The Cowboy and the Hacker (Farthingdale Valley #5)

9. Cal

Chapter 9

Cal

A t the fire pit, the air outside of the ring of fire was cool, making Cal wish he’d brought along the new jean jacket he’d found in one of his boxes. But it wasn’t too bad, so he stayed put on the blanket-draped hay bale and tried not to think how freaking dark it was.

There were no street lights in the valley and, above the orange and gold glow of the flames leaping up from the fire pit, only more darkness. Except, were those stars?

He tipped his head back, looking up and up into the bowl of black.

The strangeness of the valley would wear off in time, just like the strangeness of prison had worn off.

Cal had gotten used to the regimented schedule where every minute was accounted for. He’d gotten used to the shiny floors and the horrible smell of the cafeteria. He’d gotten used to staying in his own little world and counting off the minutes until he was released. And he’d gotten used to talking to Preston from the other side of the glass in the row of visiting booths.

Normally, after the kind of crime he’d committed, he’d have been given access to the open visiting area, where families and guests could visit their inmate while sitting around a circular picnic table made of metal and attached to the floor.

But Cal had made sure to be extra aggressive, which meant his file was updated to not allow him in the opening visiting area. He’d looked it up. If you were violent, you had privileges taken away. Which meant that for over a year, Preston had not been able to touch him. Until today.

He wished he’d come up with a way other than prison of getting away from Preston, but for a while, he’d been safe. Now that he was outside the prison, Preston was bound to figure it out and track Cal down.

How long would that take? Preston was smart, so probably not very long. Cal had a short window in which to figure out what to do.

Maybe he’d sell the boots and the hat and get a bus ticket to anywhere, far, far away. What were they worth? Maybe three hundred bucks. He was wearing the cowboy boots now, and they were so comfortable and looked so cool, he knew he didn’t want to sell them.

“Hey, Cal.”

Cal looked up. Zeke loomed over him, his features limned in flickering firelight. He wore his cowboy hat and held a flashlight in his hand.

“Mind if I sit?”

Cal wasn’t about to say no because Zeke was his boss. He couldn’t really trust Zeke, or anyone. Prison had taught him to move slowly, make friends even more slowly. You didn’t want to get in with the wrong crowd.

And yet.

Zeke also moved slowly. He didn’t sit down as though he had a right to, being Cal’s boss and all. He was waiting for permission, all handsome and tall and patient.

“Sure.”

Zeke settled on the hay bale beside Cal, and it was strange, but now Cal felt a little warmer. Maybe Zeke’s broad shoulders were blocking the wind. Maybe it was just the close presence of another human being. Maybe it was the stillness that Zeke brought with him that wrapped around Cal like a warm blanket.

Cal knew he shouldn’t trust that stillness either, because it could explode into rage at a moment’s notice. Or even without notice, but it felt so good it was hard to keep resisting it.

“You ever have s’mores?” asked Zeke.

“When I was a kid,” said Cal. His voice came out rusty, like he’d not talked to another human being for centuries. And he was not a kid. He was an old man at twenty-four, or at least it felt like it.

Zeke held his hand out, and someone came by and handed him a bunch of things: a bag of marshmallows, a chocolate bar, a nicely pointed wooden stick.

“We need graham crackers,” said Zeke.

Cal looked up at him, at that face, the expression shadowed by the brim of the cowboy hat. Did Zeke expect him to have some in his pockets?

He wasn’t sure what to do, and it made him freeze in place, though it was ridiculous for him to be wired like there was danger abounding. There wasn’t, right? There wasn’t. He took a long, slow breath, trying to make himself calm down.

“I think Blaze has them,” said Zeke, now.

Cal had met a lot of guys at dinner, but which one was Blaze? Oh, the tall one, with dark hair and a sassy grin that he was aiming at Gabe, one of the other team leads, like he simply didn’t care that Gabe was his boss. Like he wasn’t afraid of Gabe at all.

“Can you get them?”

“Sure.”

Cal leaped to his feet and went over to Blaze, who was standing on the other side of the campfire. From this position, as Cal waited while Blaze handed out a stack of squares to someone, Cal realized he was near the lake. That he could hear the lake water lapping against the shore. That he was, really, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere.

