Leap Year (Reconstruction Book 1) A.M.

Arthur
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 LEAP YEAR
RECONSTRUCTION SERIES
BOOK 1

A.M. ARTHUR

Briggs-King Books
 CONTENTS

Blurb
Dear Reader,
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Bonus Recipe
Also by A.M. Arthur
About the Author
 BLURB

Reclusive artist Russell Schar enjoys his quiet life in the big house he rents from his best friend, so he’s less than thrilled when
a small family moves in next door. Neighbors and their noise do not fit into his carefully constructed routines, but as long as
they stay on their side of the property? He’ll work it out.
After a series of family traumas, all single-dad Patrick Gillespie wants is to find some balance: school for his seven-year-
old son, a full-time job for himself, and a stable place to live while he gets his late mother’s affairs in order. He does not
expect his surly, ginger bear of a neighbor to slide right under his skin and stay there. Or for Russell to develop a fast
friendship with Patrick’s son.
A mild flirtation between Patrick and Russell turns into more than either man expects or knows how to deal with. They both
want to protect their damaged hearts, but sometimes it takes a leap of faith to find true love.
Leap Year is loosely connected to the Neighborhood Shindig series, but can be read independently. Content warning for
discussions of past sexual abuse.
LEAP YEAR
Copyright © 2024 by A.M. Arthur

First Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any
form or by any means, without the express written permission of the author.
All characters and events in this book are purely fictional and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. No generative AI was used in the creation of
this book.
Briggs-King Books
Cover art by: Morningstar Ashley Designs
 DEAR READER,

Welcome to a new journey into familiar stomping grounds. Well, familiar if you’ve ventured into Neighborhood Shindig a time
or four. This new series is set in Reynolds, North Carolina, and you’ll see some recognizable faces. But I’m excited to
introduce you to a whole new set of characters.
Special thanks to EM Denning for dropping this plot bunny into my DMs. You are always a gem to chat with and bounce
ideas off. Love to my amazing, thoughtful beta reader Eileen. I always look forward to your thoughts and critiques. And a
shout-out to my niece, whose love for bearded dragons fueled Frog’s love.
A.M. Arthur
 CHAPTER ONE

Every four years, for three-hundred and sixty-six days, Russell Schar woke up in the morning with a pit in his stomach,
wondering what new misfortune would befall him this leap year. Every leap year for his entire adult life had dropped some
new crisis or other on his head. Almost exactly four years ago to the day, fate had decided to destroy his sense of safety, his
dream of being a teacher, and his ability to get through the day without pain—all in one fell swoop.
Or one well-placed stab with a switchblade.
Naturally, four days before that four-year anniversary (Russell really hated the number four), his doorbell rang and scared
the ever-loving piss out of him. Not literally, thank God, or he’d have first died of sheer embarrassment, and then made it his
afterlife mission as a ghost to haunt whichever unscheduled person was ringing his doorbell at ten a.m. on a Tuesday morning.
No one came to his door unscheduled. Russell knew exactly when to expect his groceries, art supplies, and takeout
deliveries. And he had a big sign on the porch asking drivers to leave all deliveries inside the big plastic tote by the front door.
His best friend, Angelo Voltini, knew to text or call first, and the only two times Angelo had shown up without announcing
himself first had been after late-night drinking binges. Angelo was too much of a professional to be drunk on his porch this
early in the day.
Russell dropped his paintbrush into a cup of water and cleanser, anger rippling through his chest at being interrupted. He
was painting the glass eyes on his newest puppet and eyes were the most important part of his creations. Eyes, even fake ones,
were the windows to the soul. With a stroke of his brush, Russell could make his puppets angry, curious, happy, mischievous,
or a dozen other things.
Depending on who was at the door, his black and magenta winged fairy-squirrel might end up a vengeful woodland
creature by the end of the day.
He wiped his hands on a cloth, turned off his magnifying lamp, and left his art room. Thumped down the wide oak staircase
to the first floor in time for the bell to ring again, its gong echoing through the otherwise silent first floor. It was sometimes too
much house for one person, but it had been Angelo’s first professional flip, and he still sometimes used the extra rooms to test
out new design ideas. Russell didn’t care, as long as Angelo left Russell’s three claimed upstairs rooms alone.
As he approached the front door, he checked his cell phone to make sure he hadn’t forgotten a delivery. The damned thing
was dark and wouldn’t wake up. Shit. His bedroom charger had a loose wire and if he jostled it during the night, it sometimes
didn’t connect. Angelo picked on him about buying a new one but Russell hated wasting money to replace something that
wasn’t completely useless yet.
Thankfully, it was Angelo on his porch and not some unsuspecting solicitor or local election person stumping for a city
council seat. Russell hadn’t paid attention to local politics since he quit teaching, quit the PTA, and moved to the northeast side
of town, away from those precious years of his life. Angelo held a cardboard tray with two cups of coffee and a paper bag, all
marked with the familiar Hallowed Grounds logo.
“What did you do?” Russell asked.
 Angelo scoffed and raised one eyebrow, his hips cocking ever so slightly. “I bring your favorite coffee and scones from
halfway across town, and it’s because I’ve done something wrong?”
“Yes.” Best friends since their freshman year at Reynolds College, Russell and Angelo had gone through a lot in the last
two decades, and he knew Angelo’s tells better than anyone. “You hate trying to find a parking place to get into Hallowed
Grounds when it’s easier to use the drive-thru at Starbucks, so what did you do?”
“Let me in out of this insufferable heat, and I’ll tell you.”
“Fine, come in.”
August heat in Reynolds, North Carolina, was no joke. Overweight his entire life, Russell had never been a fan, but he
hated it more and more the older he got. Angelo often said it was less the heat and more the humidity that made him want to
melt when he stepped outside; Russell couldn’t disagree.
Angelo marched straight down the house’s main hallway to the big kitchen in the back. The entire thing had been carefully
restored with what he called a modern farmhouse aesthetic, all white woods with black and red accents. Russell didn’t much
care, as long as Angelo didn’t try hanging curtains with roosters or cheesy “Home Is Where the Heart Is” wall prints.
Russell plucked the largest of the two coffee cups out of the carrier and sipped. Just on the drinkable side of scalding,
which was how he liked his coffee. He’d had a large breakfast not too long ago, so he ignored the pastry bag for now. “I’d ask
why you didn’t text but my phone is dead.”
“Figured.” Angelo pulled a few packets of sweetener from the bag and dumped them into his coffee. “I did text that I was
coming over. This requires the personal touch.”
“And a food bribe?”
“Exactly. I rented out the carriage house.”
Russell blinked dumbly. “What carriage house?”
“The one in the backyard.”
“Of this house?”
“How many houses do I have with a carriage house, Russ?”
“I don’t keep track of all your flip homes, Angelo. This isn’t the only historic house in or around Reynolds.”
“No, but it is the only one with potential for two income streams, and at the moment I am barely using either.”
“I pay rent.”
Angelo folded his arms, that single eyebrow still raised high.
Russell grunted and grabbed the pastry bag. “Fine, I pay utilities and internet. But I paint and design for you, that was our
deal. And I make myself scarce when you want to show people this place so they see what your finished work looks like.”
“Yes, you do, and I love you for all of that, honey. But the carriage house is a fully-functional, two-bedroom apartment that I
only use as the occasional crash-pad in between renovations, and it deserves a little love.”
He glared at Angelo for several long beats before the penny dropped. “Your aunt asked you for a favor again, didn’t she?”
Angelo heaved a dramatic sigh that proved Russell’s guess right. “Like I can ever say no when Aunt Rita asks me for a
favor. And believe me, I told her how much you like your privacy, and your peace and quiet, but she pulled the Mom Card.”
“That was low.”
“Low but effective.”
Angelo had been eight when he and his mother immigrated to the States from Italy, and they’d moved in with her sister Rita
Fratelli, who was newly widowed with three sons of her own. The two women did their best with the four boys, until Angelo’s
mother died from an undiagnosed heart condition when he was twelve. Rita continued to raise Angelo like one of her own
sons, but instead of going into the family food business, he’d forged his own path with interior design and home renovation.
Aunt Rita was a formidable woman who took no shit from anyone—and was really scary when she was in a bad mood—so
Russell couldn’t blame Angelo for caving to another favor.
“Please tell me my new neighbor is some elderly friend of hers,” Russell said. “Someone quiet whose biggest vice is a
glass of wine and cigar on the front stoop at night.”
Angelo grimaced. “He’s a single dad with a kid.”
Russell groaned and dropped the raspberry scone he’d been about to eat onto the counter. “Fuck, really? You know I don’t
like being around kids anymore.”
“You taught teenagers, not kids.”
“Teenagers are still kids, they’re just mouthier and have a lot more hormones.”
“Okay, well this one is like five or something. An actual kid-kid. The most dangerous thing about him is probably the odds
of him accidentally peeing in the pool.”
“Fuck, I’ve gotta share the pool with them, too?” The best feature of this house—and the main reason Russell had agreed to
live here—was the large, in-ground pool. The pool area was surrounded by a wood fence and had two gates: one accessible
on Russell’s side of the divided backyard, and the other on the carriage house’s side the yard. If the new neighbor had a kid,
Russell was putting a lock on his side of the pool gate.
 He didn’t need anything running around his backyard larger than a squirrel or occasional rabbit.
“For like six weeks, yeah, until I close up the pool for the winter,” Angelo replied. “Plus, the dad works so it’s not like
they’ll be spending all day, every day splashing around in the pool. I already told him that I have a tenant who swims every
morning and evening, and that he prefers privacy when he does. The guy is so happy about the cheap rent that he’d probably
agree to keep the kid muzzled if I put it in the lease.”
Russell grunted. He’d never ask Angelo to do that, even to keep the peace and quiet Russell treasured. The carriage house
had a nice-sized patch of yard and kids needed to play outside. Russell had once loved being outdoors, wading in forest
streams and hunting tadpoles, playing with neighborhood kids—until the bullying began. Then he stayed inside and ate his
feelings.
“How did Aunt Rita get involved in this?” Russell asked, drawing on his curiosity to overshadow his frustration. He’d vent
it all out later, probably on a blank canvas.
“She went to Mass with Patrick’s—that’s the tenant’s name—his mother. Patrick and his son were living with his mother
but she passed away a few months ago. He’s been getting their affairs in order but can’t afford to keep her house, so he’s
selling and needs a cheaper place close to the Opal Lake school district for his kid. Aunt Rita told him about the carriage
house. Then she called me.”
“Of course, she did it in that order.” Aunt Rita was an expert at making promises on behalf of other people and then
informing them after the fact. She’d played similar word games a few years ago to make Angelo think that having Russell move
into this house had been all Angelo’s idea in the first place.
“Look, I haven’t met Patrick yet, but I did speak to him on the phone, and Aunt Rita vouches for him being a nice guy who
fell on hard times. I mean, I can’t imagine being a single dad his age in this economy.”
“And what age is that?”
“I don’t know, mid-twenties or something? The point is, the lease is for six-months, and after that we can renegotiate or he
can move out. It’s not a lifetime commitment for either of us, Russ.”
Russell picked a piece of white icing off the top of his uneaten scone. “It’s also not like I have a choice here.”
“Not really, but I did want to tell you personally. The last thing I wanted was for you to freak out at the sight of a U-Haul in
the yard tomorrow morning.”
“That soon?”
“Yeah, his Realtor wants to have the house staged and on the market by the end of the week.”
“I’m surprised the Realtor didn’t give you first crack at buying.”
“She did but it’s not my style house.”
“Double-wide trailer?”
“Ha ha. No. It was just remodeled ten years ago, so there isn’t enough for me to do creatively. No dividing walls to rip out,
no major facelift in style. Even the yard is landscaped and well-tended. I mean, I could probably do a few fixes and make a
couple grand profit, but there’s no challenge in a house like that.”
And Angelo thrived on challenges. If anything was too easy, he chose the more difficult path. It was a trait Russell admired,
but it had also made him want to throttle Angelo on more than one occasion—especially when it came to the people Angelo
chose to date.
“Besides,” Angelo continued, “I might have a lead on a house that will be a challenge. It isn’t on the market yet, but my
source says a man who was the third or fourth-generation homeowner just passed away. Older house, high-end neighborhood.
If I get a good price and the house isn’t a total wreck, I could turn a tidy profit in a year or so.”
“Well, then I hope you get it.” Russell wasn’t a gambler like Angelo. He couldn’t imagine investing hundreds of thousands
of dollars into buying and renovating a house, and then praying the market stayed up so he could sell at a profit. He loved
seeing Angelo’s finished work before the reno went up for sale, because his friend truly had his own artistic eye, but it wasn’t
the life for Russell.
He gambled on very few things, least of all his money. Money was too hard to come by some days to throw that much away
at once. He’d already lost his house once thanks to a bad relationship (wrong gamble with his heart) and insane medical bills
(stupid gamble with his own life).
“I guess I can deal with them for six months,” Russell grumped after taking a few bites of his scone. The sugar helped
soothe some of his ruffled feathers over this unwanted surprise. “I’ll just have to dig out those noise-canceling headphones you
gave me last Christmas. Put ‘em to good use.”
“So glad to hear they were a handy gift after all these months,” Angelo deadpanned. “Make sure you give them a good
dusting off.” He leaned across the corner of the island and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for taking this so well. You’re a gem.”
“I also live here rent-free and am therefore kind of your bitch.”
“Good point. So be polite, please? It sounds like the guy has had a hard year.”
“I promise not to go all scary bear on him.”
“Thank you.” Angelo checked his phone. “Okay, I gotta jet. I’m meeting my contractor at the Wendell Street property in
thirty minutes. Apparently, there’s something going on with the foundation that we need to talk about. I swear, I am bleeding
money on renos this month.”
“Then thank God you have a new tenant at the expense of my sanity.”
He blew Russell a kiss on his way out of the kitchen. “Love you, Big Bear. Charge your phone!”
Russell flipped the bird in the general direction of Angelo’s departing backside, unsoothed by the affectionate nickname,
then took his phone over to the kitchen charger and plugged it in. The charger was next to the sink, and he stared out the wide,
double windows to the patio and its handsome teak furniture nestled around a gas fire pit. Sometimes he liked to sit outside at
night with the fire going, mostly to enjoy the ambiance and peace of the stars above.
Beyond the strip of green yard was the pool and its still, aqua water, and past that the carriage house. The old building had
been a dilapidated mess when Angelo bought the property, and he’d nearly torn it down until his contractor said the magic
words: rental income. They’d gutted it, added insulation, and reinforced the original structure into a two-story, two-bedroom,
one-bath apartment with parking for two cars. They’d have to share a main driveway, which wasn’t a big deal.
A new problem presented itself, though, that he hadn’t thought to ask Angelo: mailing address. Did the carriage house have
its own? Would this Patrick guy’s mail go to Russell’s door? If Patrick was as married to his phone as most other twenty-
somethings, where would his inevitable food deliveries go? The last thing Russell needed was a bunch of people ringing his
bell so Russell could direct them to the apartment around back.
Ugh.
He’d call Angelo later and ask for the rest of the details of this new arrangement. For right now, Russell had one more
afternoon and evening of true peace and quiet to take advantage of. God knew what would happen when Patrick and his kid
moved into the carriage house.
Fucking leap years.
 CHAPTER TWO

