Keeping Promise Rock (25 page)

DP @Benny—get lost, Shorty!

Crick @Benny—Jesus, Benny, get out of our conversation, wouldja!

Benny @Crick@DP—*ROFLMAOSTCAYUAL*

Crick @Benny@DP—I’m afraid to ask.

DP @Benny @Crick—‘And Yakking Up A Lung’

Crick @DP—Jesus.

DP @Crick—Welcome to my world.

Benny @Crick @DP—bye guys—love you both.

DP @Benny We love you too, now let us sign off!

Crick @DP—I love you different.

DP @Crick—Me too.

Deacon didn’t know the young black man at the door, but the guy smiled winsomely at the pudgy nine-month-old in Deacon’s arms, so Deacon liked him on sight.

“Hi—I’m, um, Andrew Carpenter… I don’t know if Crick told you about me?”

Deacon blinked. Damn… it had been in one of his early letters, but Deacon had been dealing with other shit then, and….

“Lieutenant Francis, um.” Andrew grinned brilliantly, the gap in his white teeth doing nothing to make him seem any less trustworthy. “He might have referred to me as Private Blood-loss?” And with that, the young man held out a jean covered ankle that was obviously prosthetic, and the lightbulb went on.

“Private Blood-loss!” Deacon was delighted. “Come on in! It’s great to meet a friend of Crick’s!” He turned his head over his shoulder and called out “Benny! We’ve got company for dinner. Throw on more cheese, darlin’, I know you’re dying to!”

“Will he settle for another steak?” she called back cheerfully, and Deacon turned a smile at Andrew. “Steak good?”

“Steak’s great!” the boy said enthusiastically, and Deacon laughed and ushered him in out of the early November rain.

A couple hours later, after Benny and Deacon had heard the whole of Crick’s walkabout from the point of view of the guy being hauled around 168

the desert, Deacon couldn’t remember when he’d laughed so hard or felt so proud of Carrick.

“Jesus, Private….”

“Andrew, sir.”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “Deacon, Andrew—anyway, that’s not the version we got from Crick.”

“No,” Benny added, “but we did get a whole lot of Crick wanting to shoot, strangle, or bludgeon Private Jimmy to death—and now we know why!”

She poured Andrew a glass of milk, since that was what they were drinking, and they all took a collective breath. Parry Angel gave a little squeal from her high chair. She was eating pasta and vegetables, only mashed, and was wearing an attractive little halo of it around her fat, pink cheeks and even mashed into her fuzzy brown hair. Benny looked at her and sighed.

“You know, I was going to feed her, but no, Uncle Deacon had to let her play with her food!”

Deacon blushed. He was pretty damned indulgent, and he felt bad.

“Here—I’ll clean her up before I go feed for the night….” Benny slapped his hand and laughed. “Stop it—I like bath time!

Besides, you took her three nights running. She’s going to forget she has a mama!”

Parry Angel gave another squeal and started banging on her high chair shelf, excited by all the by-play, and Benny gave Deacon another shooing motion with her hand. “Go! If Comet doesn’t get his extra carrots, he starts getting cranky!”

Deacon held up his hands in mock surrender and moved toward the entryway to get his coat.

“Sir… Deacon,” Andrew said, rising, “can I come out and see the horses?”

He did more than see them—he helped feed and asked about care and, in the end, leaned over the half-door and fed Comet his carrots.

Deacon let him—their last muckraker had needed to move on to college, and Deacon had yet to find another lonely kid to help them out with the small stuff. Muckraking was like laundry—it never stopped, and it only got uglier if you let it pile up. He moved around in Shooting Star’s stall for Keeping Promise Rock

a bit, getting rid of the horse crap in the wheelbarrow they took out to the compost pile out back. They sold the compost to a local fertilizer company—another one of the small ways the ranch made money. Horses took a lot of food and a lot of care. Everything from boarding, breaking, and training other people’s animals, winning show prizes, giving riding lessons, and regular donations from Even Star’s wonder-cock helped to keep The Pulpit
in the black. The animals they bred and broke themselves made up the bulk of their income, but it was all part and parcel of a successful business, and it was a life that Deacon wouldn’t trade for the world.

Deacon pushed the wheelbarrow out of the doorway and closed the door behind him, turning around to find Andrew holding out a couple of carrots. Since Deacon had been heading for the carrot bag anyway, he took them thankfully and offered Shooting Star her treat. She took it and tried to take a couple of Deacon’s fingers with them. Deacon shoved her head away with authority.

