Round Trip

ROUND TRIP

a novel

by

Stephen Ore

Copyright © 2018 by Stephen Ore

Cover photo Copyright © 2018 by Margaret Ore

Cover art stylized by Heather Hickman

This work of fiction is the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any event or person is coincidental. Names of specific places such as towns, roads, ranches, lakes, mountains, etc. are used fictitiously and may not accurately describe the actual venue or its inhabitants.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Raven Publishing, Inc. P.O. Box 2866, Norris, MT

www.ravenpublishing.net

Prologue

Damn Dog! Matt slowed to a stop and doubled over. Usually, he could will his body on, but not this time. Usually, he’d enjoy a brief rest. Not this time—not with a dog in hot pursuit.

The worst of the climbing was behind him. Rugged, treeless peaks lay just off to his left, several thousand feet up. He wasn’t headed there. But while the land ahead wasn’t level by any means, compared to what he’d just gone through, it would be easy. Some long ago glaciers scoured the next couple of miles, leaving behind a network of jumbled boulder ridges and piles. An occasional lily pond or marsh broke up the dense stands of lodgepole pine trees.

Matt figured to increase his pace and maybe shake the men following his trail, though he’d felt a lot more optimistic before he realized they had a dog. Fallen pine needles or rock covered the ground he would pass through, and no human could track him if he made a serious effort to hide his trail. But the dog, trained for that very thing, would have no problem regardless of terrain. Even as he caught his breath, the distant baying of the dog seemed to be closing in.

Matt had seen three men when they rounded the open slope soon after he first heard the dog. Matt recognized Jim even in the distance. Something in his movements, his controlled intensity reminded Matt of a predator. Jim had loomed large in Matt’s life during the last few days, and the memory was not pleasant. From the way the two unknown men struggled to keep up. Matt didn’t worry about them. Jim was a different matter.

Matt had spent little time around Jim during the previous summer. The big man stayed close to Mr. Pickett when they were at the ranch. As a mere ranch hand and garden helper, Matt didn’t run into them much. But he saw enough to know that Pickett’s supposed personal assistant was a hard man. There was a reptilian stillness to Jim, a coldness. He must have blinked his eyes sometime, but Matt couldn’t recall ever seeing it. Matt figured if Jim determined to do something, no matter the difficulty, he’d accomplish the goal despite the cost to himself or anyone who got in the way. And now Matt was in the way. He shuddered at the thought.

The mountains Matt fled to were his home ground. Few people knew them the way he did, which is why he headed into them when he escaped from the ranch. However, Matt’s efforts to dislodge his pursuers had so far failed, or at least the dog’s baying continued to grow louder as the morning passed into early afternoon. The thick covering of trees blocked any further sightings.

Time to fix the dog, Matt muttered to himself as he rose and stumbled toward the rock pile where he would implement his last-ditch plan.

Chapter 1

Matt barged out of the school’s big double doors with a sense of relief. He liked school well enough, but who wasn’t ready to get out of its confinement after nine month’s incarceration? Sometimes the school’s small size and restricted environment could be a little too oppressive. Plus the superintendent seemed to think he was Napoleon and could be a pompous little tyrant.

His best friend, Joe, walked beside him as they turned to the left toward the parking lot. A row of leafy elm trees broke the intense afternoon light into a dappled pattern. Matt could hear the excitement in Joe’s voice but tuned out his actual words. Grade school kids boiled out around them. Their screaming and frantic energy that so annoyed Matt most of the year now echoed his sentiments. But it wouldn’t have been cool to act like them, and Matt restrained himself. Three months of freedom lay ahead. Months of sun and warmth, new adventures, and fewer restraints. And work. For Matt, the summer meant a lot of work and little play. But that didn’t put a damper on his day, more like a smile on his face. His job had some perks. Matt jumped when an elbow jabbed into his ribs as they entered a patch of strong afternoon sunlight.

Dude, hey, you listening? You got that smile on your face. Only one thing makes you smile like that. Joe jabbed Matt again.

Yeah, yeah. I know. What’d you say?

I said, did you see that look Rachel just gave you? How can you ignore her, man?

I didn’t see her, okay. I wasn’t ignoring her. I like Rachel, she’s quiet—unlike you. Maybe just a little spooky. Matt shoulder bumped his friend as payback. If you’re so hot for her, you ask her out.

Matt wasn’t much larger than his friend, but he had a density to him that his peers couldn’t match. Joe bounced into the grass for several paces before returning to the sidewalk.

I did, dude, Joe said when he was walking alongside again. Burned big time, but she was cool about it. You could see she didn’t want to seem like a snob, but there was no connection there. Our vibes didn’t match, if you know what I mean. Which is fine. Things worked out for the better anyway. But you should ask her. She has a thing for you. Why, I have no clue. Guess there’s no accounting for taste, huh bud? Look at her, though. She’s delectable. Cute, if you like the skinny tomboy look, a freaky good athlete, and the best grades in the school. To top it off, her dad could buy half the county with his spare change. What’s not to like? You ask me, you’ll never have a chance like this again.