He shook off the sense of panic as hard as he could, took the four squares of graham cracker, and hurried back to the hay bale where Zeke waited.

As he sat down next to Zeke, his sensation of disconnect turned into something else, something more like familiarity. Zeke was still an unknown, but so far, nothing bad had happened. Maybe nothing would.

“Here you go,” said Cal. He held out the four squares to Zeke. Would he ever get the hang of normal life?

He sat down and focused on making a s’more, keeping his motions slow, the way Zeke’s were. It was comforting to follow Zeke’s lead.

Laughter came from the other side of the fire as Cal roasted his marshmallow. He watched Zeke look up to see where the sound came from. Watched Zeke’s slow gaze and the shift of his shoulders as if he was removing himself from the noise and into his own silence again.

That was kind of interesting. In prison, when the laughter started up, it was raucous and loud. Other prisoners would go over to the sound, as if with the intent to build it up, make it explode. But Zeke, he simply observed and stayed where he was, in his own world. Which was very peaceful to be near.

Cal knew he couldn’t count on the peace, but for the moment, he sank into it, and ate his s’more, and checked with sideways glances as Zeke ate his.

“I’m more of a savory than sweet kind of guy,” said Zeke as he sucked a bit of marshmallow from his thumb, his focus on the dwindling flames of the campfire.

“What?”

“I’d rather have steak and potatoes than cake,” said Zeke.

Cal turned this revelation over in his mind. Sure, he got it, now that he had an example in front of him.

“I like salt.”

Now Zeke’s focus was on him, the shadow of that hat brim hiding anything that would help Cal navigate his way through this very close, almost intimate, conversation.

“Like, um.” Cal paused, tasting the sugar from the chocolate on his lips. “Salt and sugar. Bugles and a Coke.”

“What are bugles?” asked Zeke. “Like a trumpet?”

“It’s a snack. Cheetos. Doritos. Bugles. Very salty, very good washed down with Coke.”

He felt stupid saying it, but Zeke only nodded, like it was an everyday thing to collect personal information and store it away for when he might need it. Or like he maybe was interested in Cal as a person, distinct from his status as a parolee.

Zeke didn’t have a second s’more, so Cal didn’t have one, though he sensed he could have if he’d wanted to. That Zeke was the kind of guy who wouldn’t lash out with criticisms like the ones Preston used to fling. You need to eat more vegetables. Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking skinny, it’s all the shitty snacks you eat . And so on.

Cal did his best to shake this off and enjoy the moment he was in, rater than focusing on the past. When the evening ended and the fire was doused, and Zeke stood up, Cal stood up, as well.

“Where’s your flashlight?” asked Zeke, hefting his in his hand. He looked down at Cal’s empty hands and added, “You need one to navigate the darkness. To get back to your tent.”

“Um.” He’d forgotten his flashlight.

“I’ll walk you,” said Zeke. “You’ll remember next time.”

Zeke walked Cal back to his tent, leading the way, going slowly along the path as if he knew how out-of-place Cal felt. He’d grown up in a city, and the cool air swirling all around him felt new and different, as if each step he took was on an alien planet, with dangers lurking in every shadow.

“There aren’t any bears, really,” said Zeke. “No matter what Bede fears.”

Bede was the scary-looking guy with the tattoos along his neck and muscled forearms who didn’t look like he was afraid of anything. That he was worried about bears could almost be comical if that thought didn’t raise the fear of bears, which could be hiding in the woods this very minute, waiting to pounce.

“Here’s you,” said Zeke, waving the beam of his flashlight over the wooden steps to Cal’s tent. “Next time, be sure to zip your tent closed, so the mosquitoes and moths don’t get in.”

“Will do,” said Cal.

“When you go to take a shower later, if you do, be sure to bring your flashlight with you,” said Zeke, businesslike, but still warm and friendly. “Breakfast is at seven-thirty. You’ll hear the bell. See you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning,” echoed Cal, realizing that it sounded like Zeke expected Cal to take up his things and trek through the dark woods to the facilities for a shower. And that he’d come back in one piece, safe and sound, to sleep in his lonely tent.