“Purple boxes go in the bedroom with purple tape on the door, red boxes with red tape, and they’re both on the second floor.”
It was a simple system, and Patrick Gillespie couldn’t figure out why his movers were having so much trouble with it. If he’d
thought it was too difficult, he would have created a color guide on poster board and taped it to the wall outside his new
home’s front door.
Four tape colors on the moving boxes for four different rooms. Not. That. Hard.
Hell, his seven-year-old had come up with the idea after finding a bunch of colored duct tape on a hardware store
clearance rack. Patrick had spent extra time color-coding their belongings by room so moving day could go smoothly and save
them time putting things away.
So far, not so great. Thankfully, they’d only needed to rent a small truck. The carriage house apartment had basic furniture
in the living room and kitchen, plus bed frames and dressers in the bedrooms. Patrick had new mattresses being delivered later
today, but the plan was to have most of the boxes unpacked and put away before that happened. The odds of that now being the
case were not looking good.
Patrick already had a mental list of things to improve around the apartment before he’d feel comfortable doing so much as
going to the bathroom without Frog being somewhere within eyesight. A pool with gate access from their yard? He’d bought a
padlock. Two stories? Not an issue since Frog was a very coordinated seven-year-old.
What no one had mentioned was that the staircase to the second floor was a narrow, metal, twisted staircase with enough
space between the bars to make Patrick nervous. But he had a plan to kid-proof the thing as much as possible by the end of the
day. The lease was only for six months to start, giving them a safe place to live while Patrick dealt with selling Mom’s house
and all the time it took to do inspections and close on it. Once he had that money, Patrick could think about a permanent home
for him and Frog.
Maybe him, Frog, and Bryan, depending on how Bryan’s upcoming parole hearing went.
Speaking of Frog…
The downstairs was one large area, with the kitchen kind of tucked behind the spiral staircase. The spacious living room
had two floor-to-ceiling windows that faced their part of the fenced-in yard which, if this had been more than a temporary
arrangement, was the right size for a simple vegetable garden. With few visual obstacles downstairs—Patrick had instructed
the black tape boxes be stacked against a wall so Frog didn’t get any big ideas about a fort—he didn’t spy his biggest source of
anxiety anywhere on the first floor.
“Is Frog outside?” he asked one of the movers as he stepped inside balancing two boxes.
The mover blinked at him. “Are there frogs outside?”
“Never mind.” Patrick popped out the front door. All four doors of his car were wide open, but they’d emptied it first
because they had put Bruno’s tank and lights in the backseat. Frog had insisted they set that up first thing so Bruno could get
used to his new kingdom. His kid wasn’t hanging around the moving truck, and Patrick had already locked the pool gate. Frog
had to be upstairs.
He grabbed a purple box off the back of the truck and hauled it upstairs, nearly losing his footing twice during his ascent.
Those freaking spiral stairs were going to take some practice. Good thing he’d given up excessive drinking a long time ago—
having a kid to raise being one of many good reasons—or he’d probably break his neck in this place.
Then again, if he hadn’t had Frog, Patrick would probably be back in Nashville, single and without the burden of parental
expectations, trying to live the life he’d wanted when he’d forgone college for a career in music. Things never went his way,
though, not one damned time, and now he was a single dad with no job, a hit song he could never claim, an eight-month gap on
his resume, and no idea what his next step was after settling into the carriage house.
“One day at a time is all we can do,” Bryan liked to say during their twice-a-month phone calls. “Focus on that.”
Right now, all Patrick could focus on was not falling down those damned twisted stairs and finding Frog. Frog had gotten
the larger of the two bedrooms, mostly because Bruno’s tank took up the entire top of the dresser, and the window placement in
the other room meant no good spot out of direct sunlight. Patrick didn’t mind the smaller bedroom. It wasn’t as if he needed
space for more than his clothes and a few sentimental items, like his grandfather’s fiddle.
It was the first instrument Patrick had learned how to play.
His room had a bed frame and a wardrobe, and Patrick checked those first. No kid. He popped into Frog’s room next. Same
empty frame, plus the dresser with Bruno’s tank on it, minus Bruno. The small closet had a stack of boxes in front of the sliding
door. Not a great spot for the boxes but whatever. No kid and no lizard.
“Frog!” Patrick hollered at the top of his lungs. Frog had been a good kid until the last year or so, after Mom got sick and
they moved to Reynolds to take care of her. Changing schools and leaving all his friends behind in Nashville was hard for any
young child. Getting to know his grandmother only for her to pass away within a year had to hurt even more, but Patrick
couldn’t let his mother suffer alone.
Grief and uprooting aside, Patrick did not accept his kid hiding from him like this. “Frog! Hop on out, you!”
One of the movers tossed him a funny look on his way to Patrick’s room with a box. Patrick trotted downstairs, careful not
to trip and tumble ass-over-teakettle to the ground. He did not have insurance so an accident was the last thing he needed right
now. Irate, sweaty, and stomach boiling with nerves, Patrick marched out into the summer sunshine, threw his head back and
bellowed, “Frog! Don’t make me call Aunt Laurine!”

