Rattlesnake (32 page)

“I—”

Shane held up a hand. “And for the past weeks, you’ve stuck around. Did your job for Belinda but also helped me out so I didn’t have to crawl back to the ranch. I needed you and you didn’t run. Those aren’t the acts of a coward. If something’s important enough to you, you can stand your ground. Even if you won’t admit it.” He gave a sad smile.

It was strange. Jimmy was simultaneously at a loss for words and yet bursting with things he couldn’t bring himself to say. He slowly rubbed his mouth with his palm.

Both men watched as a cockroach appeared from behind the wall heater, scuttled onto the carpet, and then crawled belligerently toward them. Jimmy stepped aside to let it pass. Then he looked at Shane. “I have a bus to catch.”

“Yeah. Okay. But I got one last thing to tell you, and it’s important. Tom never quite made it home; you know that. I guess he tried. When you’re ready to come home, Rattlesnake is waiting for you.”

“You can’t…. You need to find somebody good and fall in love. You need to find someone to fall in love with you.”

The corner of Shane’s mouth twitched. “Well, my prospects in Rattlesnake have never been that great, but maybe those guys from last month will send a nice single guy my way. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I’m married with two point five kids and a picket fence, the town will still be there for you. You belong. People like you. And I’ll always be your friend, Jimmy Dorsett.”

Fucking tears. Jimmy refused to let them fall. Instead, he grabbed Shane and—careful of the splinted arm—embraced him tightly. Shane hugged him back. And then they kissed one last time, and Jimmy had sour breath, but Shane didn’t complain.

Shane slowly pulled away and limped to the door. Jimmy opened it for him. “Take care of yourself,” Shane said. “Maybe send me a postcard once in a while. Let me know you’re doing okay.”

“Maybe. Thank you, Shane.”

Jimmy watched while Shane shuffled down the creaky stairs and across the lot to Jenn’s car. He watched them drive away.

Stopping only long enough to use the bathroom and wash his face, Jimmy grabbed his duffel and left the room. When he handed in the key, he asked for directions to the bus station. The clerk answered without making eye contact.

As it turned out, the station was only a few blocks away. He noticed that the police department was across the street, and he wondered if Stockton’s finest had helped Jenn track him down. Homeless people wandered the station parking lot and sat on the curb. He nodded at a few of them as he passed. He was homeless too.
You’re not
, said a voice in his head. It sounded an awful lot like Shane’s.

Jimmy leaned against the wall and drew a white paper bag from inside his duffel. He smiled when he saw that somebody—Shane or Katy the waitress—had included a stack of paper napkins. He ate the cinnamon roll; it was delicious. After wiping his hands and throwing away the trash, he went into the station to check the schedule. The next bus would leave in twenty minutes, but it was headed to Fresno. No, thanks. But if he was willing to wait ten minutes past that, he could get to Los Angeles.

Why not?

For fifty-five bucks, he bought a one-way ticket from the dour clerk. But as he put his change away, he remembered the extra pay in his duffel. He moved to the edge of the station and—first looking furtively around—took out the manila envelope. He nearly choked when he saw how much was in there: not the $350 Belinda owed him for a week’s work, but $2,000.

Shit.

For two or three aeons, he huddled near the wall. His mind was not a peaceful blank—it was, in fact, buzzing and whirling like a hornet’s nest. Little snippets of Shane’s words replayed in his head, along with snapshots of Shane’s smile, his scars, his blue eyes. Jimmy remembered the sounds the Snake made when it was settling in for the night, the dusty mineral smell of the basement, the warm glow of the wood floors and furniture. He thought about Belinda’s plans for the bathroom in 105, and he thought about Shane’s secret little spot beside the creek. He thought about George Murray and Jesse Powell, both resting eternally in the cemetery on the hill.

And he thought about Tom’s advice to him—practically the old man’s last words.
You got stuff in your life needs fixin’, you gotta fix it now, while you can
.

