Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dillon was about to lose his shit.
New Year’s Day at the Gardner ranch this year consisted of a bunch of hungover cowboys, all surly as hell, all waking up so late that the fucking bullfighters ended up doing the animal feeding.
He and Tracy rounded up dogs and kids and shit, making pancakes and sausage like a well-oiled machine, but if one more asshole growled over their midday coffee, Dillon would pour the whole pot on said asshole’s head.
Coke and Nate came in from feeding, both of them bright eyed and bushy tailed, poking at each other and laughing.
That sight was enough to bring Dillon’s shoulders down from around his ears. “Look at those two playing cowboy,” Dillon said, tickling Tracy in the ribs.
“I know, right? Adorable as hell.” She leaned closer. “I told Nate this morning that it was fixin’ to be time to blow this Popsicle stand. I mean, it’s been fun, but…”
“Shit, yes. They’ll have all the help they can now that the holiday is over. Local folks and all.” Dillon wanted to grab Coke and scurry before anything else happened.
“Exactly.”
Coke had Nate down in a headlock, giving the man a noogie. They bumped into the chair where Denver was sitting and the lanky cowboy growled a bit.
“Hey, now,” Nate said. “Not my fault you’re all grumpy, bud.”
“Shit, no. That’s the evil beer.”
“Well, there you go.” Nate chuckled.
Coke gave Tracy a kiss on her forehead. “Good morning, lady.”
“Morning, Coke, honey. Come and eat.”
“Smells amazing.” Nate hugged Tracy tight. “Even Dillon looks good when there are pancakes.”
Coke gave him a long once-over. “Yep. Not bad. Not bad at all.”
Brenda and Jack wandered in, suitcases in hand. “We’re going to stop and see the babies and head out to Beaver’s Bend for our honeymoon.”
“Oh, that sounds nice,” Dillon said. Beaver’s Bend? Who named these places?
“I got us a cabin. My friend Lew says they’re gorgeous.”
Coke nodded easily. “Nice area. Good for kayaking and canoeing.”
Dillon stared. How did Coke know this shit? Had he grown up near there? When was he going to stop being surprised by things Coke said?
Dillon smelled something burning, so he turned back to the stove. Whoops. One dead pancake.
“The dogs will eat it, cowboy. No worries.” Coke came to him, poured a coffee. “You need a warm-up?”
“I would love one.” He would love that, a store bought doughnut, and an orgasm, please.
“Good deal. Which cup’s yours?”
“The Halloween one.” Bats. Lord.
“Rock on.”
Coke handed him his cup, jostling against him, and the coffee splashed on him, making him wince.
“Sorry!”
“No worries, babe.” He rinsed his hand off in the sink, fighting not to snarl. Accidents happened.
“Are you okay? Did it burn you?”
“I’m fine.”
Coke frowned over at him. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” He was. Really. He was in a shit mood, but that was no one’s fault. Not really. He just needed to suck it up.
“Good deal.” Coke headed over to the table, scarred-up dark hands wrapped around his coffee cup. God, they looked like Jack’s. Cowboy hands.
Dillon poured out more pancakes, listening to the sizzle as batter hit the pan.
Jack and Coke discussed cattle and horses, goats. Goats for fuck’s sake. Like Coke had time to raise anything. He was always fixing other people. The bassets were about Coke’s speed as far as animals went.
Someone jostled Dillon’s arm, making him hit the stove and he busted out the F bomb right there in front of the kids. “Fuck! Will you all quit burning me?”
Jason ducked his head. “Sorry, Dill.”
Great, now he was screaming at the blind guy.
“Come on, son. This room is filling up. I’ll get you a drink.” Coke eased Jason into a chair, got him a cup of coffee, then went to Dillon. “You want me to help flip pancakes, cowboy?”
“I don’t know what I want.” He gave Coke a half smile. “I’m all stressed.”
Coke gave him a one-armed hug. “As soon as I get Jase on another couple bulls, I say we go home.”
“Oh, god. That sounds so good. I know I’m being a dick, but I want a week alone with you before that first event.”
“We’ll just head to Waco, then. Fair?”
“Totally.” Coke always had his back. “You’re too damned fine, Coke. You really are.”
“It’s my job, cowboy. What I’m made for.”
