Though we’ve only worked together for a short time, I can’t imagine him sweet talking or even barging his way in. That’s not the way he operates.
Which means he was invited.
And I’m supposed to just sit out here with my thumb up my ass?
Of all the scenarios I expected, this wasn’t one of them.
I shift on my feet, the crunch of sand beneath my boots dampened by the thudding of my heart.
The sense I’m being watched tickles the back of my neck, but when I do a slow scan of the driveway, neighboring house, to the farmhouse behind us, it’s completely still and silent. From the pasture, a cow lows, the sound almost mournful.
It’s fucking creepy. Activity on a farm never stops. There’s always an animal that needs tending to—feed to ration, eggs to gather, stalls to clean, immunizations to give. Or there’s a piece of equipment in need of fixing. Tractors and trucks and fences.
But here, it’s like being in a time warp.
Leaning against the truck door, I fist my hair and groan. Boredom + anxiety brews the most persistent types of cravings. I should have gone to a meeting last night. But Linnea came over and we ended up spending a good portion of the evening naked in my room. I wouldn’t trade our time together for anything, especially a meeting in a drafty basement with bad coffee, but in the light of day, I know I need to start doing a better job of prioritizing my sobriety. I need to connect with a recovery community and establish a routine. Not doing so puts me at risk.
Because this is exactly how a relapse happens. I take one little misstep, maybe break a promise. Ignore an intention. Then maybe I tell a teeny white lie. Miss another meeting. Check the ranch cupboards or fridge for something I could filch. Like those beers. Or maybe someone’s got a stash of peppermint schnapps or Vodka. One little taste, just to take the edge off.
No.
I shake my head for emphasis. I’ve come too far. Worked too hard.
Maybe I want that taste, but I want my sobriety more. Especially now. I’m finally working the job I’ve dreamed of. Learning. Growing. Proving my worth not just to Rowdy and the rest of the IDFW crew but to myself. And I’ve met someone I care about. Someone I could see building a relationship with, maybe even a lasting one. True she’s being cautious, but Bear’s right to remind me that Linnea’s been deeply hurt. I can and will be the man she needs. I can be patient.
Just one taste, and it all falls apart.
I won’t let those cravings own me ever again. And right now, I have a job to do.
With one hand resting on the butt of my Glock, I walk to the garage and just like Rowdy, I peer inside, using my free hand to shield my eyes. There are three bays. The far one is empty, a whiteChevy Trailblazer occupies the middle one, and a flatbed trailer with two distinctive black shapes occupies the final space. Disappointment ebbs in my chest. The lumps look too small to be the Polaris Rowdy tracked down. I’m about to turn away when the interior door from the house opens, and a man leads Rowdy into the garage.
He's tall with thinning hair and a paunch, dressed in a plain white T-shirt and black cargo pants. He’s also armed. Not that it’s a huge surprise. Open carry is legal in Idaho, but the sight of it is sobering. I shrink back but keep my eyes on Rowdy, whose face is stoic but there’s an alertness in his movements. Before the door closes behind them, a young woman in blue leggings and a T-shirt pulled tight over her pregnant belly and with a baby on her hip flashes past, barefoot, her steps hurried.
The man leads Rowdy to the black lumps on the trailer and pulls back the first cover. It’s an older model and not nearly as nice as the one we’re looking for. The second one is its twin.
Rowdy’s eyes catch mine through the window. My heart jumps into my throat. I slink back, and moments later, the door inside the garage closes.
A baby starts crying, but I can’t tell if it’s the one I saw on the woman’s hip, or if it’s coming from the neighboring house. It’s such an eerie sound in this too-quiet place.
I run a hand through my hair, feeling useless.
Everything about this place feels wrong.
Rowdy emerges alone, his eyes dark. “You were supposed to stay with the truck.”
“Connect any dots?”
He grimaces, and for a split second I think he’s going to punish me for disobeying by withholding his answer. “This isn’t Tolbert’s house,” he says in a low tone. “But I’m sure that was the guy who shot at me.”
I lean sideways to view the front door because I swear someone’swatching us, but there’s only the muffled crying from the baby. Even the trees are motionless.
“Are we gonna check that one?” I tilt my head toward the bigger house next door.
Rowdy nods, then fixes me with a stern glare. “Stay in the truck this time.”
I exhale the tension in my chest. “Yes, sir.”
Rowdy walks next door and knocks. This time I have a better view, so I know immediately when it opens that this is Tolbert Browning’s house. He’s dressed similarly to the first guy, including the hefty firearm on his hip, and appears delighted to invite Rowdy inside. Though it kills me to sit here like a dog, I use the time they’re gone to commit the compound to memory. I also take a few videos so I’ll have a way to review the layout.