Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [114]
contacts. No secret contacts to decipher. No girlish dreams. Just something to waste the time before she got wasted again.
I felt bad for taking the one thing that had given her joy.
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The next morning I fired up my Ford and scraped ice from my windshield. Appeared the mercury would hover in the single digits this morning since we were in the midst of an extended cold snap. And yippee! It was snowing again.
Swirling clouds of snow danced across the road. A strange sense of déjà vu enveloped me as I drove out to the ranch. Then again, with the endless white horizon, every time I ventured into the country I experienced that “been here, done that” sensation. Winter wasn’t our longest season in South Dakota. It just seemed like it.
I parked in my usual spot. Dad’s truck was backed up to the barn. Good. I wouldn’t have to go in the house looking for him and drag his ass somewhere for a private conversation. Usually Brittney raced out the 407
door the second I pulled up. Hopefully, Trish would keep her in the house and out of my way. I didn’t have the energy to deal with her manipulative behavior when she realized I wasn’t here to see her.
The barn itself was frigid, but when I closed in on the far corner, the air warmed up considerably. A bright light shone and voices echoed from the tack room. I paused in the open doorway. Two old-fashioned Army cots were lined up like soldiers in the space. Dad sat on an overturned plastic bucket, working leather conditioner into an old saddle propped on another bucket in front of him. DJ stood in front of a tall post, twirling a length of rope. I hadn’t seen DJ since last summer. The kid hadn’t grown a millimeter. He hadn’t filled out; he wasn’t a skinny, gangly mass of long arms and legs like me. Like Ben. His physique was best described as a little butterball.
DJ said, “I like that other rope better. Has a little more give.”
“Don’t pay to have a favorite. Gotta be able to make adjustments on the fly with whatever you got handy. Sooner you can make any rope work for you, the better off you’ll be.”
“Same don’t hold true for bull riders, Dad. Them guys get mighty attached to their bull ropes.”
Dad snorted. “Bull ridin’. Dumbest thing I ever heard of. I can see bareback and saddle bronc bustin’, ’cause breakin’ horses is a skill, but climbin’ on the back of a bull?” He shook his head. “I raised you to be 408
smarter than that, son.”
DJ let loose a low laugh. Whoa. His voice had changed. When he turned and saw me, his smile cracked and dried.
God. DJ’s resemblance to our father was uncanny. I expected DJ’s usual sneer, his cold glare, followed by a disapproving once-over. But he dropped his gaze to the rope clutched in his big hand, allowing his black felt hat to keep his face in shadow.
“What?” Dad looked up and noticed me. His
gaze narrowed. “How long you been standin’ there?”
I shrugged.
Without taking his eyes from mine, he said, “DJ, go see if your mother needs more firewood hauled in.”
DJ didn’t protest. He shrugged into his Carhartt coat, looped the rope over his shoulder, and gave me a wide berth on the way out.
Dad didn’t speak until we heard the door creak and slam. “Why’re you here?”
“Gee, you used to complain that I never deign to visit the ranch. Now you complain whenever I show up.”
“I don’t appreciate you bringin’ other folks into my business, girlie.”
“You mean Don and Dale?”
He glared.
“There are worse things than having friends who want to help you.” Another lightbulb moment. “Dale posted bond for you, didn’t he?”
More silence.
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“Okay, since you won’t talk, I will. I found out your hired man was convicted of sexual assault. Not once. Not twice. But three times. None of them here in this state, which means the three-strike rule doesn’t apply and he was free to roam around. You and Trish are equally guilty about ignoring BD Hoffman when he tried to tell you about Canter’s past.”
His mouth hardened.
“But you knew the truth a couple of weeks ago because Dale Pendergrast told you. Trish didn’t know until I told her the day before yesterday.