Matt smiled. Joe was right, of course. Only a fool wouldn’t be interested in Rachel Warren. She stood nearly as tall as Matt, but with willowy slenderness that would never desert her. Her build was deceptive though. Within that frame lay a whipcord toughness and lightning reflexes that earned her statewide recognition on the basketball court and in track events.

I heard she’s big into martial arts, Matt said. Do you know if that’s true?

Probably. Why? You afraid she could beat you up? Is that why you don’t want to date her?

Matt wondered why he didn’t, but knew that wasn’t it. He guessed it was that she was too perfect. She outclassed him in every way. She was strong, smart, ambitious, gorgeous, and as far as he could tell, just really nice.

She’s out of my league, that’s all. When we graduate next year, she’ll be class valedictorian. Then she’ll move away, and we’ll never see her again.

He knew for a fact she’d made the A honor roll every semester since she transferred to the school three years ago, even with a heavy load of advanced placement classes. The girl was driven like no one else. To top off the package, Matt figured she could go to work for any modeling agency in the country with her refined face. Not just pretty, more like Greek-goddess beautiful in a slender sort of way. It was the faint shadows under her eyes Matt wondered about. They didn’t fit with the rest of the package. Matt grunted when Joe’s elbow jabbed in his ribs once again.

Hey, you’re off again, man. So…, you going to do it? Ask her out?

Quit hitting me, you goofball. Matt moved a step away to prevent further bruises. The amused look on his face disappeared. You remember when she first got here? There was that man who kept showing up. You’d see him at the school, down the street at noon, and at all the games Rachel competed in. Sometimes I saw him just sitting in his car out in front, waiting. He always seemed to disappear when Rachel wasn’t around. You remember him?

Joe nodded. Yeah, the dude who we thought was a private investigator, a big guy. Sort of fat and bald. I thought he was some pervert scouting us out.

That was him. I heard he was hired to watch over Rachel. Rumor was something bad happened to her, which is why her dad moved up here. So dating her might be letting yourself in for more than you bargain for. How’d you like the fat man to peer over your shoulder just as you lean in for a kiss? You might end up kissing a nightstick, Matt said, grinning.

A little danger never frightened you away before. It’s more like an enticement to you. You know—like your employer’s wife. Come on, Matt. Tell me. You aren’t still hung up on Mrs. Pickett, are you? Joe leaned away to study Matt’s reaction. Jeez man, you know you’re in deep doo-doo. Old man Pickett finds you snooping around his wife, and you’re going to find your kneecaps broke. If you’re lucky, that’s all that will happen.

Matt laughed, and the mood lightened as they walked past the end of the school building. The trees shading the sidewalk ended, and Matt stepped into the full intensity of the sun. It felt hot after the cool spring but still only registered in the upper seventies.

You may be right about that. Pickett can be an ass. But the old fart’s not around much, and I keep my distance when he is.

That was last year, dude. You told me you’ll be doing real ranch work this summer. And you told me Pickett likes to be right there in the middle of things. What do they call it? Micromanagement? He’s gonna ride you all summer. And when you screw up, he’s gonna bust your butt!

What? Me screw up? Not going to happen. Besides, even if I were so stupid to try anything with Mrs. Pickett, she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. She can have any man she wants. Why pick some goofy teenage redneck from the backwoods of Montana. I can’t stop myself from looking and dreaming, but I’ll keep my hands to myself. Mostly. Anyway, he added with a teasing smile. Pickett may not be an enjoyable person, but I’m more worried about his assistant. Jim’s like ice.

You mean Pickett’s bodyguard? Joe asked.

‘Personal assistant.’ You know, the guy who carries the briefcase and arranges meetings and whatnot. But one time I noticed the butt of an automatic pistol under his shirt. Some assistant, huh? But you never know when a raging gopher might charge you, so maybe the gun is a good idea.

Matt and Joe entered the school parking lot where the lucky high schoolers who owned vehicles were piling in. Matt’s thoughts drifted to the ranch again. J.P. Pickett was a wealthy businessman who bought a family ranch for his personal playground. He renamed it ‘Pickett’s Corner’ in honor of himself, which pretty much spoke of the man’s outlook. The ranch was a mid-sized affair, nestled in the foothills of the Tobacco Root Mountains in southwest Montana. Mid-sized for this area meant anywhere between two thousand acres and ten thousand.

Pickett’s Corner consisted of enough rangeland to maintain three hundred head of cattle. The bottomlands and some irrigated hayfields produced barely enough hay to keep the herd over the harsh winters. Pickett kept a full-time manager on the ranch and hired some seasonal help, including high school boys to put up the hay and keep the place functioning.

Pickett didn’t live there full time or even part-time, but occasionally flew in on one of his planes to interrupt the smooth operations and cause unnecessary turmoil. Planes, meaning a Lear jet for long distances and a twin-engine Cessna for shorter jaunts. The locals called him a hobby farmer because he didn’t need to make a living from the business. He could show up when he felt like it and do as much or little as he wanted. If the place failed to make money, it worked well as a tax write off for his enterprises back east. The real work fell to a few employees. Matt had spent the previous summer doing yard work for them. The Picketts, who stayed in the old, original ranch house, had spent a fortune in renovations and landscaping. They kept Matt busy.