Dillon nodded, thinking about what Brenda had said. “Yeppers. You’re the good twin, babe.”
“What?” Coke stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“You know. Good twin, evil twin.” Dillon leaned in conspiratorially. “I know the whole sordid tale, babe.”
“I don’t understand. How?”
“Internet,” Dillon deadpanned. He’d never rat out Brenda.
“Oh.” Coke stopped, then a look of genuine pain crossed his face, like his stomach cramped. “I gotta go.”
Someone’s coffee didn’t settle, obviously.
“Okay, babe. I’ll make you some grits.” Missy always had grits. Dillon thought they were bizarre, but easy on the tummy.
Coke disappeared with a wave, and after a few moments Pansy and Jerome came to him, staring him down. Little beggars.
“If I give you sausage you have to promise not to tell the other dogs.”
He got two thumps from the heavy, white-tipped tails.
He was beginning to worry about Coke, about to go find the man, when Adam Taggart came in from outside, all frowns. “What the hell’s up with Pharris?”
Nate glanced over and frowned, as well. “What do you mean?”
“He just took my truck and hied out of here like the hounds of hell were chasing him. I don’t get it. Was there an accident or something?”
“No.” Dillon pulled the pan off the heat. “He left?”
Nate was already on the phone. “Hoss? Hoss, call me, man. Soon as you get this.”
Then Nate called again.
Cold worry settled in the pit of Dillon’s belly. What the hell? He tugged his cell out of his pocket before dialing Coke.
It went straight to voicemail, so he hung up and headed for the bedroom at a dead run. The truck keys were on the bed, Coke’s go-bag was gone, and that was…that.
What the ever-loving fuck?
“What did you do, Dillweed?” Nate asked him, blocking him from leaving the room.
“What? I was making pancakes!”
“I know! I was right there! What did you say?”
Dillon flapped his hands in the air, making the puppers dance. They’d followed him to the room. “I don’t know! How do you say something that makes someone get in a truck and drive away?”
“I haven’t the foggiest goddamn idea, man! I do know that he’s not scared of fucking up with anyone else on earth but you! You he wants to be perfect for!”
Dillon nodded slowly, replaying the conversation with Coke. “I snapped at him, then growled at Jason. Man, was that shitty of me. He told me we’d go to Waco after this…”
“He likes home. That’s not grumpy making, man. Maybe he had a stroke…”
“No.” No, that wasn’t even a possibility and Dillon refused to accept the idea. “I thanked him, told him I knew he was the good twin.”
Nate’s head tilted to the right. “Huh?”
“I was teasing him! Good twin, evil twin? You know? Like Stephen King’s Dark Half.”
“He’s not a twin, though.”
Dillon blinked. “Sure he is. Was. I found it online, and Brenda said he was dead. The twin.”
Nate shook his head. “What did I tell you about leaving the past buried, man? How many folks can find all this out, online I mean?”
Dillon pursed his lips. “Not many? I mean, I had to know a lot about him and I had the need to know.” Dread replaced the worry. “What did I do, Nate? Why would that make him leave?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I told you, that’s a sore spot. It hurts him. It was bad, Dill. Jail time bad. He wants to be your hero.”
“Jail time?” Dillon blinked again, feeling as though someone had hit him upside the head. “Can you give me a minute? I-I need to try calling him again.”
“Sure, Dill. I’m going to go… I don’t know. Stand somewhere.”
“Nate.” He caught Nate’s sleeve. “You know it doesn’t matter to me, right? You know I would never think badly of him.” Dillon needed Nate to tell him he knew that.
“Shit, I know that. I think that Hoss knows that. Hoss is ashamed and that does things to a man, twists him”
“It does.” Dillon wondered if he would ever understand Coke’s guilt response. “Thank you, Nate.”
“Hopefully he just went home.” Nate didn’t sound too sure of that, though.
“I’ll leave a message there, too.” Normally he would say Coke would run to Nate or Tag. Both were here.
Once Nate left him, he called Coke again.
The phone didn’t even ring—it just went to voicemail.
“Coke, please call me, babe. I know I messed up, and I’m worried about you. Love you.” He hung up, then got up and began packing his bags. Wherever Coke was running, he intended to follow and fix this.
That was the one certainty in his life right now. Dillon needed his Fearless Pharris.