For the first time he could remember, Jimmy wasn’t empty. In fact, he was so goddamn full he was practically bursting. He wasn’t a ghost. “I’m not Tom,” he said out loud. Nobody even glanced his way. Maybe they were used to people talking to themselves in the Greyhound station. So he said it again, more loudly. “I’m not Tom.”

He shouldered his bag and headed to the counter.

T
HE
TICKET
clerk wasn’t interested in doing anything except selling tickets, and none of the payphones had phonebooks. Jimmy went outside and marched to the nearest person, a grubby woman with a shapeless coat and a baby stroller full of stuff. She narrowed her eyes as he approached.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Is there a used car dealership anywhere near here?”

She pointed up the street. “Three blocks. They’ll cheat ya.”

“That’s okay. Thanks.” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill, and she grinned toothlessly at him. Then he hurried up the block.

Best Price Used Cars was apparently the next-to-last resting place of every motorized piece of crap in California. Most of the cars made his deceased Ford look good. The salesman was a round little fellow who waddled over with a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Hi! My name’s Paul. What’s yours and how can I make you happy today?”

“Jimmy, and sell me something that will get me a hundred miles without falling apart.”

“Ha-ha!” Paul had a deep belly laugh. “I can do better than that! This nice little car over here, for example.” He patted the hood of a gray Acura with $9995 written in neon pink on the windshield. “Clean as a whistle and—”

“Far too rich for my blood.” Jimmy glanced around quickly. His eyes caught on a white pickup. “How about that one?”

Paul made a face but recovered quickly. “Good choice! It’s a ’98 Chevy. You can haul a big load in that baby. Now, the engine’s great and—”

“I’ll give you a thousand.” The windshield said $1500.

With a hand over his heart as if he’d been mortally wounded, Paul shook his head. “Jimmy! My friend! I have to make a living at this. I can’t—”

“A thousand bucks cash. Take it or leave it.” Maybe Jimmy was channeling Aunt Belinda.

They went back and forth a few times, but a decent salesman can probably tell when the customer’s serious about the bottom line. Jimmy got the truck for $1000. He hurried the paperwork along, climbed into the cab, and drove away.

The engine went rumble-rumble-thump and the alignment was bad. Several rips marred the upholstery, and the interior smelled like moldy cheese. But it ran. Jimmy filled the tank at the first gas station he came to and then hit the freeway.

W
HEN
J
IMMY
turned off the ignition, the truck let out a long, relieved sigh. So did he. “Good girl,” he said, patting the dashboard.

He was pulling his duffel bag out of the cab when he heard a car behind him. He turned around.

“You’re not going to leave that here overnight now, are you?” Jenn grinned at him through her open window.

“No, ma’am. That would be against the law.”

“You could’ve just ridden back with us.”

“Yeah, but I figure driving in myself has more dignity than being dragged into town in the backseat of a cop car.”

“I’d have left the cuffs off.”

He laughed. “That’s big of you.” He huffed out a breath. “Is he over at Mae’s?”

“Nope. Over at the Snake.” She gave him a little salute and rolled off.

When he entered the lobby, Belinda’s eyes went big. And then she smiled at him.

“That was a really generous bonus,” Jimmy said.

“Not really. I made a lot of money off those items. Use it wisely, James.”

“I already have.”

He took a deep breath and pushed through the saloon doors.

Although the bar wasn’t open yet, someone had already taken the chairs off the tables and Jimmy smelled coffee brewing. Shane stood behind the counter, polishing the brass trim. He looked up, saw Jimmy, and froze.

Jimmy walked to his usual stool but didn’t sit down. “Hello.”

Shane put down the rag and rubbed the back of his neck. “Decided you needed another cinnamon roll?”

“No, although that’s not a bad idea. They’re really good.”

“Then?”

“You had things to say to me. Now it’s my turn.” He set down his duffel. “First thing. I want you to know that not all of my stories were lies. That stuff I told about my mother, my brothers, Robert… that was all true. And after Mama died, Robert threw me out of the house. I probably would have left anyway, ’cause he was— Anyway, I was out. My brothers wouldn’t take me in, and… that’s when I started living on the road. I was only fourteen, so I earned my meals however I could. Mostly I hustled. Does that disgust you?”

