Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Rowdy disappears inside the house, my surprised exhale gets swallowed by the still air.
What the actual fuck?
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 white Chevy 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’s watching 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.
Rowdy emerges from the house, his jaw set, and returns to the truck. He drops the citation booklet on the dash and sighs.
“Did you find the sled?”
Rowdy starts the truck. “No. He must be keeping it somewhere else.”
I frown at the second house. “What about the wood?”
“He denied being in Crooked Pine that day, but he got in my face about the logging. The usual BS about it being his right because he’s an American citizen simply providing for his family and these are public resources blah blah.”
It’s not unlike the argument those shed hunters tried to throw in our faces. What’s the big deal? We’re on public land. We’re the public, ain’t we?
“Are we confiscating it then?” Now I know why he brought the trailer.
Rowdy’s lips press into a hard line. “Honestly, I’m torn. I think wood is their main source of heat. If we take it, the women and children might suffer.”
“You can’t burn wet wood though.” Meaning if he’s right, we’d be impacting next winter, and don’t we hope to have this whole cult nonsense shut down before then?
Rowdy nods, but his gaze is distant. “I think we take it,” he finally says.
A surge of energy pumps down my spine. “Yes, sir.”
Loading the contraband wood goes quickly.
Probably because they’ve already squirreled some of it away, but it mounds up on the trailer and fills half of the bed.
Rowdy and I don’t talk, and he keeps glancing past the truck as we load up, like he’s expecting someone.
Or maybe he’s just being cautious because it wouldn’t take much for someone to draw up on us.
Back in the cab, both of us warmed up from the work, I pull off my gloves and gulp from my water bottle as Rowdy turns onto the gravel road. But when we pass the big barn, something in the loft window catches my eye.
“Stop.”
Rowdy flashes me an annoyed glance, then tracks to where I’m pointing.
In the condensation in the glass are the words HELP US.
Rowdy stomps on the brakes, and even though we’re not going very fast, it throws me against my seatbelt.
“That wasn’t there when we drove in,” I say.
“Fuck.” A tiny muscle in Rowdy’s jaw twitches. “I should call the sheriff.”
I don’t like that idea one bit. It took Harlan an hour to grace the scene with his presence on Friday. That feels like too big of a risk. “And pull him away from his donuts when it could be nothing? Let’s just check it out first.”
“We don’t have permission and we don’t have a warrant.” He glances back up at the window.
“That sure as hell looks like probable cause to me.”
He grimaces, then turns the truck toward the barn. “You will follow my lead, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
We both step down to the muddy gravel, the thunk, thunk of our truck doors shutting echoing in the expansive silence.
Walking toward the barn’s yawning dark entrance, I take another sweep of the surrounding pasture to the twin bunkhouse structures on the far side of the property, then to the farmhouse with chimney smoke curling into the patchy blue sky.
But it’s like everyone’s gone underground.
Working barns are muddy spaces built for function and efficiency, so I’m not surprised to find a gritty concrete pathway between two rows of partitions used to separate the cows, each littered with remnants of the hay breakfast they must enjoy during the milking process.
A few steps in, the barn smells of cow shit, hay, damp wood, and something slightly sweet. A hint of nostalgia teases my thoughts. Sheep poop stinks too but thank god it comes in solid form.
“Hello?” Rowdy says, clear and firm. “This is Officer Whittaker and Officer Parks from Idaho Fish and Wildlife.”
“We want to help,” I add, gazing upward. Did I hear something from the loft?
A cow groans from somewhere out in the pasture, the sound tunneling through the open barn.
Rowdy and I walk down the center pathway, side by side, the soles of our boots grinding against the thin layer of muck left behind on the concrete.
The stations don’t have any machinery. They milk these cows by hand?
And I’m no dairy farmer, but aren’t cows supposed to be milked in the morning? Or did they already finish?
When I get to the ladder leading up to the loft, I don’t hesitate.
“CJ,” Rowdy warns.
“I’m just gonna look,” I tell him over my shoulder. This goes against following my lead, but he doesn’t stop me.
When I step onto the loft’s creaky planks, hay dust tickling my nose, I pause to listen.
Another cow lows, but it’s muffled up here. I walk to the window, which looks over the snowy pasture dotted with cows, steam rising from their warm flanks into the cold morning air, to the row of houses we visited. Below the window is a tidy layer of fresh green hay, flattened.
An icy chill walks down my spine. Someone small sat or kneeled here. Watched our truck drive through the compound and park in front of that house. Watched us load up that firewood.
The window is blank now, which only confirms my suspicion that the message was intended only for us.
“CJ,” Rowdy barks.
I search the loft, checking behind the stacks of hay bales, but there’s nobody hiding up here.
But someone was here. Someone who wrote that message in the window because they’re that desperate for our help. So where have they gone?
Reluctantly, I descend the ladder, but before I can give my report, a figure darkens the barn doorway.
It’s Sheriff Thomas.