The Cowboy and the Hacker (Farthingdale Valley #5)

10. Cal

Chapter 10

Cal

H e’d gotten used to the sounds and movement of Wyoming Correctional, with the way it was so brightly lit, even to the point of being lit at night, which sometimes made it hard to sleep. He’d gotten so used to all of that , and now here he was again, having to adapt.

Could he do it again, in this new environment? That was the question.

He managed to get his flashlight, grab his stuff, and scurry through the darkness to the showers, where he showered in record time, and got dressed while his hair was still dripping down the back of his neck.

There were a few other guys showering as well, laughing and talking in low voices over the tops of the sturdy shower stalls. Maybe they were in the same stall? It was hard to tell. Cal didn’t stick around to make sure, but made his way back to his tent through the darkness.

He’d left the single lightbulb burning and the tent flaps open when he’d gone to the campfire earlier, so of course there were at least five crazy moths swirling around the bulb. One of them flew into his face as he went in, making him curse under his breath as he batted it away and zipped the tent flap closed.

It took a minute to orient himself as he put his stuff away on the little white shelf between the two cots. Then he stood there, awash with the realization that he soon would have to turn off the light and crawl into bed.

It would have to be done, there was no two ways about it. In prison, if you admitted you were afraid of the dark, you would get hell for it. And it wasn’t that Cal was afraid of the dark, but this wasn’t city dark, or the still brittle-bright prison dark. It was country dark. And that was worthy of some extra protection.

Cal tipped the flashlight on its end, and turned it on, and let the beam make a wide circle on the ceiling of the green canvas tent. Then, holding his breath, he turned off the overhead bulb.

With the flashlight on, the tent was still pretty bright, so Cal made himself crawl into bed and pull the covers up to his chin. For a moment, he listened to the night settle around him, the moths bumping into the edge of the flashlight, and took slow, deep breaths.

He’d managed to adjust to prison. He could manage to adjust to this.

He went to sleep with this comforting mantra in his head. But he had a bad night because when he woke in the morning, he was stiff all over, as though he’d been holding himself tightly to ward off the danger that was sure to be lurking.

The flashlight was still on, his hand still curled around it, so he sat up and flicked it off, and realized how bright it was, with the light glowing through the green canvas, warming the air.

Just what time was it? He scrubbed at his hair and blinked and yawned. Then stiffened as he heard heavy footsteps clonking up the wooden steps to the tent’s platform.

“Cal?” asked a voice.

It was Zeke.

“Yeah?” asked Cal, almost croaking the word.

“You missed breakfast, so I brought you some,” said Zeke. “Can I come in?”

In prison, the guards never asked permission. In the apartment, Preston, while he might have started off being a charming host, had, in recent years, barged in on Cal regardless of where he was.

“Sure.”

The sound of the tent flap being unzipped drew all of Cal’s attention to it. He was mesmerized at the sight of Zeke carrying a small, cardboard drink tray with two paper cups with lids, and a small white paper bag, the top folded over, a small circle of grease near the bottom.

He carried the tray in one hand, and zipped the tent screen closed behind him with the other, all without spilling a drop or dumping the bag. Sunlight streamed through the screen, along with fresh morning air, and the sound of birdsong.

He strode in, freshly shaved, looking bright and chipper and utterly capable and just so amazing, that Cal’s jaw just about dropped open.

Then Zeke stopped, and Cal had a glimpse of his eyes widening and then narrowing, as if he didn’t much like what he saw.

“What happened to you?” Zeke asked.

“What?” asked Cal. Then he looked down.

He’d slept in his briefs, like he always did, and with the sheet shyly winding around one knee, he was pretty much on display. As were the bruises from his last encounter with Preston, only a day ago. Which Cal had forgotten about. Shit.

Finger marks on the inside of his elbow looked almost black in the sunlight. There was a curve of a bruise on his left hip, where Preston had grabbed him. There was probably a circle of marks around his neck, also from where Preston had grabbed him hard and kissed him.

There was no hiding any of this, but Cal didn’t know what to say.

“Um.”

Preston hated it when he didn’t speak clearly or hesitated. Preston had berated Cal for every little thing; it was a wonder why he wanted Cal around at all.

Zeke was looking at him as though trying to translate Cal’s response into something more meaningful and intelligent.