“Greedy old bitch—that shit doesn’t play with me, never has.” Deacon moved to take the wheelbarrow then, and Andrew grabbed the handles instead. “Where do you need it, Deacon?” Deacon was a little surprised—helping to feed was one thing, but hauling horseshit was something completely different. Deacon was quiet for a moment as they walked out to the compost pile far behind the barn, and his “Crick sense” started to kick in.

“Private Carpenter, is there something you’d like to talk about?” Andrew dumped the wheelbarrow, after having—apparently—

proved that his prosthetic wasn’t going to hold him back from any chore.

“Sir….”

“I’m just a guy, Andrew—Crick’s the officer.”

“You’re a CO, sir—anybody can see it. Please, just let me…. I’ve been in the military for two tours, right out of high school. That’s three and a half years, sir, and they just cut me loose. I’m….” Andrew put the wheelbarrow in its customary spot, leaning it against the stable wall.

“I’m at a loss, sir,” Andrew said at last, looking at Deacon in the dark. “I… I had nothing going for me in my hometown, even less now.” He indicated his leg. “Crick—he came by and visited when I was getting 170

ready to be moved out, and… he just made this place sound perfect. And he’s right. It’s perfect. And I’m lost.”

Deacon blinked. “Andrew—are you asking for a job?” Andrew shrugged. “I know you can’t pay much—I saw some cots and rooms in the stalls, and a little shower cubicle back behind them. If no one’s using them….” He shrugged and looked away, the gesture showing Deacon how very much he needed a place, a haven, and Deacon wanted to oblige. But first, a little bit of truth.

“Look, Private….”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew—we’re short a muckraker, and I’ve got no problem feeding you and giving you a place to stay and a meager-assed salary, but first….” Oh God. Deacon had always known Crick was fearless, but coming out to a stranger was a first for him. He took a few steps out toward the nearest open pasture and looked up at the full November moon powering its way out around the big, dense gray clouds that had dumped on them all day.

“Andrew, Benny’s got Crick’s old room, and Parry Angel’s got mine. It’s a three-bedroom house. Where do you think Crick’s going to sleep when he gets back?” Well, that was one way to approach it. Deacon kept his eyes on the moon for a while, wishing Levee Oaks wasn’t quite so close to Sacramento so he could see more stars.

He heard Andrew grunt when the situation sank in. “I assume he’s going to sleep in your room, with you, sir.” Deacon turned and looked over his shoulder. “Our room. The kid painted it for us before he left. Still want that job, Andrew?” Andrew met his eyes and nodded, no doubt whatsoever. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Kid, you’re going to have to stop calling me sir.”
DP @Crick—Met a friend of yours today. Had a totally different
take on wandering around the desert.

Crick @DP—Lies, all lies. How is Private Blood-loss?

DP @Crick—Helping your sister with the dishes and getting ready
to move into our stables.

Crick @DP—That’s damned nice of you, Deacon.

DP @Crick—He’s a nice young man. And he’s apparently very
liberal.

Crick @DP—Liberal?

DP @Crick—He knows where you sleep.

Crick @DP—That was brave of you.

DP @Crick—You taught me everything I know.

Crick @DP—Bullshit. I model everything you taught me.

DP @Crick—Go away. I have to find a space heater and a sleeping
bag.

Crick @DP—Say it first.

DP @Crick—I love you, Carrick James. You make me proud every
day. I miss you enough to scramble my brains—howzat?

Crick @DP—Incredibly humbling. Love you back. Crick out.

“Dammit, Deacon, you’re losing weight again!” Crick was appalled—it was their Christmas computer visit, this one landing square on Deacon’s birthday, and Deacon looked like hell.

Deacon gave him a tired smile. “Sorry, Carrick. I… It’s been a rough month.”

“Where’s Benny and the baby?” Crick hadn’t realized until this very moment how much he’d wanted to see the baby smiling, active, in something besides the myriad twitpics that Deacon sent to him on a daily basis.

“They’re at the hospital, getting fluids—I’m sorry, Crick—I told you we were getting sick… it got bad this morning.” Deacon scrubbed at his face with a hand that shook so badly Crick could see it through the computer. Off range, a voice said, “Deacon, dammit….”

“He’s got a half-an-hour, Drew,” Deacon said with grim patience.

“I’m not going to waste it.”

