49. The Struggle Bus
THE STRUGGLE BUS
EMBERLEIGH
“I’ve never been one to sit around,” Pop says, bouncing lightly in Braxton’s recliner.
“I retired”—he emphasizes the word—“because it was the right time. But it wasn’t because I planned on sitting on my ass like a wart.
I’m still young, as far as I’m concerned.
Still get up and help with the day-to-day, just don’t have the seventy and eighty-hour weeks.
But it was easier when I was working. We have too much excitement around here now. ”
“Afraid my father is formidable. I’ve wondered for a while now if this is about Colt or if it’s really about him.
I know he loved Em. I don’t doubt he loves Colt, but—” I reach out my hands as if I can show Pop his own ranch through the walls of Braxton’s house.
“Look at this home. Look at this ranch. There’s no way my father can’t imagine the life his grandson could have here.
Doesn’t look like prep school and lacrosse or water polo, I’d imagine, but it isn’t the struggle bus either. ”
“The struggle bus?” The twitch on Pop’s lips is worth a smile, but a knock on the door wipes the expression off his face as well as kills my returning good mood.
Pop waves me to the kitchen and leaves the recliner, hand going to the holster on his belt.
I do as he asks, though the window to the porch means that anyone who wants to do us harm would have visibility to our positions.
“Who is it?” Pop calls through the door.
“FedEx.”
He slowly pulls the door open, and a man stands there, box extended. “Carrington?”
“Who’s asking?”
Between the truck and the logo on his shirt, we should be convinced. The small box with the FedEx shipping label from my phone company seals the deal. The young man hands over the box, and Pop grabs it to place on the table near the door.
The delivery driver reaches behind him and whips out the keypad to sign, but the movement is wrong. The gesture somehow looks like a gun being drawn.
Pop’s gun is out of the holster and facing the threshold when the driver freezes. The square black plastic falls from his hands and clatters to the floor.
His face blanches of all color as his gaze bounces between the pistol and the device on the floor.
“I… Uh, I… You have to sign,” he stammers, but gestures with his chin to the inventory handheld that wouldn’t normally be mistaken for a gun.
I’m suspicious and, no doubt, Pop is too.
He kicks it back toward the porch with his booted foot and the carrier is faced with the decision of whether or not to retrieve it.
He quickly reaches to grab it. He scrawls across the screen and mumbles something I can’t hear before a pop halts his complaints.
He groans and topples, blood spraying from his chest.
“Shit! Em, get down. Call 911 then Braxton.”
Pop drops to the floor, and I stay glued to my spot by the refrigerator watching him crawl below the low window line. He drags the delivery man from his position—mostly in the entryway—into the house, swinging his legs around to close the door.
There’s an accompanying groan as I watch the man’s face get paler and paler.
“Stay with me, man. EMS will be here quickly.”
Pop looks to me. “Emberleigh. 911. Brax. Now, darlin’.”
My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “I don’t have a phone.”
He takes his phone out of his pocket and offers it to me just as a window in the living room shatters.
He ducks and covers his head, crawling behind the sofa.
He isn’t visible through the windows but nor is he safe from whizzing bullets.
He slides his phone to me across the tile floor while saying, “Stay low. Get to the hall closet. Dial EMS first. Sheriff should still be here. Make sure they don’t walk into a trap. ”
I grab the phone with shaking fingers and dart down the hall. I hit the panic button in Braxton’s bedroom for the alarm system to notify emergency services.
I open Pop’s phone as I go to the hall closet at his direction. It takes two tries to get to the phone app after seeing his text to Braxton. It simply says Mayday.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Gunshots. Man hit.”
“Location.”
“Ranger Ranch.”
“Address?”
I give it to her after fighting to remember the street number and explain our location on the property.
“Stay on the line.”
For no reason at all, calm washes over me. My adrenaline isn’t spiking or leaving me. I’m clearheaded in crisis and able to tamp down the panic. I flip the phone to speaker and move to the text app.
Me: It’s Emberleigh. Gunshots. Man down. Pop is fine. Sheriff still here?
Me: DO NOT walk into a trap.
Me: Is Colt okay?
Braxton: Who’s hit? You okay?
Me: On the phone with 911. Need an ambulance. Colt?
Braxton: Who got hit?
Me: Delivery man. Second shot came later. Will need a window replaced.
Braxton: Where’s Pop? Where are you?
Me: With the man. I’m in the closet.
Braxton: Stay there. On our way.
Me: IS COLT SAFE?
“Ma’am, an ambulance is en route. ETA four and a half minutes. Can you meet them at the door?”
“I’m in a closet.” Silence meets my ears.
I continue because I can’t explain, and there’s other shit to do. “Tell them to be safe please. I know it sounds stupid, but still. If they park as close to the porch as possible, they should be able to get inside with the most protection from what’s happening.”
“Relaying that message.”
“Also, Sheriff Gonzales is already on site, so I’m guessing he’s communicating directly as well if you see additional movement.”
Braxton: …
Me: Are you trying to kill me with the bubbles?
The door in front of me swings open, and I’m frozen with fear.
But only for one second, because Braxton stands there, bold as brass. The next second, I’m in his arms. The phone clatters to the floor with the EMS woman still talking on the other end.
Braxton dips his head and kisses me quickly, but with almost brutal intensity. There’s nothing inviting about it. It’s possessive, owning, hard.
He grabs the phone as he tags my hand and leads me to the living room where the sheriff’s deputy, whose name I should remember, performs CPR on the delivery man.
Pop, covered in blood, and in only his undershirt, drags a hand down his face and locks his gaze with me.
His eyes say what his mouth will not. The man is dead, and no amount of chest compressions will change that.
All for a phone.
No. All for a baby. Colt!
“Where is he?” I turn to Braxton and demand.
“He’s safe.”
“Where?”
“Not going to say in case the walls have ears.”
“I don’t care!”
Braxton turns fully to me and cups my cheek, squatting enough to meet me at eye level. “You do. He’s your whole world, and I’m protecting him and loving you by not telling you. Trust me, Emberleigh. I’m trying to protect our family.”
I was shocked before. Now I’m flabbergasted. He just said so much in four sentences.
I stand with my mouth hanging open as he moves to the door, allowing EMS in to take over for the deputy, who falls to his butt and covers his face with his hands.
And that’s when we hear the next pop.