Russell had spent the last two hours trying to ignore the moving van parked by the carriage house, and the four adults and one
pipsqueak stranger wandering all around outside. Okay, not completely all around, because they were sticking to the driveway
and parking spaces in the back, but they were still strangers. Fortunately, the movers in the navy polo shirts weren’t staying.
Only the slender young man in khaki shorts and a sleeveless, tie-dyed shirt and the kid were staying.
So far noise levels were fine, and Russell had just gone into the kitchen to put together a sandwich for lunch when someone
started shouting. Annoyed and curious, he approached the sink and peered into the backyard. The tie-dye wearer—who had to
be Patrick—was shouting at the sky, and it took Russell a few seconds to understand the word: frog.
Why is this guy yelling for a frog? Is he high in the middle of the day?
Angelo said he’d be over to welcome the new tenants so Russell didn’t have to do it, but Russell hadn’t heard from his best
friend all morning.
A flash of movement caught Russell’s attention, and he leaned forward, peering out the window. A boxwood hedge
separated the patio from the driveway that ran past the house. He had a plastic storage trunk in the far right corner for various
pool supplies, and with the sun on the other side of the house, it made for a nice, shadowy spot. Maybe somewhere for a
displaced kid to hide from his dad?
Not wanting to get involved, but also totally involved if the kid had wandered onto Russell’s side of the property, he
unlocked the kitchen door and stepped out into thick heat. He kept his beard trimmed short in the summer months, but the hair
on his back and chest wilted in the humid air, his shirt sticking to his upper body almost immediately. He didn’t want to be out
here with so many strangers nearby, but this was his home. Not a school parking lot swarming with a post-game crowd.
“Looks like the new neighbors are here,” Russell said, just loud enough for a kid hiding nearby to overhear. “I wonder if
they like a nice cold glass of sweet tea on a hot summer day. I know I sure do and it’s mighty hot today.”
The bushes nearest the trunk rustled.
“Might just go back inside and get me some, then put the umbrella up and sit out here in the shade for a while.”
More rustling. Someone was listening. Across the expanse between them, Patrick had gone back inside the house,
apparently done yelling about frogs for now. Russell took two long steps sideways toward the trunk, bare feet making no noise
on the concrete paver stones. He peered over the edge of the trunk, into the shadowy space that probably housed bugs and a
spider or two.
At first, he saw a shock of something bright green. Then he saw a pair of eyes. Big, round eyes that didn’t seem real at first
—not until they blinked from the fucking front of its eye socket! This weird white film slid forward then back, and Russell’s
shocked brain zinged to an alien movie he’d watched on some streaming channel the other night.
“The fuck?” Russell stumbled backward and nearly tripped over one of the patio chairs. The weird shock of green rose
above the side of the trunk, a narrow, youthful face attached to it, and Russell stared as the bizarre picture finally made sense.
A little boy with bright green hair stood in the small space between the storage trunk and the hedge, and he had some sort of
lizard attached to his chest. The lizard had the weird white-blinking eyes, and Russell half-expected the lizard to attack. Why?
He didn’t know. The only lizards he’d ever seen were in gecko tanks at the pet store, or the occasional tiny one darting around
near the pool. This thing was the size of a small cat!
Russell blinked. The lizard blinked.
The boy licked his lips. “I like sweet tea. My Aunt Laurine makes the best, but she’s in Nashville where we’re from and
can’t make it for me anymore, because she’s too busy with work to come visit a lot, and I miss her.”
Russell was vaguely curious which side of the family this aunt belonged to, but he wasn’t about to dig into the family
dynamics of his new, pipsqueak neighbor while he had a spiky, weird-eyed creature clinging to his frog t-shirt. “Why are you
on my patio?” was all Russell could think to say.
“My house is too noisy. Bruno got scared.”
Russell glanced at the activity around the carriage house. It didn’t seem particularly noisy to him, but he also wasn’t a child
moving into a new place. And hadn’t Angelo also said the kid’s grandmother passed away a few months ago? He was probably
just acting out or something. He also didn’t know if the kid was talking about himself in the third person or not. “Is your name
Bruno?”
The kid shook his head, that curly mop of green-tinged hair flying, and beneath the bad dye job, Russell caught hints of
golden brown. “No, this is Bruno.” He pointed to the lizard. “But we don’t talk about Bruno.”
“Um. Okay. Then what’s your name?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because we just met and you’re a stranger. I can only tell my name to people my daddy introduces me to first.”
“Oh.” That was actually a pretty smart policy. “Well, you aren’t allowed over here by this big house. This is where I live.”
“Did you know frogs were the first land animal with vocal chords, and you can hear some frogs singing a mile away?”
Russell stared at the kid, so perfectly adrift in the conversation he thought he was stuck in one of those awful dreams where
he was supposed to know why he was on stage but had forgotten all his lines. “You, uh, hear that in a movie?”
“No, I read it.”
“You can read?”
Lizard Boy drew up to his full, unimpressive height and somehow managed to cross his arms without angering or
smooshing his lizard. “I’m seven and a half. I can read long chapter books.”
“Oh, sorry.” Wait, why was he apologizing to the mini-criminal who was trespassing on Russell’s private property? “Look,
you aren’t allowed up here without permission. This house? This patio? Mine. The carriage house?” He pointed past the pool.
“Yours and your dad’s. Capiche?”
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Carpish?”
Russell swallowed a groan. This kid was toeing the delicate line between entertaining and flat-out irritating. He was
supposed to be eating lunch, not dealing with a pint-sized trespasser and his creepy, slow-blinking sidekick. “Never mind. Go
back home, kid.”
“I can’t. Daddy says we have to live here now.”
He was not going to start feeling sorry for the kid. He. Was. Not.
Nope.
“Your dad was outside shouting a minute ago,” Russell said, trying a new tactic. “I bet he’s looking for you.”
“Probably. He told me to stay in the house.”
“Then what are you doing outside?”
The kid frowned like he’d asked the world’s dumbest question. “Because frogs live outside. Even Daddy said so. It’s why I
got Bruno.”
As far as explanations went, that probably made sense to a seven-year-old, but Russell had no idea what frogs had to do
with Bruno the Lizard, or why they couldn’t talk about him. “Okay, let’s try this. You can’t tell me your name because your dad
doesn’t know me. So let’s start with hi, my name is Russell, but my friends call me Big Bear.”
The kid gave him a long once-over. “Do they call you Big Bear because you’re really tall and big and furry, like a bear?”
“Pretty much, yeah.” Simplest explanations were sometimes the best, especially when Russell was not ever going into the
complexities of the gay bear community with someone this young. Big and hairy like a grizzly bear worked perfectly if it
helped get the kid and his lizard off Russell’s patio. “So I’m Russell or Big Bear, whichever you like, and that’s Bruno. Is there
something I can call you besides Kid?”
“No.”
Russell opened his mouth and a car horn came out. They both startled and turned. Angelo’s red, two-door Lexus came to a
stop in the driveway a dozen or so feet from the U-Haul. The diversion had the kid scampering away. He raced down the length
of the boxwood hedge to where it met the pool fence. The kid ducked into that small gap and came out on the other side, then
ran past Angelo’s car to the carriage house.
Sneaky little brat.
Angelo waved in Russell’s general direction as he approached Patrick, who seemed to be trying to admonish the kid as the
kid darted into the house. Patrick planted both hands on his hips, tilted his face to the sky for several long moments, and then
stuck out his hand to shake Angelo’s.
Russell’s stomach rumbled with hunger, and he contemplated going inside to finish making his lunch. Angelo did something
on his phone and seconds later, Russell’s buzzed with a text. Angelo asking him to come down and meet his new neighbor. He
wanted to ignore the text and return to the cool interior of his house.
Old-fashioned manners got his feet moving. The hedge had a single wooden gate for guests to pass from the driveway into
the backyard/patio area, which the kid hadn’t bothered using. Russell was too big to squeeze through the same path as the kid,
so he acted like an adult and used the gate. Hot air pressed down on him, and he was sweating all over by the time he joined
Angelo and Patrick near the U-Haul, both men standing in full sun when the shade of some trees beckoned from only a few
yards away.
“Patrick, this is my best friend and current main house tenant, Russell Schar,” Angelo said with a charming smile that could
make you agree with him even if you didn’t. “Russ, this is Patrick Gillespie, and his son Robbie is around here somewhere.”
“Yeah, we’ve met,” Russell said without thinking.
Patrick blinked at him with eyes that were a striking shade of blue. “We have?”
“Not you and me, sorry. I met Robbie.”
“Ah. Is that where he was running from? Your yard?”
“Yeah, he and Bruno took a walk around my patio, but he wouldn’t tell me his name because I’m a stranger.”
“Sorry about that, Mr. Schar. I told him not to mess around the big house and that we had our own yard for him to play in.”
“No harm done, and call me Russ.” No way was he going to suggest Patrick call him Big Bear, not when everything about
Patrick’s slender frame, thick eyelashes, and short stature made Russell want to pick him up and steal away with him to his
bear cave. “Not sure if Angelo mentioned it but I work from home so I’m around most days. Working. Not around to like
babysit or whatever.”
Angelo rolled his eyes toward the sky.
Patrick did that long-blink thing again, like he was giving himself a minute to think instead of snapping out the first thing in
his head. “We’re neighbors, Mr—Russ. I would never ask you to babysit unless it was a dire emergency. I don’t know you.
Although I’m sure Mr. Voltini would vouch for you.”
Angelo would definitely vouch for Russell’s ability to watch a child for a few hours. Russell had been a high school art
teacher for fourteen years, for fuck’s sake. But he was glad for his friend’s discretion in that moment. Russell didn’t ever want
to be considered a convenient babysitting option. He had his own work and routines to manage, thank you very much. Wedging
a precocious seven-year-old and his very cute daddy into those two things was not on the agenda today or ever.