Coke drove until the truck was on empty, then he filled up and kept going. He didn’t turn the radio on. He didn’t turn the phone on. He didn’t think.
He drove.
Nine and a half hours later Coke was on the coast, sitting in the camp he owned with Beau and Tag, head in his hands. He didn’t know what to do.
So, he didn’t do anything. He sat, maybe he slept, then he started to clean.
Lord, how long had it been since any of them had been here? The place hadn’t been broken into, thank God, but the critters were trying to take over and he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a gator living in the bedroom.
He got the hot water heater percolating, the propane tanks in the back still mostly full. He needed to wash out the sinks and the shower, make sure there were no cottonmouths in there. He didn’t even want to consider what the hell the fridge looked like.
A mental shopping list began to form. Hot dogs. Bleach cloths. Beans and rice. Some bait. Beer. Milk and Cheerios.
Coke closed his eyes because he wanted Dillon on his list, too.
Dillon knew everything, knew all about Anthony, him. It was on the Internet. Aaron Bell was on the internet.
How could he ever look Dillon in the eye again? He came from bad stock. Hell, he’d done hard time. Wasn’t no soft country club juvenile facility where Coke came from.
God, what if Ace knew?
What if the rest of the team knew?
What if random people found out? Fans. Riders.
His chest started to hurt, the pain deep, squeezing at him. Coke doubled over, the past riding him, overwhelming his good sense.
He gulped, fighting to get a solid breath, a single bit of air.
Pure panic took him like it hadn’t since he was a kid on his first day in jail, leaving his real life behind.
He threw his head back and roared, letting the sound tear out of him, the pure agony too much to bear. After there was no voice left in him, he landed right there on the floor and that was where he stayed.
Light was coming in the windows when a firm hand shook his shoulder. “Come on, old man. Police called and said you was here.”
There was the scent of coffee and pastry on the air, the blue-blue eyes of his favorite Cajun staring at him.
“There you are. I brought some muscle relaxants for you. Take ’em ere you try and move. Mason Gaudry told them a rougarou done took up residence. I know Deputy LeCoeur, though. He sent me your picture. I told him to leave you be. Reckoned if you was dead, you’d wait for friends to find you.”
Lord, Beau’d gone all chatty.
Coke held up a hand, croaking, “Get me up.”
“Take these pills and I will.”
He took the pills and swallowed them dry, trying not to choke.
Sammy handed him a bottle of water, then Beau helped him up, every inch of him hurting.
“What y’all doing here?”
“We came to see you. Police called Tag and me. I was closer.”
“Police? What for?” Coke couldn’t make things make sense.
“Shh. Worry don’t. Rest. We brought Boudreaux.” Sammy sat down next to him, took his hand.
“Hey, Bell.” He didn’t know what to say.
Apparently Sammy didn’t need him to say a damn thing, the man just reached over and held his hand and leaned their shoulders together.
Beau bustled around and Boudreaux the bloodhound bounded up to lick his face. He held on to the big drooly beast. He missed his family—Dillon and Pansy and Jerome.
What was he doing here?
“Sammy, let’s get some food in him, bien?
“Coffee, too. Beau, I would walk to have a bite,” Sammy said. He wasn’t making a whole lot of sense.
“You got it. Coke? Cher, you want a peanut butter sandwich or a beignet?”
Sammy hooted, the helmet thing weird as fuck on his poor banged-up head. “Bring the kolaches. We can make the bread after.”
“You got it.” Beau didn’t seem to have no trouble understanding Sammy, not one bit. Made him feel pretty good about things, too, that the Cajun was on it.
Beau brought a Thermos of coffee and a bag of pastries, settling on the other side of Sam. “We need to send someone out here once in a while to clean, y’all.”
“I worked on it a little.”
“We’ll get it straightened out today.”
“Y’all don’t have to stay,” Coke said, not sure if he was hoping they would take him at his word or not.
“We’re staying. Sammy needs some time on the bayou.”
“Fish need food,” Sammy said, nodding slightly.
“I can’t promise I’ll be good company.” He’d take it, though. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone with himself.
“We don’t need good company. We need a couple days at camp.”
“Then give me a donut, Cajun.” Sugar might help.
“You got it.” Beau winked at him and smiled, but didn’t ask a single question.
That was the best thing about old friends. They knew when to just not ask.