Argosy Junction
Argosy Junction
Chautona Havig
Copyright 2009 Chautona Havig
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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All Scripture references are from the NASB. NASB passages are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE (registered), Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation
Inside every book is a piece of the author. As much as I strive to let my characters be themselves, pieces of me crawl into my books and make themselves at home. In
Noble Pursuits
, my favorite dessert graces the table at holidays and celebrations… and I added the recipe to the back of that book.
In
Argosy Junction
, the music of my childhood dances across so many of the pages. Even as I wrote, I heard my father’s guitar strings, as he plucked out the plaintive tunes that still wring my heart when I sing them around my own home. So I dedicate this book to the man who made my childhood a memorable and magical one—my father. I thank the Lord every time I’m reminded of how unique those years truly were.
The Ballad of Exmoor
was written for you, Dad. I wish I could truly do it justice, but even as flawed as it is, I’m proud that I finished it.
For mom, and all the memories associated with her, I included our old dog, Boozer. That dog was truly the best dog we ever had. She had spunk, personality, and the ability to leap through a window, across the driver’s seat, and into my lap—without fail. Our dog never
ate
my homework, but she sure did wrinkle it repeatedly.
I also dedicate this book to Kiersten. The sheep, and all things wooly, were my way of thanking you for being my friend. Lane’s Christmas outfit was also my way of saying thank you for creating that outfit for Jenna. It is, without question, our most favorite outfit!
Mrs. Montoya’s marvelous food does exist. You’ve never had good Mexican food until you’ve tasted Mrs. Santos’ fabulous cooking. More than a source for great tacos and
pico de gallo,
she was always good for a laugh, a smile, and help when you were stupid enough to get a crochet needle stuck in your foot. ;)
Finally, I want to share my deep appreciation for all of my proofreaders. It was a daunting task. Very daunting task…
The Rockland Chronicles
Noble Pursuits
Argosy Junction
The Aggie Series
Ready or Not
For Keeps
Here We Come
The Annals of Wynnewood
Shadows and Secrets
Cloaked in Secrets
Beneath the Cloak
The Not-So-Fairy Tales
Princess Paisley
Everard (Coming 2012)
Contents
One
The hiker, clearly a novice, stopped mid-stride as the sight of large horned-sheep with odd black faces captured his attention. While the sun shone overhead, Matt Rushby climbed the pasture fence in an attempt to snap a better picture to show his parents. His feet chafed. The new boots he wore had been amazingly comfortable when he bought them, but now his feet felt battered. He set his camera on the ground beside him and unlaced the stiff hiking boots. Pulling them off, he saw holes in his socks, the edges tinged with blood. Skin was rubbed raw and bleeding on the sides of both feet and the top of his large right toe.
He stood, wiggling his sore toes and relishing the soothing feeling of cool air on his feet. As he reached for his camera, his eyes grew wide. A large flock of horned sheep was slowly closing in on him. He rose, backing cautiously away from the herd. His feet protested vehemently. Nettles stung, stones pricked, and with each step, he moved farther from his boots.
The sheep followed as though stalking him. For every step he took backward, the flock advanced toward him—trapped. Eventually, the lambs gamboling nearby gave him an idea. Matt decided to run, hoping to put distance between him and the sheep, compelling the ewes to return to their lambs.
He turned, already prepared to bolt, and stopped cold. Half a dozen sheep blocked his flight path. In seconds, dozens of bleating horned-sheep surrounded him. Matt glanced at his watch. Twelve-thirty. How long would it be before the sheep ate all the grass around him and moved on to graze elsewhere? How long would he stand encircled by those animals before they ate his new boots? Matt was ignorant enough of sheep that he didn’t know that unlike some unprincipled goats, sheep are singularly uninterested in leather or rubber. Yet, he now knew how intimidating and fearsome sheep look when they are eye level with your belt buckle.
Feeling helpless and completely trapped, Matt pulled a battered copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets from his jacket pocket, opened to number eighty-five, and then laughed as he read,
“My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still—”
The sheep bleated as he laughed, sending nervous chills up his spine. Their curved horns looked menacing. Matt remembered something about animals sensing or smelling fear, chose to feign nonchalance, and forced his breathing to remain regular. He knew he’d perspire less without his jacket, so he removed it, tying the sleeves around his waist. The animals gazed at him curiously. He dragged his eyes from the circle of sheep and forced himself to read the unfinished sonnet.
