ride to Stockton, but had to push it to make the day’s last train. No time for a telegram; that’d have to wait until he got there. Besides, that distance could serve him well. It’d take time for Nick to get some fool-brained idea in his head about coming after him. By then it’d all be taken care of. He’d probably be back before Nick could even buy a ticket.

He left Gal at the livery and jogged to the station.

The Frisco station had a telegram office. He sent a terse note, friend in need, had to move quickly, will explain later. Don’t come to help, won’t take but a day or two. He paid the fee and walked away feeling lighter than he had in months.

It was late already, and he found the crush of people comforting in a way. So many more each time he came here, but that was all right. Fine, even; meant he could vanish into the crowd, disappear. He took a cabriolet from the station, and had it deposit him near the waterfront. Not the best neighborhood, but one he knew. Some of which would know him, too, but here in the city that idea didn’t bother him nearly as much as it had back in the valley.

Leona’s was crowded, the air thick with smoke and music. He went to the bar and ordered a whiskey, and sat down to watch. Things changed, and yet nothing changed at all. The same folks, different faces but the same clothes, the same expressions, the same laughter: relieved and tense at the same time. Felt good and bad, like it always did. No, some things didn’t change at all.

Leona recognized him. Figured she might; he didn’t come often, but he’d been there enough to be familiar. And there was that business last year. Yep, she’d always remember him. "Hello, Blondie," she said, and left a red smear on his cheek when she kissed him. "Been a long time."

He smiled, and it felt good. "Looks like you’re doing all right."

"Can’t complain. Lemme get you somethin’ better than that rotgut."

She came back with a bottle of good whiskey, and drank with him. The spirits hit his belly and spread, a hot eager fire, and he sighed when he set the glass down.

"Want your room?" Leona asked him.

"Reckon so. Ain’t given it out yet?"

"Told you last year. That one’s reserved for special. And you’re special, Blondie."

He didn’t feel special. But he nodded. "Appreciate it, Leona."

He went upstairs alone, stepping aside for a couple making their giggling way the same direction. The man’s lips were smeared with scarlet paint. He batted eyelashes at Heath, and his companion growled something unintelligible and gave his arm a pull.

His smile was gone as he stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Could come here all he liked, and now he could afford it as often as he wanted. But that didn’t change the innate fakery of the place, the pretend. Wasn’t real, wasn’t love. Was it love that pulled at him, the wanting of it? But love was what you found with a woman, not a man. Different as night and day. Love was a sweetheart, love was a wife. With a man it was heat, it was whiskers and darkness and furtive gestures, and if there were kisses they were fast and hard and loveless.

He laid his jacket over a chair and looked around. Nice enough room, clean and even decorated a bit, bedspread and a cloth over the table. Rug on the floor. He sat and pulled off his boots. Feeling that long ride now, and that eternal-seeming train trip. This morning he’d been home, working the range. Now he was miles away, and his family would be getting that telegram any time. Would it worry them? He gnawed the inside of his lip. But they trusted him. He’d be back tomorrow. The need assuaged, the demon pushed back into its pit for the moment. No need for worry.

Someone tapped on the door. His belly clenched with anticipation, making his knees feel wobbly as he rose and walked to answer it.

"Howdy," the man said. Taller than Heath, slimmer through the shoulders. Wearing a suit a lot like the one Heath had on. His smile was slow, and his teeth weren’t bad. "Want some company?"

Heath nodded and stepped aside to let him enter.

The bottle of expensive whiskey was in the man’s hand. "Leona said it’s for you," he told him. "Want a drink?"

"Sounds all right."

The man poured two drinks and held one out to Heath. "My name’s Andy. What can I call you?"

Heath took the glass. "Whatever you like."

"Leona calls you Blondie."

"That’ll do."

They drank, and Andy said, "Heard you helped Leona out last year. Bit of trouble."

"Yep."

"Some men got killed. You shot the man who killed ‘em."

Heath wished for more whiskey. "Reckon I did. Law wasn’t interested."

"No."

He walked around Andy and poured another shot. Drank, and Andy’s hands touched his waist.

"I ain’t a workin’ boy," Andy said, breath warm on Heath’s neck. "But you’re special. Leona’s a good friend of mine. Owe her more than one."

Heath nodded, and leaned back a little. "She knows what I like."

"You like this?" Arms circling his waist, a chin on his shoulder.

"Yep."

"Good."

He drank his shot, and turned, and opened his mouth for Andy’s kiss. Deep and fast, and for a moment bleak unhappiness shot through him. Not enough, never enough, never would be. But it was all he had. It would have to be enough. There wasn’t any more.

Andy’s mouth left his and started scouting his neck, and Heath closed his eyes.

After a while both their suits were gone, and the bed didn’t creak too badly. Linens smelled fresh and clean. He writhed beneath Andy’s solid body, relief like straight liquor in his veins, and when the time came he spread his legs wide and uttered a stark cry when Andy went into him, and more later.

He took the morning train back. He was tired, and slept a bit but woke easily in time to disembark at Stockton. Nick was waiting, face thunderous, and Heath regarded him with slow surprise.

"How’d you know?"

Nick snorted. "Didn’t. If you weren’t on it, I’d have gotten on it myself."

Heath nodded. "Just a little trouble. Already over with."

"What kind of trouble? Enough that you have to go gallivanting off to Frisco for one single night?"

"Reckon so." He started walking, with Nick at his heels.

"That’s not much of an explanation."

"Best I can do."

"So that’s all? Scare ten years off all of us with a telegram in the middle of the night, then sashay back here with nothing more than a ‘little trouble?’"

"Sorry," he said, and meant it. "Did the best I could, Nick, and that’s a fact."

Nick huffed.

"Didn’t mean to worry you. Mother?"

"She worried. We all did."

He nodded, and thought of Andy’s clever, long-fingered hands. His warm mouth and the taste of whiskey and musk. "Sorry," Heath whispered again.

At his side Nick sighed, and said, "Just don’t scare us like that, boy, you understand? We’re your family now. We care about you. Not anything you can say would change that. You hear me? Not a blasted thing."

Heath nodded, and thought, But is it true? Would it be true? I don’t think it would be. And I hope you never know that, brother. I truly do.

The Gal nickered fondly at him in the livery stable, and he smiled and stroked her plain black nose before reaching for the bridle. He wondered about whether or not Nick had sent anyone else up to work the line, and turned to ask.

END