“Did someone at Wyoming Correctional do this to you?” asked Zeke, his voice stern, nostrils flaring.

“It’s a long story,” said Cal, finding some words at least. “It wasn’t anyone at the prison. I’m okay. I bruise easy.”

With a quick shake of his head, Zeke came closer and placed one of the coffees and the paper bag on top of the little white shelf, then sat down on the other unmade cot with the other coffee curled in his hand.

Cal was not fooled. The subject would come up again. For now, Zeke was giving Cal space, time and, it seemed, breakfast.

“There’s an egg sandwich in that bag,” said Zeke. “I had the cooks make you something.”

“What time is it?”

“Just after eight,” said Zeke. “I thought you were eating at another table, then discovered you weren’t there. I looked for you.”

Cal took a long drink of his coffee, perfectly sugared, and tried to figure out if Zeke was admonishing him or just stating facts. And couldn’t.

He tucked away a small flare of pleasure that Zeke had been looking for him because he hated the fact that he caused Zeke any trouble at all, and focused on the bag with the egg sandwich, wrapped snugly in aluminum foil, and still warm. As he ate, his stomach seemed to sigh with pleasure.

“The food’s really good here,” said Cal, mumbling around a pretty big bite.

He half covered his mouth so he wouldn’t come off as totally rude, talking while eating, and told himself he shouldn’t be angry with himself for not being able to get a read on Zeke, as he’d just met the guy.

“Yeah, it is,” said Zeke. When Cal took a swallow of his coffee, Zeke took a swallow of his, as if in sympathy for Cal’s early morning blurry state, then said, “Sure you don’t want to tell me where those bruises came from? They look pretty fresh.”

“They are fresh,” said Cal without thinking. “I mean?—”

Helpless, he scrambled around in his brain for a likely explanation, but as a bit of butter dropped on his bare thigh, he could see that the bruises on his arms and hip were quite clearly hand and finger shaped. Quite clearly new, colored dark, edged with purple. Those bruises hurt as he looked at them, but when he looked up at Zeke, all he could do was shrug.

“It’s just something I gotta deal with,” he said.

“They’re not from anyone here in the valley?” asked Zeke, with a gesture of his hand, a swipe left and right, like he wanted to check that off his list. And, if it had been someone from the valley who’d hurt Cal, he’d be taking it up with them and pronto.

It was such a strange reaction that it unhinged something in Cal’s chest. Was Zeke looking out for him? Normally Cal considered himself pretty self sufficient, Preston’s abuse notwithstanding. He just needed a little time to figure out his next step, and he sure could use?—

—someone like Zeke looking out for him. Not babying him or coddling him, but standing guard, like he was now. On the alert that something was very out of place and that he’d do something about it if Cal would let him.

“Was it from a prison guard?” asked Zeke. “The driver?”

Cal shook his head. Zeke to the rescue. And oh, how Cal wanted that. But it wasn’t safe to give it up too soon, so Cal tucked his feelings back in and tried on a smile.

“Neither of those,” he said. “Thanks, but like I said, I need to figure this out on my own.”

It felt as though he’d pushed Zeke away with both hands, and hard. Maybe so hard that Zeke would consider the matter closed and never offer help again.

As Zeke nodded and stood up, a part of Cal cried out, No, wait. It was Preston. You gotta help me. I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried everything and it won’t be long before he’ll be storming in here ? —

“Well,” said Zeke, standing there, tall in the tent, his head almost brushing the light bulb. He finished off his coffee, and held out the empty cup, which looked small in his large hand. “See you in about half an hour at the paddock,” he said. “Do you remember the way?”

“Sure,” said Cal. The egg sandwich had gone cold in his hand, and he’d forgotten all about the coffee as he’d looked up at the tall strength that was Zeke.

“I figure we’ll go over what you know and discuss a schedule for riding lessons for the parolees.”

“Yeah,” said Cal. His heart was thumping. Quite soon, Zeke would discover that Cal didn’t know anything about horses, and then his confusion over the fact that Cal wasn’t opening up about where his bruises came from would turn to disgust. “I’ll see you there.”

Maybe when Zeke found out the truth, he’d blast Cal to hell and back, or smack him around, or kick him out of the program. At least, with the latter, Cal would truly be in the wind, and Preston would never, ever find him.