Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
CALDER
Dad’s Bel Air is loaded onto a trailer and hooked to the pickup Bowen’s been using.
My brothers and I are silent on the way back to Crossroads.
The car doesn’t run, two tires are flat, and one is off entirely, but it’s not like any of us will be restoring it.
I rest my elbow on the passenger window and inhale the old, comforting scent of Dad’s Montecristos.
Has the scent been haunting Bowen? Or does he find it comforting? Probably a mix of both, like me.
“We could just take it to the dump,” I say as we approach the turn to take us to the ranch.
“We could.” Bowen keeps squinting out the windshield and slows.
“Why not?” Landry adds hypothetically.
But Bowen turns. Neither Landry nor I argue.
He rolls down the driveway and stops at the large shop doors.
I hop out, and Landry does the same. We roll the shop doors open.
I don’t know about Landry, but I avoid looking inside while we wait for Bowen to back the trailer in. None of us have entered this space yet.
Bowen backs up, but the trailer starts going cockeyed. He has to stop, drive forward, and readjust. I snicker, and he shoots me the finger out the driver’s window.
“Make sure you turn the radio off so you can see better,” Landry calls.
“You can fuck off too,” Bowen shouts and finishes backing the trailer to the door.
The older shop is for ranch equipment and repairs.
Dad had this shop built before I hit high school, after the brewery was running and bringing in a nice profit.
Then the oil fervor died down and the traffic in and going through Scandal did the same, but the shop was already built and dedicated to the care and restoration of this car.
Bowen’s door shuts, and I jolt. Time to face the ghost of our dad.
When we first spotted the car at the impound lot, the damage was startling.
The passenger side is battered, and the windshield is mostly missing.
The taillights are busted out, and bits of broom grass and foxtail stick out from the crevices, and from the exposed engine where the front fender got knocked off.
Dirt remains scattered across the seats.
When we picked it up and loaded it onto the trailer—it can still roll, poorly—we played nonchalant around Sheriff Dietz.
He blustered and grumbled about what a shame it was, how it could’ve been prevented, and that no one saw it coming.
He rattled off crash details, and we didn’t ask questions.
Then he returned the keys, and that was it.
No camera, and no interest in who could’ve been in the house.
If you find out something was stolen, then let me know, was all he said.
But looking at the car, I want answers. I don’t know the right questions to ask, but something feels off.
My phone buzzes. So does one of my brothers’. Silent isn’t good enough. I shut the damn thing off. Bowen does the same thing with his, and I suspect Landry’s already turned his off. We’re three workaholics, but nothing seems as critical as facing a piece of history that’s become our present.
Landry undoes the straps holding the car in place, and together, we push and roll it down the trailer ramp.
I face the front, trying to picture the crash scene like some morbid movie I can’t pause.
Dad laughing. Holly grinning. Then… a deer?
A duck with her ducklings crossing the road? What the hell did he swerve for?
“Meredith thinks it doesn’t make sense.” I don’t think it makes sense.
Landry trails his fingers over the red-dented body of the car, deep in thought.
“The guard rail must be destroyed,” Bowen looks over the wreck like he’s trying to replay the crash like I am.
He hasn’t been there yet? If I hadn’t looked for the camera, I might not have gone out there either.
“No, it wasn’t. Just the end is mangled.”
Bowen lifts his brows. “You’ve been the to the crash site?”
“Meredith wanted Holly’s camera back. I looked for it, but no luck.”
“Maybe some fisherman walked off with it?” Bowen doesn’t sound confident. None of us have questioned Meredith about Holly having it on her. It’s not at the house, and we haven’t moved Dad or Holly’s stuff. If she really was into photography, the camera would’ve been laying out somewhere.
“I’ve been there too.” Landry stops at the back end and inspects the driver’s side.
“You have?” He never mentioned it.
He only nods, his expression impassive. “There’s a chunk busted off the guard rail, but I can’t believe there isn’t more damage if he hit it hard enough to roll. And then there’s the passenger side.”
“I know what you mean.” Bowen takes the same path Landry did, running his fingers over the frame.
