39. Indie
Chapter 39
Indie
I ’d cried for him. Beau Rogers is not the man I thought he was. He carries himself like the world doesn’t bother him, like it should be grateful to him for existing, but when he’d told me his story, so matter-of-factly calling himself a stray, I’d crumbled.
A child. A baby. Left on the streets to survive.
“So Tripp’s dad just let you stay?” I ask once we start walking again. I’d held him together there on that street, knowing I was probably making a mistake by not shying away from his warning, but I’ve long since accepted these men are going to leave their mark on me. Why stop it at this point?
“Not willingly,” Beau admits. “Tripp refused to train unless he let me stay. He got the shit beat out of him for fighting for me, but eventually Fred accepted I was there to stay. Once Fred Senior stepped in and demanded I earn my keep, they put me to trainin’, too. I was the right color, so he didn’t mind. Ram, on the other hand, couldn’t even step inside the barn while either of them was around. Tripp and I trained him at night.”
With every new fact, my heart shatters a little more for the children that were forced to live in that environment. I’m not sure how much more I can take before I start apologizing that I wasn’t there to help them. Fuck, I was a kid myself. What could I have done? Even now, I’m not sure I can offer them anything of worth.
“Don’t do that, little outsider,” Beau coos. “We are beasts of his making, but no matter how hard he beat us, we never fit into his picture. Like trying to force squares into circle holes. Ram shoves that in his face with every win. I do with every time I step on the dirt as a rodeo clown rather than the bull rider he tried to make me. And Tripp? Well, Tripp wins every time he wins.” He tilts his head toward me. “Between you and me, Fred was never as good as Tripp or his own father. That’s why he hates Tripp so much. He’s the real legacy.”
I blink, realizing that Tripp’s accomplishments do outnumber his own father’s and his grandfather’s. Frederick Savage Senior may have started the legacy, but Tripp has kept it going out of sheer spite. Sometimes, spite is all that gets us through life. I get it.
“I just. . .I can’t imagine living in a house like that,” I murmur. “It’s no wonder Darla is so angry.”
“Yeah,” Beau nods. “She don’t deserve the way she’s treated, but she sure does make it hard these days to pity her.” He shrugs. “She’s never liked me. I remember her as a bully when she came to live at the house, all pink bows and nasty insults. I never blamed her. It’s in her blood, after all.”
All of these souls stained by one man’s legacy. God. I’d said something stupid by telling Tripp he had a good legacy. I can’t believe I told him that without understanding what really went down. He was drunk, so hopefully he doesn’t even remember that.
Which makes me realize suddenly why they don’t do interviews. For the legacy to live, it can’t be stained by reality.
Fuck.
“Hi!” someone exclaims, drawing me from my thoughts as we walk. I glance toward the voice and blink at the pretty woman standing behind the table. She’s wearing what I can only call a costume. Cow print chaps cover her jeans, a matching vest buttoned across her chest. She’s wearing a disco ball cowgirl hat, and her bright smile somehow puts it to shame. “Would you like to buy some honey?” she asks. “Fresh from Circle Bee. Last of the batch until spring time.”
I smile and step closer to the table. “I love your outfit,” I tell her.
“Aww, thank you!” she beams. “I’m a cosplayer, so it’s kind of my thing.”
“No shit? That’s pretty cool,” I say, glancing at Beau. “I think you two would get along.”
The woman looks at Beau. “Oh? You cosplay?”
Beau grins. “Let’s just say I like flashy clothing. Freddy Mercury style.”
“Right on,” she gushes, and then holds out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Fable Everhart. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Indie Chen,” I say. “This is Beau Rogers.”
Her smile brightens. “Ah, I know you, Beau Rogers. Or at least, I’ve heard of you. Pretty sure everyone in Steele talks about the Crimson Three at least once a week. We have a lot of legends here. It’s so refreshing being surrounded by greatness all the time.”
“You’re not from here?” I ask.
“Gosh, no. I’m originally from Florida. I moved here last fall. Showed up for a month long stay at Circle Bee, fell in love, and never left,” she says. “Where are you from?”
The man sitting behind her glances up with a soft smile toward her, but doesn’t say anything. He’s massive, tattoos along his arms and his long hair loose around his shoulders. I wave at him, and he tilts his head toward me, but that’s the extent of our interaction.
“Arizona,” I admit. “Hey, so this is weird, but I’m a journalist. Do you think it’d be okay if I took a photo of you and your booth in case I write an article on Steele?”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Fable says. She steps back and poses. “How about like this?”
“Perfect,” I say, stepping back to get the whole booth in the picture. “Thank you so much, Fable. And I will take a jar of that honey.”
“Yay!” she says, clapping her hands together. “That’ll be ten dollars.”
I leave her booth with a promise to call her if I write the article at the phone number she gives me and a smile on my face.
“You like it here,” Beau comments.
“What makes you think that?” I ask, eyeing him.
His dimples dip in. “Just a hunch.” He gestures toward the old newspaper stands. They’re empty and look like they’ve been so for a while. “You know, we haven’t had a newspaper in years, not since Old Man Gary died.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. Just stating a fact.”
I look back at the stand, confused, before Ram appears in front of us, interrupting our walk, a bag in his hand. “Hey. Mom says she has it from here. Y’all ready to go track down Tripp?”
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the bag.
He looks down at it and grimaces. “Oh, this? Naomi got me for more of her moonshine. Terrible stuff, but she’s so happy when she sells it, I can’t say no. Pretty sure she gets the whole town that way.”
I laugh. “You know, that’s weirdly sweet of you.”
The Rusty Spur is at the end of the town, just past a large dance club called the Boot Skoot. Though it’s early in the day to be drinking, it’s open and there are cars in the parking lot, but none of them are Tripp’s truck. Apparently, he’d parked it at the opposite side of town near the park. When we walk inside, the hole-in-the-wall bar isn’t much more impressive on the inside than it is out, the walls covered with weird stickers and ripped one dollar bills everyone seems to have taped there. Some of them have stuff written on them. Others look like they’ve been there for decades.
Tripp sits at the bar, his head on his folded arms. His eyes are closed, and he looks like he’s sleeping.
“’Bout time y’all got here,” the bartender says when he sees Beau and Ram. “Your boy came in here and downed almost a whole bottle of whiskey in ten minutes. He passed out about five minutes ago. Figured I’d leave him there until either of you two showed up or he woke up.”
“Thanks, Rick,” Ram says, slapping a hundred dollar bill on the bar. “Tip for your troubles.”
“Much appreciated,” he says, sliding the hundred away. “You three take care now.”
Ram and Beau each grab an arm and wrap it around their shoulders before they lift Tripp from the barstool. His eyes open from the movement and he groans as they move him away from the bar. Together, we make our way down the sidewalk, picking the street opposite the farmer’s market, but we can’t escape the looks of those we pass anyways. No one looks surprised, which makes me wonder how often Tripp gets black out drunk at the Rusty Spur.
The park comes into view, and I get a good look at the large bronze statue in the middle of it. It’s a large bull, a man riding it, his arm in the air in the proper position as the bull bucks.
Tripp’s head lolls. “You proud now, grandpa?” he mumbles to the statue. “You fuckin’ bastard.”
His head tips back and he slumps like a sack of potatoes, Beau and Ram having to adjust him to keep their hold. I glance from him to the statue as they go to help him into the backseat of the truck. The statue is larger than life, imposing, and though it’s in bronze, I know if it had color, those eyes would be bright blue and angry. I know that I’d see that exact same anger down through the entire bloodline.
After all, pain travels through families until someone is ready to feel it.