Hard 5 by Stephanie Brother
27
I leave Lady to run in the paddock and head back to the house, wiping my sweaty brow with the cuff of my shirt. Regret settles in my stomach, and embarrassment too. What kind of person am I to put my resentment before the Bradfords’ safety and livelihood? Not the kind of person that my momma raised me to be, that's for sure. As I round the front of the house, I notice the front door is ajar. That's strange. I'm certain we locked up this morning but maybe, in our haste to leave and my excitement about a day out with the boys, we forgot. By the time I'm close enough to notice the splintered edge to the door, my heart is already racing.
Stopping abruptly, I swivel, noticing the indentations in the driveway from wheels that have spun and turned at pace. There were people here. People who broke in while we went out to find dead cattle at the ranch perimeter. People who could still be here?
I don't know what to do. Should I sprint back to Lady and alert Cash and the others? They have enough on their plate right now, don't they? I take a step closer to the house, craning my ear closer. There's no sound coming from inside. No sign that there is anyone still here.
I take another step closer and then another, making sure my feet don't make a sound against the dirt. Another and another, and I'm close enough to glance into the window. The kitchen looks empty, so I make my way forward tentatively, glancing over my shoulder the whole way. At the door, I take a deep breath, stepping into the kitchen, straining to hear anything that might give an intruder away.
The house is silent, so I take another step inside. From here, I can see into the whole kitchen, and it's a mess. All the washing up has been swept off the counter onto the flint-tiled floor. Chairs have been overturned and drawers torn from the cabinets and emptied onto the floor. Everything that I did to make this disheveled house into a home has been undone. It's like I was never here at all.
And then I notice something in the corner.
Big Boy's bed is upside down, and Big Boy isn't here.
He's always here. The poor old thing only moves to relieve himself or, on occasion, to seek out a pat from the boys or me. Maybe he's somewhere in the house, scared out of his mind. Maybe he's hurt. My fear for Big Boy makes me forget the danger I could be in. Instead of tiptoeing, I run forward, calling his name. I rush through the house, making my way into each room, looking under tables and beds, desperate to find him.
He's nowhere.
Maybe he went outside during the disturbance. Maybe he ran through the open front door because he was scared.
I check all around the house and in the yard, but he's nowhere to be seen.
He's too infirm to get any further. His legs simply wouldn't have carried him, even if he was scared.
It's then that I know.
The Bradfords need to be taught a lesson. That's what Jethro Flint said. He's poisoned their animals and ransacked their home. Who knows what he's taken from the house? Paperwork. Money. Other sentimental valuables that can't be replaced. This isn't just about getting back the wealth they feel has been stolen from them. If it were, they would've taken the cattle rather than inflicted death. They would have tried to get as much as they could.
The Flint's have taken Big Boy, not because he's worth anything, but because the Bradfords love him. If you want to hurt someone, you don't take their things. You hurt what they love the most.
A sob bursts from my mouth, and my hand flies to my face. This is my fault. Everything's my fault.
The key to the truck is still in the bowl. I race out of the house, leaving the ravaged door open. I jump into the truck and speed out of the driveway, a rising trail of dirt rising behind me as I make my way off out of Hard Valley Ranch and onto the road to town. I drive past the sign to my old home, blinking at the house that used to be mine, the size of a matchbox in the distance.
I don't even know where I'm going. The Flints live somewhere in town, but where?
The only place I can think of to go to is the hardware store. Rob might know where I can find them. Or if he doesn't, he might know of someone who does.
The journey seems to take a hundred years. My foot is practically to the floor, and the engine of the old truck growling like a tractor as I try to extract as much speed as I can from the vehicle. When I reach Main Street, I slow just enough to be safe and throw it into the first parking spot I can find. I don't bother to lock it, just sprint until I'm bursting through the door of the store, twisting my head and straining my eyes for Rob.
He’s over by the tools, loading packets of screws and nails onto the rack. He turns at the ring of the bell. "Melanie?"
"Do you know where Jethro Flint lives?" I gasp.
"Jethro Flint? You don't want to get involved with a man like that," Rob says, rubbing his hands on his work apron. "He's a million times worse than the Bradfords."
"Just tell me where he lives. He's gotten something of mine, and I need to get it back."
"What's he taken?"
"It doesn't matter, okay? Please, can you just tell me?"
Rob shakes his head and purses his lips, obviously very reluctant. "He lives with his brother in a singlewide over on the McCafferty trailer park. You'll know which one because he's attached a makeshift wooden porch to it, and there's a pile of beer bottles rested on their side. But you shouldn't go there alone, Melanie. Do you have someone to go—"
I'm out of the door before he finishes his sentence, leaping into the truck and speeding away without fastening my seatbelt. McCafferty's Trailer Park is on the outskirts of town in the opposite direction to Hard Valley Ranch. It's down a long dirt track and cleared out from an area of forest, so it's hidden from the road and only visible when the road opens into a cleared lot filled with rusted old vehicles, discarded furniture, and assorted trash. There are around twenty trailers that I can make out, and none have a wooden porch. The one I'm looking for must be toward the back.
Again, I leave the truck unlocked, jogging between the trailers, scanning to make out one that fits Rob's description.
"Hey girl, are you looking for me?" It's a man slumped on a stained white plastic chair, beer bottle in hand, but it's not Jethro or his brother.
I don't answer, and he shouts after me as I disappear around another trailer. The air is filled with the smell of cooking and the taint of trash bins that have been warmed in the sun and not emptied in time to keep them sanitary.