Shane shook his head. “Makes me sad.”

“Me too,” Jimmy said, huffing a humorless laugh. “And it makes me angry, but I guess that doesn’t get me anywhere. Second thing. You told me that there are two kinds of pain, but you were wrong. Yeah, there’s the kind that means something needs fixing and the kind you just have to live with. But there’s a third kind too.”

“What’s that?” Shane asked. He limped out from behind the counter and sat next to Jimmy’s usual stool.

“It’s the kind that you pretend isn’t there. And then it grows worse and worse until it kills you. That’s what happened to my mother. By the time she saw a doctor, she was already almost dead. I think that’s what happened to Tom. But I think… I think if you admit soon enough that the pain’s there, and you ask for some help dealing with it, maybe you can survive it. Maybe you can even heal.”

Shane’s eyes had gone soft and shiny. “Is that the pain you have?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Jimmy smiled. “I’m going to ask for help.”

Shane stood, and moving slowly, as if he were approaching a horse that might spook, he gathered Jimmy into his arms—one working a bit better than the other. “Anything else you want to tell me?” he whispered into his ear.

Jimmy welcomed the hope that swelled like a warm bubble in his chest. “Yeah. I want… I want to come home.”

With a strangled cry, Shane held him so tightly that Jimmy could hardly breathe. “Can’t you tell, Jimmy Dorsett? You’re already there.”

T
HE
PEWTER
sky and cool air made Jimmy shiver, even in his warm coat and wool shirt. “Do you think it will snow?”

Shane shrugged. “Dunno. You usually have to go up another thousand feet or so.” He looked at the clouds. “It’s pretty cold for February, though. Do you like snow?”

“To a point. I spent a winter running a snowplow in Kansas, and that wasn’t much fun. But when you get just that little dusting and everything looks straight out of a fairytale? That’s nice.”

“We used to go sledding when I was a kid. I wonder if Dad’s still got those plastic saucers somewhere around the ranch.”

“Uh-uh. If you go sledding, your mother will have your head on a platter and my head right next to it for not stopping you.”

With a grin, Shane tugged Jimmy’s ear. “As if you could stop me from doing anything once I set my mind on it.”

He had a point. Sometimes during Sunday dinner at the ranch, Adam and Jimmy would catch each other’s eyes in perfect empathy—both of them saddled with a mule for a partner. Not that they would have it any other way.

Now, Shane slung an arm around Jimmy and they both looked down at the shiny new headstone. It was located near the edge of the cemetery, under the long arms of an oak. The branches were bare, but in summer, the shade would be welcome. The stone itself was small and plain, only a name and two dates carved into the gray granite:

THOMAS J. REYNOLDS

1952—2015

Right now it looked a little bleak, but Shane said he’d plant some flowers in the spring.

“Where’s your mother buried, Jimmy?”

“I don’t know. Near Chicago somewhere, I guess. Robert kicked me out before the funeral.”

Shane squeezed him. “You didn’t go to your own mother’s funeral?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Well, if you feel like it someday, we can ask Ty to track her down. He can find anything on the Internet.”

“Maybe someday,” Jimmy said, and he meant it.

“And then maybe… if you wanted… we could look for your brothers. Jenn says she knows a good private detective.”

Jimmy turned to look at him. “Have you been scheming, Shane Little?” Because
something
had been going on for the past few weeks. Jimmy kept catching Shane in furtive conversations with various family members, and people kept casting him knowing smiles. It was driving him a little nuts.

Shane gave him a Cheshire-cat grin but shook his head. “I wouldn’t do anything about your brothers unless you gave the go-ahead.”

“Okay. Because I’m not at all sure about it.”

“Fair enough. Besides, as part of the Little clan, you’ve probably got more family members now than you know what to do with. Just remember the words a wise man once told me: learn to forgive others and forgive yourself.”