Blood Lines (42 page)

“Could you use some help?”

“Just putting up some hay in the barn. Got winter coming on. I want to be ready.” Tyrel fished a pair of work gloves from his back pocket and headed for the barn.

“Could you use some help?” Shel asked again. He hated having to ask again.

“I can get it done. You just go ahead and do whatever it is you come out here to do.” Tyrel kept walking.

I came out here to talk to you,
Shel thought. But he couldn't get the words past his lips.

“Is it all right if I stay here, Daddy?” Shel asked.

“Whatever you want to do. You know where your room is.”

“Yes, sir.” Shel watched his father walk to the barn and tried to let go of some of the anger that filled him. He had questions on his heart that demanded answers. Finally he followed his daddy into the barn.

>> 1819 Hours

A large flatbed truck was parked in the middle of the barn. Rectangular bales of hay were stacked all over it. Only a few bales had been moved.

“Joanie and them kids interrupted my work,” Tyrel said as he pulled his gloves on. “'Course, I knew they was coming. They called.”

“Yes, sir. I'll remember.”

“Don't cost much to be respectful,” Tyrel said, as he'd done thousands of times before, “but it costs too much if you don't show respect.”

“Yes, sir.” Shel took a deep breath. The barn reeked of hay, mildew, animal sweat and spoor, and leather from saddles and tack hanging on the wall. He grabbed the cords that held a bale of hay together and lifted it from the truck bed.

“You bring any gloves?” Tyrel asked as he tossed the bale on the big stack against the barn's back wall.

“No, sir.”

Tyrel scowled. “You give any thought to this trip? Or did you just light out?”

“Just lit out,” Shel said.

Tyrel looked at him a little more closely then. “There's gloves in the front of the truck.”

“Yes, sir.” Shel put his bale of hay on the stack and headed for the truck cab. He opened the door and found a pair of well-used leather gloves on the seat. He pulled them on and returned to the rear of the truck.

Tyrel had continued working. His boots thumped across the floor.

Shel grabbed a bale of hay in each hand and carried them to the wall.

“Shoulder come back together all right?” his daddy asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Figured it would. You've always been tougher'n a boot.”

“Yes, sir.”

They worked in silence for a while. The work was hard in the heat, but it was something Shel had done for years. After the first few minutes, he was covered in sweat. His daddy was too, but he showed no signs of slowing down. He moved as effortlessly as a machine.

“You got a reason for wearing that pistol?” his daddy asked.

“Yes, sir.” Shel grabbed two more bales of hay. They were light, dry, and packed. Alfalfa would have weighed over twice as much. But alfalfa was expensive. “Yesterday, Victor Gant tried to kill me and a buddy.”

Tyrel looked at Shel then. “And you come out here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ain't like you to run from trouble.”

Anger stirred within Shel and he tried to get a grip on it. “I didn't come here running, sir.”

“Gant threatened your family, did he?”

Shel barely curbed the heated response that was inside him and fighting to get out. “Yes, sir. He did.”

“You killed his boy,” Tyrel said. “He's gonna want blood for that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You shoulda killed him.”

“I tried. Man's hard to kill.”

Tyrel nodded. “They tried to kill him in Vietnam, too.”

“Who?”

His daddy shook his head. “Charlie. Who else would have tried to kill him over there?”

“I read Gant's service jacket,” Shel said. “Man didn't exactly walk a straight line while he was over there. The Criminal Investigation Command checked him out several times.”

“Those were hard times over there, boy. Today's the same. This war over in Iraq, it's plenty bad. Got kids over there doing things they shouldn't do. Rape, theft, black market, and drugs.”

“I know. I've been over there in it.”

“You put young, innocent men in a war zone, they don't come out the same way. Anybody who thinks they'll come out the same is a fool.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Victor Gant, he was probably a bad one even before he went over there.” Tyrel picked up another bale of hay and headed for the stacks.

“I think so too,” Shel said.

“What kind of shape is that shoulder in?”

“I'm a hundred percent.”

Tyrel nodded. “Let's see if it is. Throw me them bales down from that truck bed.”

“Why don't you throw them down?” Catching the bales was harder than throwing them, and Shel was bigger and younger than his daddy.

“Because I told you to.”

“Yes, sir.” Shel turned and vaulted up onto flatbed without strain. He plucked at the sweat-soaked T-shirt and tried to create a gust of cooler wind. Then he picked up a bale of hay and tossed it down to his daddy.

Tyrel caught the hay bale as if it weighed nothing. He walked it over to the stacks and climbed up the makeshift stairway made of bales. At the top, he stacked the bale.

“Can you throw those bales over here?”

“Yes, sir.” Shel bent down, caught up a bale, and threw it onto the stack where his daddy stood.