Crick felt his helplessness at the far end of the world. It hit his chest like a posthole digger hit hardpan, and he got a terrible surge of fear and adrenaline.
This must be how they worry about me all the time.

“What do you all have?” he asked, and he noticed that Deacon didn’t deny that he was just as sick as the girls.

Deacon shrugged. “Fucking flu. It’s gotten a little less virulent since you left, but….” His whole body shuddered—Crick assumed it was with fever and fear. “The baby—it hit her the worst. It’s….” Deacon’s voice choked and he squared himself up. “If you don’t mind making a little peace with a higher power, Crick, this might be the time for it.”

“What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re AMA, asshole!” Andrew barked from off camera. “Don’t lie to him, dammit—he should know.”

Deacon shot him a glare that was weakened with illness and worry.

“They’re gonna turn me loose tomorrow anyway,” he snapped. “I may as well be here now.” He turned back to the camera. “Don’t listen to him, Crick. He’s worried, that’s all. He’s gotten sort of attached to us this last month. It’s sweet that he doesn’t want us to leave.”

“I should be there,” Crick said numbly, the weight of the last eighteen months crashing on his head.

“You’re goddamned right you should be!” Deacon said harshly, almost out of nowhere, and Crick’s head snapped back in shock. Deacon scrubbed his face again. “I’m sorry. Dammit—I’m sorry—I don’t want to yell. I… you know, it doesn’t matter if you’re home or there in the middle of the fucking desert, Crick, if you’re not here to hash it out, we’ve got to make it all good. So it’s all good. You understand?” Crick’s face was cold, and his stomach was knotted. He’d had a bad feeling when Benny and Deacon’s texts had gotten terse. They’d said there was illness, but they hadn’t mentioned the fucking apocalyptic plague there in his home.

“You should have told me how bad it was,” he said at last.

“We didn’t know until this morning,” Deacon told him, and Crick had no doubt he was being honest. “Besides, Carrick, there’s not much you can do anyway. I’m just as glad you’re not here to get it, if you must know the truth.”

They talked some more, and Crick promised to try and get a hold of another time slot so he could see the baby. At the end, he could do nothing—he could only look at Deacon, haggard face and bleary eyes, mouth “I love you,” and hope nobody saw. Deacon mouthed the words back, and Andrew’s dark hand appeared to haul him physically away.

Crick staggered out of the tent feeling like shit twice and practically ran over Lisa on his way.

“Hey, Crick, how’s the family?”

Her chipper voice sort of tapered off as she saw his shell-shocked face, and when he rasped, “Sick as hell,” she grabbed his arm and took him to the commissary for an ear and a beer.

To say that they “waited” for news during the next two days was like saying that the guy on the roof of his house during a flood “waited” for rescue. When Crick didn’t get any texts at all the next morning, Lisa found him huddled in the ambulance as it sweltered in the truck bay, his arms wrapped around his knees as he rocked himself back and forth.

“Whatcha doing, Lieu?” she asked cautiously.

“Praying,” he muttered. “I suck at it.”

“You’re doing it wrong,” she said flatly. “I’m not big on church, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to do it with a friend.” And she sat across from him for a half-an-hour in the broiling heat while he muttered,

“Please, God, let them be all right” and not much else into the echo of the bus.

The next afternoon, Crick’s phone buzzed for the first time in nearly three days.

Benny @Crick—Me and the baby are back at home and fine.

Crick @Benny—Thank God. Deacon?

Benny @Crick—Hospital won’t let him out. He’s conscious now
though.

Crick @Benny—CONSCIOUS?

Benny @Crick—Dumb bastard shouldn’t have snuck out. Christ he’s
stubborn, Crick—only listens to you.

DP @Crick @Benny—Bite me, litle sister, Im fine.

Benny @DP—I’m not talking to you until you’re home, asshole.

Dammit, Deacon, you should be asleep.

DP @Benny @Crick—Din’t want Crick to worry.

Benny @DP—Tough. We’re all worried. Drew’s worried, Patrick’s
worried, Jon and Amy’re worried.

DP @Benny—KEEP AMY AWAY—she’s pregnant!

Crick @Benny @DP—Was anybody going to tell me?

DP @Crick—busy wk ere notim e

Crick @DP—Sign off, dammit. Sleep. Get better.

DP @Crick—wan seeu gain

Crick @DP—I promise. Deacon, I promise, okay? Go to sleep.