Minutes ticked by, but each one felt like an hour. His feet ached, his lips were parched with cracks in the corners, and his mouth felt like cotton. The sun slowly moved across the sky, but Matt stood still, his heart resolute. He’d stand there until someone found him or he dropped from exhaustion and was trampled by crazed sheep. How ironic, they’d say at his funeral, that he’d survived the dangers of the inner city only to be killed, alone, in the wilds of Montana, by a flock of fluffy, but not-so-white, sheep.
~*~*~*~
From the top of a nearby hill, a horseback rider watched the man in the pasture, curious. The cut of the jeans, the t-shirt, and the lack of hat indicated that the man wasn’t a local. He was a large man, not obese, but tall, broad shouldered, and muscular. His stance, the nervous way he shifted his feet, the camera bag, and now the book in his hands clearly screamed “tourist on the loose.” As he raised his head from his book and glanced around him, his face filled the lenses of the binoculars.
“Not bad looking if you like the military drill sergeant look,” the observer muttered. “Man, those eyes, though.”
Just at that moment, the man grinned at something he saw, and suddenly the “drill sergeant look” was much more appealing when accompanied by a bright smile. “Forget the eyes; with a smile like that, who’d see the eyes?”
With a gentle nudge of the knee and pull of the reins, the rider turned the horse in the opposite direction and then whirled around in the saddle again. There the man stood, still reading out of the same book, and without taking a step. Did he think the sheep cared what he had to say?
~*~*~*~
The sun set slowly behind the mountain. The sky, a blaze of magnificent colors, would have captivated him if the urge to relieve himself had not dominated every free brain cell. Matt found it difficult to appreciate the beauty around him while nature called. He cringed at the thought, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist it much longer. Sometime in the next ten minutes, he was going to antagonize the nearest sheep, probably the one currently nuzzling his sock, and that would be the trigger for his demise. He sighed, thought of his mother, marveled that he was so cliché as to think of his mother moments before death, and prayed it would be swift.
A familiar sound broke through the so-called Montana silence. He’d never imagined that the absence of man-made sounds could be so noisy until he’d been forced to stand, an unwilling listener, to rustling grasses, cawing birds, and of course, the constant bleating of sheep. The way one of those birds now circled overhead made him even more nervous than he had been all afternoon. Matt now realized that his romantic idea of a vacation in Montana, a result of too many Louis L’Amour novels in his teens, wasn’t such a good one. He felt betrayed.
He studied a growing dust cloud and tried to determine if the noise he heard emanated from the cloud. It seemed to reverberate from every corner of the valley, leaving him confused as to the origin. The sheep noticed the sound and made restless movements. Panicked, he waved off the approaching Jeep, but it continued barreling toward him, unchecked.
Feeling trapped, Matt stumbled along with the sheep as they backed away from the approaching Jeep. A deep voice shouted over the sound of the now crawling vehicle, “Walk toward me, you idiot!”
Matt hesitated, causing one ewe, to butt him in a tender region. Suddenly, the urge to yield to the call of nature was no longer an option, it was imperative. Dancing from foot to foot, he wove his way through the parting sheep until he reached the door of the vehicle.
“Thanks for the rescue. I thought I was going to—”
“Just get in.”
“I can’t.” Matt’s face turned crimson, and he glanced everywhere but at the face of his feminine rescuer. He’d stared down bullies in schoolyards and talked a man out of pounding his daughter for making out in a stairwell with a gang banger, but he couldn’t confess to this young woman that he had urinary needs.
“Why the h-eck not? You’ve been standing there for over four hours!”
He stored away this tidbit of information for a less embarrassing moment, and mumbled, “I’ve gotta—well I need to…”
Chocolate-colored eyes rolled, as the driver reached beneath her seat and passed him a roll of toilet paper and a plastic sack. “Don’t toss your paper on the pasture. Stick it in here. I’ll be contemplating the meaning of life as I take in the sunset.” As he turned to seek a bit of privacy, she called back to him again.” Hey, if you take long enough, I might have time to find Venus. That wasn’t a request, though.”
Discussing his bodily functions was more than Matt could stand. He moved to the back of the vehicle wondering who this woman was and how she’d known he was here. Seconds later, he climbed into the truck, stuffing the plastic sack in his jacket pocket as he returned the roll of toilet paper.