Tyrel managed the bale easily and motioned for another. “Keep 'em coming. I want to get this done before I go to bed tonight. We get done early, there's a ball game on.”

“Yes, sir.” Shel bent to the task and began shoveling bales across the distance.

>> 1926 Hours

The work took Shel back years. He remembered when his daddy had first trained him to stack hay, then when he'd trained Don.

He recalled the first time he and Don had done it by themselves; they'd done it while their daddy was preoccupied with the cows and the veterinarian. They'd stacked the bales as quickly as they could. As a result, by their daddy's standards, the effort had been slipshod. He'd made them take the stacks apart and restack the whole load while he'd watched.

At the time, Don had been disappointed because he hadn't gotten to go somewhere he'd wanted to. Shel couldn't even remember where that was now. As for Shel, he'd been angry—and embarrassed. Those emotions were always a bad combination for him.

Shel had wanted to do the hay as a surprise for his daddy. He'd thought maybe he could get his daddy's attention. He'd been thirteen. It had been a lot of work for a thirteen-year-old, and having to convince Don to help him hadn't been easy.

Even now that old anger rolled over him as he worked. He grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt and mopped the sweat from his face.

“You ain't slowing down on my account, are you?” his daddy called.

Shel looked at the man. Tyrel looked as relaxed as if he'd been taking life easy. Sweat stained his shirt, but he wasn't breathing hard and didn't appear tired. At times like this, Shel didn't think the man was human.

Bending to the task again, Shel got into the rhythm and focused on moving through the bales. His shoulder ached a little from the repetitive lifting, swinging, and throwing, but he wasn't going to quit. He let his anger feed his adrenaline, strength, and endurance.

And he still couldn't bury his daddy in hay bales. Every one he threw was quickly stacked before he could throw the next. The effort became an exercise in futility. Frustration chafed at him until he'd thrown the last bale. Then, when he looked and found his daddy putting the bale away like it was nothing, he cursed.

That drew his daddy's attention immediately.

Cursing wasn't something Shel was given to. His daddy had brought him up to watch his mouth, especially around women and children. Even the loose swearing so prevalent in the military hadn't stuck on him.

Shel's immediate impulse was to apologize. He stopped himself just short of that. Instead, he didn't look at his daddy and jumped from the back of the truck.

His daddy joined him a moment later. Without a word, Tyrel stripped the gloves from his hands and shoved them into the back pocket of his jeans.

“You got something on your mind, boy?” Tyrel's voice was hard and carefully measured.

“Just forgot myself is all,” Shel said.

Tyrel eyed him. “That's just a word. Me and you both have heard that word more'n a few times. Probably used it too.”

Shel felt ridiculous. He was taller and bigger than his daddy. He was a Marine. He was wearing a pistol on his hip.

And still he felt like a ten-year-old standing there.

“It ain't the word I'm bothered about,” Tyrel said. “You come here to this house with a chip on your shoulder the size of a Clydesdale, and you ain't keeping it together. I want to know what's going on.”

Shel tried to speak and couldn't. Helpless, he shook his head.

“Is it Victor Gant?” his daddy asked.

“I don't know.” Even as he said it, Shel knew he'd made another mistake. The last thing Tyrel ever wanted to hear one of his sons say was
I don't know
.

Tyrel's voice hardened. “Well, that's an outright lie, boy. If there's anybody in this world who knows what he's mad at when he's mad, it's you.”

Before he could stop himself, Shel said, “Maybe I'm a better liar than you gave me credit for, Daddy. The way I understand it, I come by it honest enough.”

Tyrel's face tightened and his voice became a hoarse rasp. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about that soldier you killed over at Qui Nhon.” Even though he'd been in hundreds of fights and was amped up on adrenaline, Shel didn't see his daddy move till just before the hard-knuckled fist exploded against his jaw.

41

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 2004 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Caught almost flat-footed by the blow, Shel rocked backward. For a moment he thought his head had come clean off his shoulders. Black spots exploded in his vision.

Half-dazed, Shel threw a punch of his own.

Either his daddy hadn't been expecting it or he'd thought Shel was going to go down. Shel's fist caught him full in the face and drove him backward. Tyrel's head snapped around. Something popped.

Horrified at what he'd done out of reflex, Shel hesitated. Then he caught another punch on his chin that knocked him back.

Without another word, Shel and Tyrel fought. Max started to come forward, but Shel called the Labrador back. Whining, Max subsided and lay flat on the hay-covered ground.

Pain flared Shel's senses. Despite the blows he landed on his daddy, Tyrel refused to go down. For every punch Shel threw, his daddy came back with one.

Tyrel McHenry knew how to fight. He'd boxed before he'd gone into the Army and been sent to Vietnam. After he'd gotten back, there'd been more fights. And he never held back.