Patrick did not know what to make of the tall, burly man with the closely-shorn auburn hair and scruff all around his cheeks and
chin. He was soft-spoken but somehow also abrasive, his piercing eyes already accusing Patrick of something even though
they’d just met. And Russ was probably the hairiest guy Patrick had ever met in his life, with wiry reddish-brown hair dusting
his bare calves and forearms.
It didn’t surprise him that Frog had probably taken one look at the big hairy giant and ran. Not that Frog didn’t deserve the
slight fright for going where he wasn’t supposed to.
“I don’t have any kids,” Russ said, “but I know how to take care of ‘em in a pinch. It’s why I keep a big dog kennel in the
basement.”
Patrick wanted to laugh but it caught in his throat behind a brief flash of horror that was barely alleviated by Angelo’s loud,
exaggerated chuckle. He’d liked Angelo after their one phone conversation. Angelo had a soothing voice that would be as much
at home narrating sensual audiobooks as whispering dirty things into Patrick’s ear. Physically, though, Angelo didn’t do it for
him. Too handsome, too gym rat, too whitening-lamp-teeth perfection on the surface.
Russ, on the other hand, just needed a deer-skin jacket and double-sided axe to be the perfect Appalachian mountain man.
The kind of man that stayed firmly planted inside Patrick’s forbidden fantasies for a reason.
“I’m joking,” Russ said when Patrick didn’t speak. “The house doesn’t have a basement.”
Patrick had no idea what to make of Russ, who was somehow both one red suit and a white beard away from being a jolly
mall Santa, and a few obvious tattoos from the kind of guy Patrick wouldn’t want to run into alone in a dark alley. “I promise
I’ll do my best to keep Frog out of your hair. And off your patio.”
“Frog?”
“It’s what Robbie likes being called. He’s obsessed with frogs. I think his room has every stuffed frog imaginable, plus a
bunch of other toys, but I put my foot down at having one as a pet.”
“Is what why he got Bruno instead?”
“Uh, yeah.” Patrick was surprised Frog had told Russ the name of his bearded dragon. Frog was usually a lot more
reserved around strange adults. At least he’d remembered what Patrick told him about giving his own name (real or nickname)
to strangers. It helped cancel out some of Patrick’s frustration with Frog going up to the big house alone and without
permission.
“So can I ask a question?” Russ glanced at the carriage house. “Why can’t we talk about the lizard?”
“What? We are talking about him. And he’s a bearded dragon, not a lizard.”
“Dragon, then, and don’t ask me. When Robbie the Frog told me the dragon’s name was Bruno, he said we couldn’t talk
about it.”
Patrick stared, waiting for Russ to laugh or wink or give any hint that he was yanking Patrick’s chain. But no, the big bear
of a man seemed perfectly serious. And then it hit him and he started to laugh. “We don’t talk about Bruno. The song?”
Russ shook his head.
“It’s from a Disney movie,” Angelo said, seeming as surprised and amused as Patrick. “Come on, even you had to have
heard it at least once in your little corner of the internet where puppet artists go for inspiration.”
Puppet artist?
“Frog is a huge fan of Disney animation,” Patrick said to both men. “He was going through an Encanto obsession when we
got Bruno the bearded dragon. In the movie, Bruno is an uncle the rest of the family doesn’t ever talk about because they all
think he brings bad luck, but he’s just misunderstood. I think a lot of kids relate to being misunderstood by grownups.”
Something in Russ’s dark eyes flickered. “Yeah. A lot of us get bein’ misunderstood and mislabeled.”
“The music and animation are also amazing. It helps that the movie is great when your kid wants to watch it twice a day for
a solid month, and then once a day for three more months.”
“Ouch.”
“I could dominate any karaoke night of that and quite a few other recent Disney musicals.”
“A familiar story I hear from many parents,” Angelo said. To Russ, he added, “I told Patrick about your pool habits, and he
assured me Frog won’t bother you during your therapy swims.”
Russ cut his eyes at Patrick, then nodded. “Thanks.”
“Frog doesn’t know how to swim, anyway,” Patrick said. “So if he goes anywhere near the pool, it will be under
supervision and with floaties attached to all limbs. I already put a lock on our side of the gate. And he knows if he’s caught
anywhere inside the pool area without me, Bruno gets rehomed.”
He and Frog had had a long, serious talk about the pool before Patrick signed the lease. He’d heard too many horror stories
about unsupervised children drowning in private pools to risk it, and Frog knew Patrick was dead serious about getting rid of
Bruno if Frog broke the pool rule.
“Like I said,” Russ said when no one else spoke, “I work from home so I’m around like a neighbor. Not for a beer at one in
the afternoon or nothing, but if you need a cup of sugar or something, you know?”
“Well, I don’t do much baking or use a lot of sugar, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Patrick replied, glad Russ was thawing
a touch. Maybe he was starting to see Patrick and Frog had no intentions of being nightmare neighbors. All Patrick wanted to
do was get through the rest of the summer, enroll Frog in second grade, and then figure out their next step in life.
This was the second time he’d uprooted Frog in a year. They needed stability for a little while, which was why he’d been
desperate for a place within Frog’s current school district. The carriage house, with its winding staircase and in-ground pool,
had been a compromise because it was affordable and kept Frog with his classmates.
“I know Russ can be a little intimidating,” Angelo said, “but he really is a teddy bear. I work with annoying people on a
daily basis in my business, so I don’t make it a habit of collecting assholes in my social circle.”
Russ smiled for the first time in Patrick’s presence, and it made him seem…approachable. Friendly. Almost cute.
“I think we’ll get along just fine,” Patrick said, more for himself than the other two men. “I’m grateful to have this place,
and Frog and I will both do our best not to bother Russ while he’s working. School starts in a few weeks anyway, and then
Frog will be more than occupied.”
“Good enough,” Russ replied. “Nice to meet you. Tell Robbie the Frog that Big Bear said hello.” With that, Russ turned
and shambled back up the driveway to the main house.
Shambled might not be the kindest way to describe it, but Russ didn’t stroll or amble or move with any certainty or poise.
He kind of inched his way forward, shoulders hunched and head slightly bowed, as if trying to take up as little space and be as
unnoticeable as possible. Difficult, given his size. But he tried.
 It definitely heightened Patrick’s curiosity about the quiet puppet maker (he wanted to know more about that, for sure), but
that was for another day. Today, he had a house to finish moving into and a son to chastise for trespassing on the neighbor’s
property on their first day.
Time to put his own head down and get back to work.
 CHAPTER THREE

“So he’s cute, huh?”

Russell nearly banged his forehead off the front of the refrigerator at Angelo’s not-unexpected statement. Angelo had come
into the house about thirty minutes after Russell, who’d finally thrown together his lunch with the intention of scarfing it down
and getting back to work. But Russell had found himself eating slowly. While standing over the sink. Staring at the carriage
house, and at Patrick and Angelo, who had kept talking for a while.
He couldn’t explain why he stood there and watched them talk, other than he knew Angelo’s likely motive. They’d been
friends for twenty-two years. Angelo had left a string of conquests behind him, both at college and the surrounding bars, and
he’d never been subtle in telling Russell about his favorite one-night-stands. Russell always listened, living vicariously
through his best friend because he didn’t have the confidence to go find his own hookups, never mind anyone who could turn
into a long-term boyfriend.
Even from a distance, Angelo didn’t seem to be as all-in with the flirting as Russell was used to seeing, so that helped.
Russell still watched as Angelo shook Patrick’s hand and walked up the driveway. When he bypassed his car, Russell groaned
and took his plate over to the island counter where he usually ate his lunch. Angelo’s arrival didn’t disappoint.
“Who’s cute?” Russell pretended to play dumb. “The lizard?”
“Bearded dragon, and I didn’t actually see it.” Angelo grabbed a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge. Russell didn’t
like the stuff—if his liquid was going to be carbonated it needed to taste like something—but he kept it around for Angelo.
“No, I mean Patrick.”
“Cute but likely straight. He’s got a kid.”
“So? Could be bi.”
“He’s also your tenant, Mr. Voltini.”
“This is very true.” Angelo gulped some of his water. “Which makes him off-limits for now. I learned the hard way not to
fuck where I work. Looky but no touchy.”
A few years ago, Angelo’s mentor had lost everything during a lengthy gambling addiction and investment fraud scandal,
and for the first few months after the allegations broke, Angelo had defended his friend. Then irrefutable evidence came to light
and the man went to prison, and it shattered Angelo’s image of his mentor. It had taken Angelo a lot of work to turn his own
reputation back around and revive his career in the home renovation field. And while Angelo was still a natural flirt, he now
knew when to tone it down and be professional.
“Patrick seems nice,” was all Russell could think to say. “His kid’s got a mind of his own.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. After you left, Patrick reassured me that Frog won’t do it again. Mess around on the patio, I mean.
He even asked if baking you cookies would smooth things over.”
Russell grunted. “What did you say?”
“I told him anything with chocolate and peanut butter together was the quickest way to your heart and your forgiveness.”
 “Gee, thanks.”
“What? You love chocolate and peanut butter.”
“Yeah, but it makes me sound like all I eat is dessert and junk food.”
“It makes it sound like you have exquisite taste.” Angelo traced his tongue around the lip of his bottle. “Unless you’re
feeling more self-conscious than usual and actually give a damn what this kid thinks of you.”
“What does a kid with a lizard for a pet know?”
“It’s a bearded dragon, and I wasn’t talking about Frog. I meant you care what Patrick thinks, and why is that exactly?”
“I don’t. Just stop tellin’ him personal things about me, okay?”
Angelo held up a single hand in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry, no more chatter about the food you like. He’s a fan of fried
rice, too, by the way, and he hates sushi with raw fish. You two do have a few food tastes in common, that’s for sure. It’s not a
bad thing. One delivery order, one fee, two or more people eat.”
“That reminds me, does the carriage house have its own address? I don’t want a bunch of delivery drivers ringing my bell
for shit that’s supposed to go to Patrick.”
“Yes, the carriage house has a unique address. And while I can’t guarantee you won’t get the occasional wrong delivery,
because it’s human beings dropping this shit off, it shouldn’t be a plague of inconvenience for you.”
“Fine. Thanks.” Even though he’d normally be trying to shoo Angelo out the door so he could get back to work, Russell’s
day had already been epically interrupted. “Robbie the Frog said they were from Nashville. Big change for a kid, leaving a city
like that for a college town.”
“Reynolds isn’t exactly Hicksville in the sticks.”
“Yeah, and it ain’t Charlotte, either. But kids are supposed to be resilient about change, right?”
“That’s what they say.” Angelo’s expression went briefly distant. Russell recognized the moments when his best friend got
stuck in the past. He didn’t talk much about those first few years in America, learning English and being the odd-man-out at
school. Whatever bullying he’d endured had given him the self-confidence and thick skin adult Angelo wore like a pride flag
on his back. “So how can I make today up to you? Drinks at Tim’s on Saturday night?”
“Yeah, sure.” As opposed to most of the bars in the city, which were either geared toward the older college kids, or toward
middle-aged, blue-collar adults who wanted a beer or four after a hard day’s work, Tim’s was a nice mix of both, and was also
openly queer friendly. Angelo had managed to pick up a few guys there over the years, but Russell never had the self-
confidence to bother.
When the need to scratch his itch came up, Russell had an app for that. Online profiles were easier than face-to-face meet-
ups in a bar, and there were enough bear chasers out there that he was almost never turned down because of his size or looks.
Or the fact that he was pretty passive in bed most of the time, thanks to his fucking neck injury.
They hadn’t been out to Tim’s in a while, because Angelo had been busy with work, so Russell was looking forward to
them spending a few hours together, knocking back beers and maybe playing a few rounds of darts. A lot of the college kids
thought darts were cheesy, but they paid attention when Angelo got out there with his charming smiles and killer body, and
hustled them out of twenty bucks a game.
“Then I’ll pick you up Saturday around seven,” Angelo said. He chugged the rest of his water, let out an impressive belch,
then tossed the bottle into the recycle bin. “Text you later. Let me know if Frog sneaks into your yard again, so I can talk to
Patrick about it. I don’t want them to mess up your routines too much, Big Bear, I promise.”
“I know, and thank you. Text you later.” It was their way of saying goodbye.
After Angelo left, Russell finished eating his lunch much faster than before, his attention firmly on the counter in front of
him rather than the carriage house. He cleaned up and then went back upstairs to finish painting some eyeballs.

