Hell and Gone

by Tal Bauer

“I’m definitely calling the sheriff.”

When they pulled up to the Sheriff’s Department downtown, three hours later, the parking lot was packed, stuffed full of deputy sheriff cruisers, a bedraggled local photojournalist sitting on the hood of his faded Honda and smoking a rolled cigarette, and three Endless Sky ranch trucks. Cowboys loafed beside two of the trucks, leaning on the bed eyeballing Lawrence and Everett as they rolled in.

Murder could unmake the man who’d survived, sometimes.

“I found this in the field by his body.” Everett pulled the thirty-aught-six bullet casing, sealed in an evidence bag, from his backpack.

He pulled out the casting he’d made of the slender horse’s print heading away from the high pasture and the murdered Endless Sky cowboy.

“Public lands,” he said softly. “We have to close them down, Darby. We’ve got a murderer coming off these trails and invading private land. Not to mention our rustling problem.”

He cleared his throat. “Sheriff, with all due respect, I have to challenge the coroner’s findings. I believe Carson Riley was murdered. And if that’s the case, there’s reason to suspect that suicide note isn’t genuine.”

“And,” Everett said carefully, “in light of all of this, I would like to officially recommend opening a missing persons investigation on the two Heart’s Rafter cowboys. Dell and Aaron.”

Howell stood, facing his men. “That’s enough!” he barked. “We are not turning vigilante!

“Dan, form up a posse. I’m deputizing you and anyone who rides with you,” Braddock said.

He jogged outside in time to see Lawrence roaring down the road in his truck, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust.

When he asked where the steakhouse was, she pointed across the street. It might have harkened back to the mining days or had been the original saloon when Timber Creek first laid its foundations in the 1800s. Now, it was a dusty, tired kind of place, with creaking saloon doors and faded maroon wallpaper.

“No problem at all, sir.” Everett pumped his hand and squeezed again before letting go.

That worry, and being a corpse deliverer, had put a strain on Lawrence Jackson’s shoulders.

“Lawrence Jackson is an intense man. He can be loud. He can be contrary. But I never saw him violent while we were riding.”

“All I know is, everythin’—and I do mean everythin’—circles around that man.”

He’s still searchin’ for somethin’. Or someone. I know it. He needs someone to come and bank those fires he’s got blazin’. Settle him some. Gentle the wild bronc that lives inside him ‘fore he breaks.

Not a single soul in the whole world cared about him anymore. Not the ghost of the man who’d lost everything.

Three shots of bourbon with Braddock in his office,

He’d slept wrapped in Lawrence’s sleeping bag, though, lulled by the man’s scent.

Words churned in his mind, his inner voice already shifting into that slowed-down drawl, finding canyons and empty spaces between vowels while words dangled their ends.

A man had opened his window, was crawling through it like a lumbering bear. Large, broad-shouldered, with a barrel chest, narrow hips, long legs— The man grunted, rolling as he landed hard. “Army?” he whispered.

He’d gone through a thousand windows.

Behind them, they heard a door get kicked in, wood splinter. Heard gunshots, the crack of a shotgun and a rifle splitting the night. Shouts. Curses.

“Follow me,” Lawrence whispered. “And move fast.”

A hundred yards in, two horses waited, picketed to a tree. They munched on grass and snorted as Lawrence approached.

“That is the last time you lie to me, Lawrence Jackson. Where did these horses come from?”

“I have a stable,” he said softly. “No one knows. I been raisin’ and breedin’ horses, sellin’ them far away. These are some of mine.”

“C’mon. Get on up.” Lawrence held out his hand. “We’ve got to ride bareback together back to the ranch.”

Lawrence faced Everett, buck ass naked in the river.

As Everett dunked himself, Lawrence grabbed river sand and scrubbed his arms and legs, his underarms and his crotch. All the parts where he could leave a scent trail. Everett mimicked him, stealing glances as often as he could.

A sagging single-wide trailer squatted in the dirt, the paint flecked and missing in patches, the wood around the base rotted away.

Me, I never was for women. Knew it all my life.

No, you’re tryin’ to fix a different murder, ain’t you? You’re relivin’ your past.”

It had been too long. Two years and eight months and fifteen days too long. Since he’d kissed a man, since he’d touched another man the way he wanted. Or since he’d been touched the way he wanted.

Lawrence knew himself, the very center of himself. He was everything Everett was not, solidity made flesh, certainty shaped into a man. Everett chased ghosts and steered clear of shadows, flickered away from the past like a candle shying its flame. Meeting Lawrence was like meeting an immoveable force of nature. He was the mountain, the peak, the steadiness. And Everett had blown up against him, wind-torn and ravaged, a broken thing thrown away, discarded from life and everything he’d hoped for.

Groaning, Everett captured Lawrence’s lips, tasted him, pulled him close with both hands. Lawrence wrapped him up, Everett’s body almost disappearing in his massive hold. Everett was no small man, but Lawrence was almost double his size.

Battered wood paneling lined the walls, peeling in areas. Plastic lawn chairs surrounded a laminate table next to a tiny galley kitchen.

“You have a beautiful smile,” Lawrence said softly.

He looked at Everett like he was something worth looking at. Like he was something Lawrence wanted.

“Let go, Everett. I got you.”

He’d ached for this, for holding someone tight, for being someone’s special someone. For being a shelter at the end of the day to a man, letting him unburden himself in Lawrence’s arms. He’d always wanted a man who could face him down under the sun and lie down next to him at night. Hadn’t met a man yet who wanted to look him in the eyes and stay by his side. Or who wanted to live with him and not fight him.

Everett chuckled, and it smacked Lawrence in the chest, the punch of that smile. His thoughts fled, scattered, and he stared at Everett, struck dumb, for a long moment.

Ain’t much in this world I can do, ‘cept ranchin’.” Everett’s eyes sparked. He smiled again, and Lawrence’s breath hitched. “And fucking.” “You just say the word, Army. I’ll make love to you anytime.”

Eventually, Everett pushed Lawrence back and straddled him, pushed down on him, and rode him like Lawrence was a bronc he was taming.

There’s a rider coming in from the back pasture. He’s just ridden out of the woods.”

At the crest of the hill sloping toward the ranch, the rider pitched sideways and fell from his horse.

Everett cleaned Connor’s wounds as best he could, plucking the dirt and rocks and debris from the ravaged flesh. He wrapped the belt above Connor’s elbow and yanked, tightening it until Connor’s skin buckled, and then strapped it down.

“Now,” Everett said, meeting Lawrence’s gaze, “we call the sheriff.”

Everett stepped forward. He held out his hand and tried to smile. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “But I think my life is getting better.”