And there, in front of my eyes, is a flimsy wooden porch, clinging to a trailer that looks like it's being propped up by a stack of glass bottles. If the Flints don't have liver failure already, they're definitely making good progress toward it.
I slow my pace, looking from side to side. Children whoop in the distance, but the Flints' trailer door is closed, and the atmosphere around it is still. I pad closer, my heart pounding and blood rushing in my ears like radio static. Big Boy could be inside, and so could the Flints. Now that I'm here, I have no idea what I'm going to do.
But if Big Boy's not here, where could he be?
I don't even want to think about what they could have done to him. If they're prepared to kill cows to get revenge, they're capable of almost anything. I clench my fists tightly, my nails biting into the skin of my palms as I get closer. The windows are filthy and stained yellow by nicotine and neglect. The Flints have no pride in this place, and it shows. I risk popping up my head to look in the window, ducking down again quickly. Glancing from side to side, I smooth my sweating palms on my jeans and risk looking again. It seems empty, but then I catch a movement—a brown shape on the floor in front of an old sagging sofa.
It's Big Boy.
He's alive.
A whoosh of breath cools my lips, and I risk testing the handle on the door. It's locked, and I hiss in frustration.
How am I going to get inside? My dad taught me a lot of things that girls don't usually get taught. I know how to mend fences and grow crops. I know how to help a cow birth a calf that is lying awkwardly, but he never taught me how to break a lock on the trailer owned by a thieving asshole.
I try the handle again, this time risking rattling it and pushing at the door. It's fruitless, but frustration is bubbling inside me, and I just don't know what else to do.
Inside, I hear a familiar whine. "It's okay, Big Boy," I soothe quietly, even though he can't hear me. I wish he knew I was out here. Maybe that would make him feel less scared.
There's a pile of old bricks next to the trailer one over that catches my eye. Maybe I can use the brick to smash the handle right off the door. Maybe the door would open then. I grab the brick, scratching my knuckles in the process enough to draw blood.
"Dillan, get over there right now, you little shit," a woman calls in the distance. A door slams, and a dog that isn't Big Boy barks loudly, and my heart is practically leaping out of my chest from fear.
"I'm coming, boy," I whisper, gripping the brick in my hand and using all my strength to bring it down against the white lever handle. Paint flicks from the metal along with dust from the brick. I do it again, the clang of stone and steel jarring my ears. Another whine sounds from inside as I thwack the handle again. "Come on, you stupid fucking piece of shit," I hiss. "Come on." Another thwack, and still the handle holds. Then all of a sudden, there a roar from inside, and the door is thrown open, almost hitting me in the face. As I jump back, Jethro Flint's brother rears over me.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
He's wearing a vest that is straining over a large belly and a pair of striped shorts that cut under his gut, emphasizing the hugeness of his torso. His eyes are bloodshot and half-opened, and even from a distance, I can smell beer on his breath.
"You've got my dog in there!" I shout, hoping someone from an adjacent trailer will hear me and come looking for the disturbance.
"It's my dog," he says, stepping out of the trailer and onto the dirt, despite not wearing any shoes.
"That's my dog, and you know it. You need to give me that dog right now, and I'll go. I won't say anything to anyone, okay? Just let me take the dog."
His smirk is lopsided and packed with teeth that are yellowed from cigarettes and neglect. "You think you can come here and make demands, and I'm just gonna say yes. Get out of here."
I duck around him, shouting for Big Boy, praying he'll find some super-canine strength and burst out of the trailer and into my waiting arms. He's big, but I could carry him for a short while if I needed to. I get close to the door and hear Big Boy whine again, but the brute grabs hold of my wrist and yanks me back.
"Where do you think you're going?" he says, leering over me.
Cold seeps through my veins, the deep thud of my heart dulling everything around me. Time stills as my eyes flicker across his wild eyes and mangy beard, the sweat patches under his arms and stain down the front of his shirt. His body smells of chopped onions and raw meat, and his fingers are like blunt sausage encircling my wrist completely. Snatching my hand back does nothing to dislodge it from his grasp. I can hear Big Boy's claws scratching on the linoleum, and I shout for him again as I'm tugged further away from the door. "LET GO OF ME! BIG BOY, GET OUT HERE!"
He yanks me again, and I'm off my feet, stumbling to stand straight. "GET OUT OF HERE!" he roars as my whole body tenses and recoils. My wrist burns as the skin is twisted in his sweaty palm. I slap his arm, then try to prize his disgusting flesh away from mine, but nothing is working. I'm weak, and he's strong, and for all my fear and rage, I have no power against him.
"LET GO OF ME!" I shout again, and this time, I lash out, catching him in the face with my open palm, my finger making contact with his wet eyeball. His hand flies to his face and releases me in the process, and I'm running toward the trailer, but Big Boy is out of reach, and a huge shadow is looming behind me. He's too fast, and I'm not going to get caught again. I duck around the trailer, running as fast as my legs will carry me, and at least in this way, I can outmaneuver him.
There's no way I'm getting Big Boy from this trailer by myself. I'm going to have to go back to call Cash and admit what's happened.
It's then that I realize that I left my phone on my nightstand this morning, and I have no idea what Cash's number is.
I'm at the truck when it sinks in that I'm going to have to leave Big Boy in the hands of that brute and drive back to Hard Valley Ranch for help.
I just hope I can make it in time.