Patrick had pre-planned for dinner on moving day, and once they had everything off the truck, in its proper room, and the
movers on their way, he threw one of Frog’s favorite frozen pizzas into the oven. He’d brought most of the groceries over from
Mom’s house this morning, and he’d go get whatever few things he’d left in the pantry tomorrow. He also promised the stager
that he’d clean the kitchen completely, since everyone said houses sold kitchens.
The one in the carriage house was small but served its purpose in terms of appliances, a sink, and a little bit of counter
space. Not as much as Patrick was used to, but once school started and he got a job, he’d only be cooking a lot on the
weekends. One of the tricks he’d learned quickly and well while trying to balance work and being a single dad was batching
on Sunday afternoon, so there was food to eat throughout the week.
He’d done a lot less of that after Mom got sick, since he hadn’t been working full-time and had been around to cook
regularly. But it was better to get Frog back into familiar routines as quickly as possible. Patrick’s own grief counselor had
suggested it at their last session. This was Frog’s second major life adjustment in one year, and another could be happening in a
few months if Bryan got out of prison.
 Routines were good for all of them, especially a little boy.
While the pizza cooked, Patrick continued organizing the downstairs. He didn’t care as much about his own bedroom,
which he could work on after Frog went to bed. Right now, he needed to make some sense out of the living room, which was a
haphazard collection of furniture, knickknacks, and a bunch of Frog’s toys. Mostly storage bins of his miscellaneous collections
of Legos, Kinex, blocks, Tinker Toys, and any other building sets they’d cobbled together over the years from yard sales, flea
markets, and bulk purchases online. Frog loved to build and invent almost as much as he loved all things frog. He even had two
frog sculptures he’d created in the last few weeks packed away in a bedroom box.
Or, if Frog was unpacking like he was supposed to, on his new bedroom’s lone bookshelf with his other treasures. Patrick
hadn’t heard any thumps in a while, so either Frog was unpacking carefully and slowly, or he was deep inside of his own game
and ignoring his responsibilities.
The only thing Patrick knew he wasn’t doing was watching TV or streaming anything. The tablet he was allowed to use for
programs was currently in Patrick’s briefcase and not connected to the carriage house’s wifi yet. And he did not care what
other parents did nowadays, he was not giving his kid a freaking cell phone before he was ten years old.
Patrick added another flattened box to the steadily-growing stack by the door. He’d probably take a bunch down to the
recycle center tomorrow. Angelo had told him that the house had two outside trash cans (one for him and one for the main
house) and a single recycle can to share. Patrick didn’t want to clog up the recycle bin with all his boxes and earn his
neighbor’s ire right off the bat.
They’d already gotten on Russ’s bad side today. He wanted Frog to spend as much time outside as possible and to play, but
he also needed Frog to understand what areas were off-limits. Frog had had a bit too much freedom at Mom’s house, which
was in a rural neighborhood that butted up against several open fields, giving Frog plenty of room to wander. It had been so
different from living in Nashville and having no yard that Patrick hadn’t policed him very much.
The cheap rent at the carriage house, within Frog’s current school district, was a gift neither of them could afford to take
advantage of. Getting kicked out would be the absolute worst. For as much as Patrick would love to return to Nashville and try
chasing his own dreams for once, he needed to stay in North Carolina if Bryan got out. With Mom gone and no longer able to
support him, Bryan would need Patrick here for however long his parole lasted.
If Angelo even allowed Bryan to move in with them for a couple of months. But Patrick had gotten this rental through
Angelo’s aunt, so he had to know something about Patrick’s past and possible future issues. One more adult living in the
carriage house would be no different if Patrick happened to find a lover and move them in. Unlikely to happen but no different.
Didn’t matter tonight. Bryan needed to get a parole hearing granted first.
The oven timer dinged. Patrick pulled the pizza out and onto a sheet tray to cut. He opened a can of peaches, too, so Frog
had a little bit of over-syruped fruit to go with his high-salt pizza. Whatever. Junk food once in a while, especially on a day
like today, was fine. Patrick set the small dinette set with the food and two cups of sweet tea (bottled, because Patrick still
hadn’t mastered the stuff like Laurine) before shouting for Frog.
“Leave Bruno upstairs!” Patrick added. They didn’t need extra dinner guests their first night in the new place. Frog could
feed Bruno his mealworms after the two humans in the house had their supper.
The windows nearest the dining area overlooked the wood fence that separated their skinny side yard from the pool, and
Patrick couldn’t help glancing out. Angelo had mentioned Russ liked swimming in the morning and evening—not why, just that
he did—and Patrick hadn’t seen Russ since their midday encounter. In this exact moment, though, Russ’s burly form was
standing at one end of the pool, clad in only a pair of blue board shorts. His big, hairy chest glistened in the last of the
evening’s sunlight, and he stood there for a long moment, eyes closed. Patrick held his breath, strangely arrested by the nearly-
naked image. Russ was large and furry and the kind of huggable guy Patrick had never possessed the courage to pursue.
And then two things broke the spell at once. First, Frog came thundering down the spiral stairs with enough steam to scare
Patrick half-to-death about a tripping accident. Second, Russ dove into the pool and began a steady, elegant sidestroke to the
other end. He moved with a kind of grace Patrick didn’t expect but absolutely appreciated and admired. Russ’s arms cut
through the water, his head turning and bobbing, feet paddling, and he performed a perfect turn once he reached the far side.
Rinse, repeat.
A show like this every morning and evening? Yes, please, and thank you.
“Do we have Sauce?” Frog asked.
Patrick spun around, not sure when Frog had landed safely on the ground floor. Frog stood by the table, hands on hips, his
expression both curious and expectant.
“No, we don’t have Sauce,” Patrick replied. Sauce was his own special blend of mayo, sour cream, and typical taco
seasoning spices that he mixed up into a dipping sauce Frog adored. “I’ll get everything we need when I go grocery shopping
tomorrow, though. You can do without for one night.”
Frog’s shoulders slumped. He slid into a chair, head lowered, but didn’t complain out loud. Frog was the master of silent
protest, and his plan to ignore Patrick into acquiescing usually worked most days. Today? Not a great day. And with only one
twenty-four-hour supercenter a good twenty-minute drive to the other side of town? Extra groceries could wait until tomorrow.
The pizza was good enough to eat without Dad’s Sauce.
They sat and ate their pizza and peaches, packing away almost everything. Patrick put a final pizza slice and a few peaches
for his breakfast into the fridge. He’d long ago stopped thinking of breakfast as the traditional sausage/grits/eggs situation that
most folks in the South ate. Patrick stuffed whatever was available into his mouth.
Growing up, he’d eaten well-rounded meals, until the last few years after Dad’s stroke when money got tight. After that,
Patrick had gotten used to eating whatever food for whichever meal, unless he was attending a professional function. Pizza for
breakfast? Cold mac and cheese for lunch? Chips and slightly brown guac for dinner? Yes to all of it.
Food was food. Patrick did his very best, though, to provide the highest quality food he could to his kid on a daily basis.
He ate whatever was left over. Not so different, metaphorically, from what Patrick’s life had always been like, giving up his
personal hopes and dreams so everyone around him could thrive and push forward.
By the time food was put away and dishes hand washed—no dishwasher in the carriage house—Russ had finished
swimming, and the world outside was cast in a dim near-twilight. A few fireflies blinked their yellow light in the side yard.
Patrick wanted to watch them bumble around but he had no time tonight. Still too much to do.
He added a few things to tomorrow’s shopping list, mostly fresh fruit and vegetables he’d pick up on his way back from the
final clean-out of Mom’s house. Neither of them ate a lot of meat, preferring other protein-rich alternatives, which had been a
combination of both budget concerns and Frog’s own textural preferences. Frog liked ground meat of all kinds but wasn’t a fan
of chewier things like steak or pork chops.
Grocery list done for now and living room as unpacked as it would get tonight, Patrick went upstairs and checked on Frog.
Frog was asleep on the floor in a nest of blankets and sheets, bed unmade, so Patrick tucked him in, made sure Bruno had
enough pellets to last until tomorrow, and then turned off everything except Bruno’s heat lamp.
After a quick shower, he went back downstairs and out the front door. He wandered along the narrow side yard that
bordered the pool, to the backyard space they had. No chairs or anything, so Patrick sat in the middle of the recently-cut grass
and looked up at the sky. The sun had set, casting most of the world in shadows, and chasing away the few fireflies he’d spied
earlier.
Stray notes of songs and bits of lyrics flitted through Patrick’s brain as he sat there, alone for the first time in what felt like
months. Even though his son was a few dozen yards away, and his new neighbor roughly the same, this night sky didn’t know
him. This grass didn’t recognize his footfalls. For the first time in a long time, he was in a new place with new possibilities.
New challenges and new potential successes.
“Please, let this go our way,” he whispered to the dark sky. “Give us the chance we need to start over.”
His ankle twinged, and Patrick smacked hard, glad to see the bits of mosquito on his skin. Less so about the smear of blood
but whatever. The bloodsuckers could rot. And if that was his answer to a simple prayer? Fine. He’d get himself and his kid
around this latest crater in the road, no matter what.
Light shifted to his left, and Patrick scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. He half-expected a stray dog or even a random
bird to swoop at his head. He did not expect to see Russ shuffling by the pool fence, dressed in shorts and a sleeveless shirt.
They both froze and stared.
“Hey, again,” Russ said.
“Hi.” Patrick pulled on a lifetime of manners and kept a few snarky comments about sneaking around in the dark to himself.
“Hello, Mr. Schar. We weren’t being noisy, were we?” Kind of an idiotic question, since Frog was asleep and Patrick had
been sitting alone talking quietly to himself.
“Not even a little. Sorry, I was just antsy tonight and felt like a walk. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t.” He took two steps closer to the wood barrier. “I didn’t know you’d be out. I hope we can be friends going
forward. Having a kid for a neighbor isn’t easy but he’s a good kid. I just want us to get along. Honest.”
“Same, dude, really. I am totally not anti-kid. My whole livelihood would go away without whimsy and imagination.”
“Angelo mentioned earlier that you’re a puppet artist?”
Russ grunted but his expression remained undisturbed. “Yeah, puppetry is something I’ve done for a lotta years. Was a
hobby until recently when I needed a career change.”
Patrick leaned against the fence, arms resting on the top, his curiosity aroused. He had great admiration for puppeteers,
especially after watching videos of practical effects in movies and small-time artists who sold their wares in online stores or
Renaissance festivals. “What did you do before puppetry?”
“I was a high school art teacher. Quit after a neck injury. Stress gives me bad migraines and teaching is a fuck-ton of stress.
Needed a quieter life.”
“A quieter life that doesn’t include new neighbors?”
Russ shrugged and leaned on his side of the fence, a good three feet between them. Close enough to talk without shouting
but far enough away to make a silent statement. “You both seem okay so far, as long as Robbie the Frog stays outta my yard
without permission.”
“I’m sorry again about that. I can give him a little leeway after the stress of moving, but I promise to keep a better eye on
him going forward.”
“Thank you.” He tilted his head to the side. “Good job getting a lock for the pool gate on day one.”
“Despite his nickname, Frog has never been in water deeper than a half-full bathtub. I mean, I’d like to teach him now that
we have access to a pool, but I don’t know if I’ll have time before Angelo closes it up for the winter. Maybe next summer, if
we’re still here.”
“Yeah, maybe. So what is it you do, Mr. Gillespie?”
Good grief, but it sounded like Russ was addressing his father. “You can call me Patrick. And I’ve dabbled in a lot of
things over the years, including music. I’m hoping to start tutoring students again, possibly through the college.”
“Oh? What instrument?” The question seemed to silently ask how much noise this tutoring would create.
“Mostly strings like the fiddle and guitar, but I also teach voice and music writing.”
“You sound well-rounded.”
“Music has been part of my family my entire life.” He’d grown up in smoky honky tonks, surrounded by men in ripped jeans
and women in Daisy Dukes, and while he could look back on the best times with nostalgic fondness, he couldn’t forget all the
losses and pain. And betrayals.
“Is it too late to offer condolences on your mother’s passing?” Russ asked apropos of nothing.
Patrick tried to stop his brain from flashing back to the final few weeks of Mom’s life as she lay dying in a hospice bed, a
frail shell of the vibrant woman who’d once commanded audiences with her voice and presence—even though she’d never
commanded the proper respect from her husband. “Thank you for the condolences. She’s in a more peaceful place now.”
“Of course. Um, you can tell me to fuck off but is Frog’s mother in the picture at all?”
Patrick sighed and swatted at another mosquito, too exhausted to delve into the complicated relationship he had with Frog’s
mother. “No, she gave him up when he was born. Being a mother wasn’t something she wanted, but her own beliefs…she chose
to have him and let me raise him.”
“Wow, that’s a lot. Good on you, though. Nothin’ easy about being a parent, much less doing it all yourself.”
“It’s been a challenge, but I don’t regret the choice I made.” And because Patrick was tired of being the center of attention,
“Do you have any kids?”
“If you’d asked me that four years ago, I’d have said I have four hundred of the best kids, but I don’t teach anymore so…no.
Never really saw myself as a dad. And never had the extra money to go the adoption route if I’d wanted to.” Off Patrick’s
curious frown, Russ straightened. “I’m gay.”
“Oh. Cool.” While Patrick was, too, he wanted to keep that information private for now—especially because the more he
looked at Russ, the more Patrick saw the big, cuddly bear-type that he preferred when he wanted to meet someone. Russ could
pick him up, steal away with him and probably do all kinds of sexy things to—nope. Not going there. “So, um, seeing anyone?”
Russ blinked at him several times in a row before letting out a deep chuckle that tickled over Patrick’s skin like a warm
hug. “No. And I’m not the guy who throws big parties on weekends, so don’t worry about me corrupting your kid with loud
music and orgies.”
“Well, I appreciate that. As his father, I think it’s my right to corrupt my kid with loud music and orgies.”
His deadpan delivery did its job. Russ laughed again, louder and deeper, and an amused twinkle lit his eyes. “If you do
have an orgy, don’t let Angelo know or he’ll insist on inviting himself over.”
“Big fan?”
“Angelo knows how to get what he wants outta life, and he ain’t shy about referring to himself as a hedonist. I’m the boring,
vanilla half of our friendship duo.”
“Don’t knock vanilla. Vanilla can have layers, too.”
“Layers like an onion?”
“I was thinking more like a decadent dessert parfait.” This sort of simple, teasing banter was way too easy with Russ, and
Patrick didn’t want it to end. And that was exactly why he needed to excuse himself from the conversation. He swatted at his
neck even though nothing had stung him. “I should get inside before the skeeters bleed me dry. It was nice talking to you, Mr.
Schar.”
“Hey, if I can call you Patrick, just call me Russ or Russell. Okay?”
“Okay. Russ. I’ll see you.”
“Yep.”
Patrick left Russ by the fence and went inside, glad the only light on was the small one in the kitchen. It let him sneak over
to a window and peek outside. Russ still stood at the fence, his body angled toward the carriage house, as if lost in thought. Or
maybe hoping for another glimpse? Patrick absolutely liked Russ now that they’d gotten past the awkwardness of first
introductions and Frog’s invasion of Russ’s privacy.
Hopefully, that friendship could continue forward. The last thing Patrick needed in the middle of so much other change was
a brand-new crush on his neighbor. A friend he could do.
Manage. Not do. He wasn’t doing Russ now or in the near future.
 With a groan of frustration, Patrick headed for the stairs. Time to put some itch cream on his bug bites and get ready for
bed. Alone. And he was absolutely not allowed to dream about Russell Schar.
At. All.
He so totally dreamed about Russell that night, and for several nights after…
 CHAPTER FOUR