I follow him, taking in the damage. “Dietz said the dents are from rolling.”
Bowen frowns, steps back, and props his hands on his jean-clad hips. “Maybe a car from the past decade, but this old tank? How many times did Dietz say it rolled?”
“He estimates twice.” I clench my hands into fists.
The indifferent way Dietz talked to us continues to crawl under my skin and fester.
He respected Dad, and grief from the loss of a friend was in his voice, but he brushed off the cause of the accident.
“How fucking fast did he have to be going to roll twice?”
“Dietz can tell us,” Landry says.
“His investigation was shit.” Bowen meets my gaze.
“Agreed,” I say. Sheriff Dietz has seen many tragedies, many of which were motor-vehicle accidents.
I can’t say why I feel like he should’ve looked into this crash more, but I do.
“It doesn’t feel right to us, and Dietz would argue we’ve been gone so long we lost touch with Dad.
But Meredith says it doesn’t feel right, and other than Holly, she and Sawyer were the closest to him.
He wouldn’t risk Holly and the car for a deer, and he didn’t speed in that thing. ”
“He could’ve that day.” Landry continues to circle the Bel Air. “A guy’s gotta live once in a while.”
Holly couldn’t take pictures going fast, and if Holly had wanted to snap away, Dad would’ve coasted along for her. He was the same with Mama.
“Possible.”
“We aren’t going to have answers,” Landry says. “That’s the awful thing about accidents. Maybe we should be grateful we didn’t have to watch him waste away.”
The reminder of Mama cracks a healing fissure open. “Hell of a silver lining.”
Landry shrugs. “No point in getting hung up on the past.”
Sawyer drives by in the old blue pickup—only, this time, there’s a guy in the passenger seat.
Bowen rubbernecks until he loses his balance. “Who the hell is that with Sawyer?”
“Probably another vet.” I didn’t get a good look, but I haven’t seen Sawyer with a single person other than Meredith. “Meredith said she used to date one of the guys she works with.”
He’s still frowning. “If she needed help, why wouldn’t she call me?”
“Why would she call you?” He doesn’t want to admit it, but he cares about the ranch and who’s on it.
He grunts. “I’ve been helping her and Carlos this week.”
“She might need another vet’s insight.” Is this less about a possible injury, more about the sight of another guy with Sawyer?
“And our phones are off because we just got done hearing a guy who grew up with Dad tell us about his accident like he was bored.” Bitterness drips from Landry’s tongue. He cares too. Neither of them wants to. Nor do I. Yet I have to figure out what to do about it.
With a scowl, Bowen takes his phone out.
He taps the toe of his boot against the ground as he waits for it to fire up.
I don’t bother with mine. If Sawyer needs an extra pair of hands, I’m going to trust her judgment.
She might’ve talked to Meredith and known not to call Bowen for help because we were picking up the car.
“Nothing,” Bowen grits out. “I’ll text Carlos.” More boot-tapping. His phone buzzes almost immediately. “Shit. There’s a hoof crack in a bull, and she needs more help than just Carlos. They didn’t want to bother us.”
“Thoughtful of her.”
Bowen’s brows draw farther together.
Landry rounds the rear of the car, still inspecting the damage. “Sounds like she’s got it in hand. Or do you want to head down there and make sure the other vet doesn’t have her in hand?”
Irritation flares across Bowen’s features. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Landry glances at me, and I nod. Bowen’s acting more like me when I saw Tanner hug Meredith at the funeral.
I wanted to break that man’s arms and dump him in a ditch.
Just thinking about it makes me want to stalk out of the shop to my vehicle.
But Meredith’s at Jules Creek, and I have more issues than being a jealous ass.
If that’s what’s motivating Bowen, my life could get a whole lot easier.
He’d understand a fraction of why I’m not pressuring Meredith to sell.
He’d form an attachment to more than his company.
I wouldn’t worry that one day, he’ll be like Landry and just never answer.
I’ve always done what’s best for them, but this is the first time I’ve had to fight for what I really want to do.