Another high school boy had helped with the actual ranch work, but he graduated and moved on, leaving a vacancy Matt presumed he would fill this summer. He looked forward to spending time in the company of Pickett’s current ranch manager, Bud Williams.

He felt an instinctual pull to Bud, even though they hadn’t spent much time getting to know one another. Not having a father figure for so long no doubt influenced the interaction, but it was more than that. Bud cut a tough, competent, heroic sort of figure Matt could aspire to. Last summer when Matt watched Bud go about his chores, he’d envied his easy confidence and deep inner strength. Of course, spending the day on his knees weeding a garden might have let his mind over-glorify Bud’s life. Most any profession looked interesting when running a lawnmower on a hot day. Not that being a yard-boy didn’t have it’s perks, the best one being working with Mrs. Pickett.

While J.P. Pickett was a grumpy, bushy-eyebrowed old tyrant, Pamela Pickett was angelic—and much younger. She was the kind of person who reached out and placed her hand on your arm when she spoke to you while looking intensely into your eyes. The touch was electric. And she did it even if you were a grimy, sixteen-year-old yard boy. Matt felt isolated from the rest of the world when near her, enveloped in her delightful aura. Men—and boys—seem to melt like ice in the July sun. And while her body could beguile the most monastic of men, her beauty went beyond good looks. Individually her features would have been distinctive, but the sum of the parts blended into something luminous. She was slender but not skinny, strongly formed but appeared trimly feminine. Her chestnut hair would nearly reach her waist when worn loose, but when around Matt, she styled it in a braided up-do, giving her an earthy look that captivated him.

She worked alongside Matt when they were in the garden, toiling under the intense sun, sweating and dirtying her hands just like him. But she never lost her femininity, never formed the rancid body odor Matt grew so aware of on himself. Pamela Pickett had a firm, clear, intelligent mind. She knew what she wanted and got it, but never needed to be harsh or overbearing in the process. She was, for Matt, perfection. The last year of school had done nothing to diminish that view. Instead, his fantasy of her had grown to epic proportions. His obsession provided endless material for Matt’s friends to rib him with.

Matt and Joe walked through the gravel to Matt’s old truck. This was a ranching and farming community, and there were more trucks and SUVs of various ages than cars in the small parking lot. Matt’s ride stood out from the rest and made most others look luxurious. Joe often rode with Matt since he had to borrow his dad’s if he wanted a vehicle and borrowing always had a price. Bumming a ride didn’t stop him from trashing the truck.

You gonna get a new truck this summer, Matt? I hear they’re paying pretty good for scrap iron these days. You might even come out ahead on the deal.

You can laugh, but I have wheels, and you don’t. So unless you plan on walking, don’t knock my classic. And no, I won’t be getting a new truck this summer. Or the next or any summer for as far as I can see. But I’m gonna put new tires on it. Matt smiled as they approached the old truck. I have to, or I’ll be running on the rims pretty soon. Bud said he’d help me replace the valve cover gaskets and dry up some of the other leaks this summer. The old beater uses as much oil as it does gas. But since I can’t afford to rebuild the motor, you’ll have to bear with the blue smoke.

Joe faked a gag, and Matt laughed. He liked the old truck in a superstitious way but was embarrassed with it at the same time.

Several older vehicles occupied the lot, but even among these, Matt’s jumped out. Ford shipped the truck off the line in 1973, back when they made the vehicles to last and to work. It had a full life bouncing around the dirt roads of Montana before going into retirement from highway use. Retirement for a ranch truck meant repairs with baling wire and duct tape when repaired at all. When the driver knew he was going to tear something up and didn’t want it to be a nicer vehicle, he used the retired truck. So the old Ford was loaded with fencing supplies and driven through bogs and up slopes steep enough to roll it. It was used to throw rocks into when they farmed a new field. Ford never imagined the truck buried under two tons of stone, but it was a testament to the design that it could keep on functioning afterward.

When the truck came out of its retirement, Matt could finally afford to buy a vehicle. Rust had eaten most of the wheel wells and a significant portion of the cab, resulting in a constant flow of fresh air when the truck was rolling. The flow of air wasn’t clean when driving along a dirt road and often exhaust fumes added to the pollution.

During the cold days of winter, Matt always dressed for subzero temperatures since the weak heater couldn’t begin to keep up. He left a frost scraper on the dash because he often needed it to clear the windshield on the inside as he drove in the winter. Someone in the past ran it into something immovable, and the hood had a deep crease in it. It didn’t latch down properly, and a bungee cord held it from blowing up. The bed had been tortured so severely that it was scarcely recognizable. Only a web of wire kept the sides from collapsing, and they wobbled radically as the truck bounced down the rough local roads. The purchase of the truck robbed Matt of the little free money he made. Splurging on new tires hadn’t been possible despite the everyday threat that one of the bald husks might explode at any moment. When Joe opened the passenger door, the resulting anguished squeal turned heads clear across the parking lot.