By the weekend, Russell had a very real problem in the slim, sexy shape of his new neighbor, Patrick Gillespie.
In reality, Patrick was the ideal neighbor: quiet, clean, always offering a kind smile in passing. In Russell’s imagination,
Patrick was stretched out on his bed, naked and writhing, inviting Russell to do naughty things to his body.
Patrick’s low-key reaction to Russell being gay had been a pleasant surprise, but he didn’t really know much about the
younger man. He’d given Russell very little information about his past, beyond Frog’s mother not being in the picture. That told
Russell nothing about their previous relationship, though. Had they seriously dated? Been a one-night stand? A casual thing that
ended with them separated and Patrick raising their son?
Maybe he could ask some of those questions if he could find another quiet moment to talk to Patrick, but on the rare
occasion Patrick was outside during one of Russell’s breaks, he was with Frog. The pair didn’t go into the pool area, and they
were scarce during Russell’s morning and evening swims, and he kind of wished they would come talk to him.
He couldn’t make himself go over and talk to Patrick.
On Saturday night, Russell did his swim about an hour earlier than usual, so he could shower before Angelo kidnapped him
for drinks. When Russell finished his laps and climbed out of the pool, a small shape moved on the other side of the fence. He
picked up his towel and wiped at his face, while also studying the shape.
Frog.
He was barely discernible between the wood slats, but definitely boy-shaped and hunched like a frog. Cute if a little weird,
but he was an only child with a bizarre (if also age-appropriate) obsession with amphibians. Russell was used to hormonal
teenagers, not little kids. Or their hot dads. Patrick didn’t look much older than a teenager himself, but if Frog was seven then
he had to be in his mid-twenties.
Unsure how to engage Frog, Russell decided to do nothing and went inside to shower and change. He did glance out his
bedroom window once and spotted Frog hopping around in the carriage house’s yard, playing some sort of game in his own
head, because there weren’t any other kids in sight.
Kids needed friends, but Russell didn’t know any Frog’s age. Two of Angelo’s cousins had kids. Tonight wasn’t about
fixing his pint-sized neighbor’s social life though, it was for two friends to chill, share some beers, and admire the sight of the
other drinkers, most of whom were going to be a lot younger than them.
Russell double-checked his appearance, making sure his beard was properly trimmed. It had taken a while before he found
a style that he liked and did the best job of hiding his scar. High-collared shirts helped, too, but not in August. He’d gone for a
more casual Smash Mouth t-shirt. It was one of the few from his college days that still fit. One of the first things he and Angelo
had bonded over was their shared love of Shrek and quoting it whenever possible.
Had Frog seen Shrek? It wasn’t Disney but it was animated and hilarious.
Didn’t matter. Tonight wasn’t about kids. No more kid thoughts.
Angelo honked. Russell made sure he had his wallet and phone on his way out the door. As usual, Angelo wore his clothes
like a second skin and had his hair slicked back in a style that looked mobster on some people, but absolutely perfect on him.
His Italian genes had definitely been kind to him.
Russell was a mutt of random European origin and no clear idea of his own heritage. Landing in the foster care system
when he was about Frog’s age, with no known family around to take him in, didn’t do much to tell him where he came from.
Not that Russell spent much time pondering his past; he couldn’t change it so what was the point?
He’d survived being stabbed in the neck for a reason and it wasn’t to live in the past.
“Well, you haven’t blown up my phone with complaints,” Angelo said as he navigated out of the circular front driveway to
the road, “so I guess things have been going fine with Patrick and Frog?”
“Everything’s fine. They do their thing, and I do mine. No more errant amphibians in my yard.”
“That’s good. How’s the squirrel?”
It took Russell a second to catch up with Angelo’s ping-ponging mind. “I still can’t get the eyes right.” He’d been trying to
paint them all week, popping them in and out of the puppet’s head, playing with the height and width of its brow ridge, snipping
and adding tufts of fur. “The thing looks perpetually pissed off, and I can’t get it to smile. So to speak.”
“Maybe it wants to be an angry squirrel and your subconscious knows it.”
“Maybe.” At least this wasn’t a commission with specific requirements. The fire squirrel, or whatever he’d eventually call
it, would go up in his online storefront whenever he was satisfied with the project. Usually, Russell used his paints and canvas
to channel his emotions, especially the negative ones. Inner turmoil bleeding out into his puppets was new and kind of
annoying.
Tim’s was located near the trendy part of town that college students frequented, but this bar was known mostly to locals. It
made it easier to get to know people, especially the bartenders. When they walked in, Sasha waved from her station. Six-four
with white-blonde hair and as much inked skin as bare, she loved to regale new patrons with stories of playing on the Reynolds
College women’s basketball team and their glory days of ten years ago. But she never answered questions about why she didn’t
go on to try and play pro or make a bid for the Olympic team, if she was so great. Probably part of her allure to draw in good
tips.
Angelo ordered them a pitcher of beer, nachos, and started a tab. They found the only empty two-top near the rear, and a
few minutes later a waiter came over with the beer and two frozen glasses. Russell didn’t recognize the waiter, but he was
young so probably a college student back on campus and back on the job.
“To good luck in our future endeavors,” Angelo said as he raised a full glass.
“Yeah, to that.” Russell gently tapped his own glass to Angelo’s then took a long drink. The bartenders here knew how to
pour a pitcher without creating too much foam and losing flavor and carbonation. There were few things Russell hated more in
his mouth than flat beer. “So anything new on that house you told me about?”
“Yeah, a lot of hurry up and wait.”
“Huh?”
“The estate is tied up with the lawyers right now, because the old man left everything to his son, but they’re having trouble
locating him, plus there are some debts to pay off. Probably won’t know anything for a couple of weeks.”
“Bummer.”
“A little, but I drove by the property and it’s definitely going to need some TLC. Think The Addams Family meets Bates
Motel and you’ll get the idea.”
“Getting the idea.”
Someone jostled past their table and tossed an absent “Sorry” on their way to another one situated in the very back. A
group gathering of some kind was happening with a mix of men and women, a few of whom seemed vaguely familiar. Russell
also wasn’t known for his socialization or ability to meet new people. Maybe one of them had delivered a pizza once or
something? Then a very familiar face came into focus, stuffed into the back of the table and hunched, like he was trying not to
be noticed.
Russell leaned closer to Angelo. “Isn’t that one of your cousins back there?”
Angelo looked over his shoulder and nodded. “Yeah, that’s Antoni. I think a lot of the other people work at Neighborhood
Shindig with him. Maybe it’s an end-of-week party?”
“Maybe.” Everyone looked kind of serious to Russell, but it wasn’t his business. He’d been to Neighborhood Shindig a
handful of times; it was where Hallowed Grounds was located. Shindig was an outdoor shopping center with small stores,
stationary food trucks, and a pavilion that hosted live music on weekends. Angelo’s aunt and cousins had a pizza food truck that
Russell occasionally ordered from, but they exclusively made big, New York-style pies.
Russell was a deep-dish kind of guy.
“So what are you hunting for tonight?” Angelo asked.
“I’m not.” Russell tended to strike out looking for anyone to fuck at Tim’s anyway. While the place was gay friendly, that
didn’t mean everyone who came there for a drink was queer, and he was already bad enough at flirting that being turned down
always stunted his ego. Angelo, on the other hand, could attract anything with two legs and active brain matter between their
ears.
“There’s an adorable twink at the bar who keeps looking this way.”
Russell glanced over at the guy in question. Cute, probably early-twenties, and definitely not eyeing Russell. “Yeah, check
your clock, dumbass, because he isn’t angling for me.” Not that Russell would have minded if he was; the guy was his type in
all the ways. Too bad it looked like Russell wasn’t his in return.
He gulped down more beer.
Angelo rolled his shoulders and managed a discreet check of the bar. “You might be right. Hmm. Too bad you’re not into
threesomes.”
“I never said I wasn’t into threesomes. I said I wasn’t into them with you.”
Naturally, their waiter chose that moment to deliver the platter of loaded nachos. He smirked at each of them in turn. “Need
anything else, gentlemen?” he purred, practically propositioning them in four simple words.
“Depends on what you’re offering, sugar,” Angelo replied. “I’m extremely flexible.”
The waiter grinned. “Nice to meet you, Extremely Flexible. I’m Nat.”
“Short for Naturally Gorgeous, I have no doubt.”
“Hey, Nat! Order up!” someone yelled from the bar.
Nat heaved a perfect, dramatic sigh. “Duty calls. I’ll check on you guys in a bit.”
“Please, do,” Angelo replied.
“Enjoy the nachos.” Nat sauntered off, a bit of sass in his step. The guy was appealing in his own way, same as the other
man from the bar, but a different face kept poking at the back of Russell’s mind. The kind, exhausted face of a single dad whose
smile never seemed to reach his eyes.
Russell shoved a chip loaded with piping hot cheese and various toppings into his mouth, using the slight pain of his now-
scorched tongue to shove all thoughts of Patrick away. He chased two more chips with the last of his beer then refilled his
glass. Angelo was driving so he didn’t have to pace himself. Plus, it took a lot more beer to get Russell even close to sauced
than it did Angelo who, despite his habit of social drinking everywhere he went, was actually a bit of a lightweight.
He and Angelo snacked on the nachos and bullshitted for a while, not talking about anything more serious than the Reynolds
Bulldogs football team’s upcoming season, and maybe one more weekend trip to the beach before the weather started to turn.
For it being hurricane season, they’d been pretty lucky so far with none of the tropical storms getting even close to hurricane
status. Or dipping close to their little curve of the east coast.
Russell had just started on this third glass of beer when someone’s phone rang. It took him a moment to realize it was his
phone, and he absently pulled it out of his pocket. The contact said P. Gillespie and was a Tennessee number. Why was Patrick
calling him? Had Frog gotten into the pool?
Heart tripping double-time, he accepted the call. “Yes, hello? This is Russell.”
“Hi, Russell, it’s Patrick. Um, your neighbor?”
Duh. “Yeah, is everything okay?” It occurred to him to ask how he’d gotten Russell’s number, but it didn’t seem important
in that exact moment.
“Well, I was calling to see if your power went out at the main house, because everything is dark, but I can tell now it’s dark
because you aren’t home.”
He started to ask how Patrick knew that, but the bar cacophony was unavoidable. Duh. “Yeah, I’m not home. Your power
went out?”
Angelo’s eyebrows rose and he mouthed, “Who is that?”
“Patrick,” Russell mouthed back. Then said, “Did you check the circuit breakers?”
“Not yet,” Patrick replied. “I’m not sure where the box is. I figured on calling you first, but since you aren’t home, it
doesn’t matter. I can call Angelo.”
“Actually, he’s right next to me. One sec.” He handed his cell over to Angelo. “Power’s out.”
“I gleaned that, thank you.” Angelo took his phone then angled away so most of their conversation was lost to Russell.
Seemed odd to him that Patrick’s first inclination was to call Russell about a power outage. Then again, maybe he thought
the main house and carriage house shared a breaker box? Angelo would have wired them separately if he planned to use the
carriage house as a separate rental, so it divided the electric bill properly between the separate addresses. Whatever Patrick’s
reason, Russell liked knowing he was someone else’s first phone call in a crisis.
He shoveled more nachos into his mouth and waited for Angelo to finish the call. “He figure things out?”
“Yeah, he did.” Angelo handed his phone back. “Apparently, the breakers are a touch sensitive to running both the
microwave and the stacked washer/dryer in the kitchen. I’ll have to give my electrician a call on Monday. Patrick said it’s not
a huge deal but I don’t like flaws in my work.”
“At least it wasn’t the whole block or something,” Russell said. They occasionally had rolling blackouts in the summer
when the temperatures got higher and air conditioners sucked up more juice than the power grid could handle. Those sucked,
because they often interrupted his workday.
 Angelo sipped his beer. “Now you’ve jinxed us. We’ll probably have some epic, Texas-level blackout next week. Thanks a
lot.”
“Hey, my negativity doesn’t always jinx us, pal.”
“It does when it’s a leap year. Remember back in April when you said we were due for a natural disaster this summer,
because it had been too long? What happened? My remodel pipes burst and flooded the first floor.”
“You know that would have happened anyway. Those pipes were old. The entire house was one stiff wind from tipping
over.”
“Not my point.” Angelo picked up a chip and pointed it at Russell. “Stop jinxing us during leap years.”
“Fine.” Russell picked up his beer. “Here’s to an excellent power grid, no landfalls during hurricane season, and you
getting that fancy Addams Family house you’re salivating over.”
He clinked his glass against Russell’s. “Better. Now, can you work your anti-jinxing magic on lovely Nat over there? I’d
love to see how he looks waking up in my bed.”
Russell groaned and refilled his glass with the last of the beer in the pitcher. It was the perfect excuse to flag down Nat and
order another. Nat flirted up a storm with Angelo, who smiled and leaned in and seduced the guys with the subtlety of a dog in
heat. Russell let his attention wander around the bar, stopping a few times on the Shindig crew and what appeared to be an
intense conversation. His curiosity rose but he wasn’t friends with any of them, and Angelo didn’t seem interested in
socializing with his cousin.
Kind of a shame, because Antoni Fratelli was as handsome as Angelo. But while Angelo commanded every room he
entered, Antoni seemed intent on being unnoticeable. Russell understood the feeling.
Russell managed most of the second pitcher on his own, and the nachos weren’t doing a lot to coat his stomach, so he was
pretty drunk when Angelo eventually led him out of the bar. “Not taking the waiter home?” he asked, only slightly sobered by
the humid air outside.
“Not yet.” Angelo slung an arm around his waist and directed him toward the street. “I gotta get you home first, Big Bear.
Plus, Nat doesn’t get off until one o’clock. And then he’ll get off again. Maybe twice, depending on how wired we both are
later.”
Figured. “Play safe.”
“Always do.”
Russell dozed on the ride home, comforted by the warm embrace of so much beer and a simple night with his best friend.
Angelo pulled away before Russell even got his key in the door, probably eager to get ready for whatever kind of fuck-fest his
date with Nat turned into. Angelo was currently living in one of his renos, and he liked things to be presentable when he
brought hookups to his place.
Seemed weird when his crash pad was usually a bed on the floor in the middle of construction, but it was Angelo’s deal.
Whatever helped his friend get laid.
Mouth sticky and a bit sour with the aftertaste of that spicy queso, Russell shuffled into the kitchen for a glass of water. He
paused at the sink and looked out over the backyard, expecting to see the carriage house dark. And it was, but the pool lights
were still on. Russell frowned, trying to remember why that was wrong.
I turned off the lights after I finished my swim.
He always turned them off when he was done, because he never swam at night in the summer. He always got his exercise in
before the sun set, even in the spring and early fall, when daylight was shorter. Someone must have turned them on, but who
would—Patrick. Russell spotted the guy near the shallow end, sitting on the edge with his feet in the water, staring at what was
probably his phone.
Curiosity seized his beer-soaked brain, and Russell took his drink outside. He padded across the patio then down the stone
path to the pool gate. Patrick looked up, eyes wide and startled, and he nearly fumbled the phone in his hands. “Hey,” Patrick
said.
“Hi.” Russell stared at the keypad lock on his side of the gate, fuzzy brain unsure what the right numbers were to open it.
“Um, you’re still up?” Duh.
“I couldn’t sleep. I think I had a minor panic attack over tripping the breaker earlier, so I came out here to read. Guess I lost
track of time.”
“Easy to do with a good book.”
Patrick perked up. “Are you an avid reader?”
“Not like I used to be. After using my eyes all day for work, all I usually wanna do at night is veg out in front of the
television.”
“I get that.”
“You a big reader?” That felt like another “duh” question but beer. Drunk brain. Probably a good thing he was on his side
of the fence. The last thing he needed to do was trip over his own big, lumbering feet and fall into the pool. Patrick couldn’t
swim.
 “I read a lot more before I had a kid but I fit it in whenever I can. Honestly, it helps being able to carry my books around on
my phone, instead of having to deal with a paperback in my pocket.”
“Makes sense.” Russell had a reading app on his phone but didn’t use it. He also didn’t feel like going to bed yet, and he
liked talking to Patrick. “So what are you reading now?”
“Biography of Johnny Cash.”
“You a Cash fan?”
“I am a fan of his influence on country music and his legacy as a musician.”
“Oh, right, duh. You’re a music tutor. Makes sense you’d read about musicians. Only country music?”
“Gosh, no. I was born and raised around Nashville, so country will always have a special spot in my heart, but I love all
kinds of music. For me, it’s not as much about the genre as how the music makes me feel. How the lyrics touch my soul, you
know?”
“Not really.” Russell wasn’t sure if the beer was making him uber-honest, or if he just let his guard down easily with
Patrick. Maybe both. He pointed to his t-shirt. “I’m a fan of rock because it’s loud, powerful and helps me focus on my work.”
“You know, Russ, you can come closer so we don’t have to shout over the pool.”
“Probably shouldn’t be close to the water. I’ve been drinking.”
“Oh. Of course, good thinking.”
“Shouldn’t a fellow teacher have thought of that?”
Patrick shrugged and placed his phone on the cement by his hip. Leaned back on his palms and gave Russell his entire
focus. “I’m a tutor, not a teacher. No formal training or degree in it. I tried for a music theory degree but I didn’t have the time
to finish it.”
“Because you had a kid?”
“Yep. I wouldn’t trade Frog for the world, but having kids can definitely put your own goals on hold indefinitely.”
“Definitely indefinitely?”
Patrick chuckled, and the sweet sound filled the otherwise quiet yard. “Exactly. Can I ask you something semi-personal that
you might not remember in the morning, depending on how drunk you are?”
“Go for it.” Russell drank to loosen up in social situations, and while two people alone by a pool wasn’t the same as a
required school function, it definitely lubed his tongue. Why not keep talking to Patrick, who was adorable and absolutely his
type?
“Why did you quit being a teacher? Was it medical reasons? You mentioned migraines.”
Silver flashed in his peripheral vision, and Russel flinched at a nonexistent knife slicing at his face. “Something like that.
Had an accident and I needed a change.” As good a way as any to explain. Even as drunk as he was, the stabbing was not
something he talked about with anyone. Not even Angelo.
“Is that why you have therapy swimming? That’s what Angelo called it.”
“Yeah, that’s why.” He needed the exercise no matter what but it definitely helped keep his shoulder in shape without
stressing out the muscles too much. “It’s also a good time to not think for a while. Just swim. Breathe. Do the laps. You know?”
“I’d say I get it, but I can’t swim, remember?”
“Then what do you do to not think?”
“I don’t know if I have anything like that, to be honest.” Patrick absently chewed on the side of his thumb. “Even when I’m
playing the fiddle, I still have to think about my finger and bow placements, but I guess that’s close. Freestyling with my fiddle.
Alone is fun but it’s been forever since I did it with other musicians.”
He didn’t like the thin veil of sadness that had settled around Patrick but Russell wasn’t sure how to fix it. “You don’t know
any other musicians in Reynolds? You’ve been here a while, right?”
“About a year, and not really. Not musicians who aren’t students or other tutors who were more interested in teaching
scales than exploring them. When I moved here, my life was all about Frog, my mother, and teaching whenever I could to earn a
paycheck. There was no time to meet anyone.” Something in his voice hinted at both professional colleagues and potential
dates.
“You should come to Tim’s with me one night,” Russell blurted before he could overthink the offer. Had he just asked his
new neighbor out on a date?
Patrick squinted. “Who’s Tim? Friend of yours?”
The adorable confusion made Russell laugh. “No, Tim’s is the name of a local bar. Friendly place, not divey or anything.
Cheap beer.” He wasn’t sure if mentioning it was queer-friendly would be a selling point or not so he kept that tidbit in his
pocket.
“Oh. Um, I’m not sure. I’d have to find a sitter for Frog.”
“Oh, shit, right. Forgot. If he was a real frog, you could just put him in a tank or something with some flies, and he’d be
okay for a few hours.” As soon as the words slipped past his lips, Russell blushed, positive he’d just said the dumbest thing
possible and insulted Patrick and his kid.
 Patrick stared at him for several long, agonizing moments, and then he chuckled. Kicked his feet in the water, sending
ripples across its aqua surface. “Yeah, we can do that with Bruno for sure. Although Bruno prefers mealworms to flies. Frog
requires a human babysitter who can keep him occupied and out of the snacks.”
“Sounds like a kid. What’s his favorite snack?”
“Chocolate-covered crickets from Mexico.”
Russell blinked several times. Patrick held his gaze steadily. Then humor wrinkled his lips and brightened his eyes, and
even from a distance and in dim light, Russell could tell he was being teased. “Ha ha.”
“You believed it for about ten seconds. He’s seven and not an adventurous eater. He absolutely loves fresh fruit. Although, I
think the fruit thing is more in solidarity with Bruno and other reptiles and amphibians, because if you put a package of cookies
in front of Frog? They’re gone in about two minutes flat.”
“Encourage the fruit, friend. Healthy eating habits are great to start young. Then you don’t end up old and fat like me.”
Damned drunk brain, feeling sorry for himself again.
“You’re hardly fat, Russ. You’re…king-sized.”
“Is that supposed to sound better?”
“Sure. I had a bear once tell me I was fun-sized, so we even each other out.” Patrick’s lips parted, eyebrows raising in
surprise.
It took a moment for his words to catch up with Russell’s thought processes. Patrick was kind of fun-sized, with his short,
twinky stature and big blue eyes, especially compared to Russell’s bulk. Wait… “When did a bear call you fun-sized?”
Patrick mumbled something as he stood, careful to grab his phone and keep it from getting splashed with pool water. He
was looking at his wet feet when he audibly said, “It’s stupid late, I should go to bed.”
“Um, okay.” Russell waved goodbye, but Patrick was already hustling through his gate toward the carriage house. He
wasn’t sure why Patrick was embarrassed by the bear admission. Russell kind of liked the descriptions: king-size and fun-size.
Patrick was definitely the type Russell could have a lot of fun with in the bedroom—and those were inappropriate thoughts for
a guy so much younger and with a kid to care for. Frog would always come first for Patrick, and the last thing Russell wanted
to do was cause future friction with his new neighbor if they fucked and things went sour.
Nah, he’d go to bed and try to forget the king-size comment ever happened.
Yeah.
Right.
 CHAPTER FIVE

Patrick didn’t fall asleep for a long time after his conversation with Russ, haunted by his idiotic admission of the “fun-size”
thing, and that he’d been called that by a bear who referred to himself as “king-size.” He’d meant to make Russ feel better, to
see that he wasn’t fat and Patrick saw him as someone worth knowing, not just labeling. He wasn’t sure if he’d failed or
succeeded.
Mostly, he’d excused himself and then run away like a coward.
Russ was unlikely to judge Patrick for being gay or liking bigger, hairier, huskier guys like Russ. No, it was Patrick who’d
chosen to slip back into the safety of the closet.
He tossed and turned until he heard Frog moving around in the next room. No matter when he went to bed, Frog woke with
the sun, ready to start his day and discover the new adventure it might hold. Patrick longed for the innocence of childhood, even
one touched so closely by loss and grief. Sure, Frog occasionally acted out, but even the child psychologist Patrick had taken
him to see a few months after moving to Reynolds had said Frog was well-adjusted, given all the change in such a short amount
of time.
But it had also been less than a full week since moving from Mom’s house to this glorified apartment, and Patrick had no
illusions Frog was as fine as he pretended to be. Hiding near the main house the day they moved in showed him that. So far,
Frog hadn’t done it again (that Russ had reported). Fingers and toes crossed things stayed on an even keel until school started
next week.
The toilet flushed. A few beats later, Frog knocked and opened his bedroom door. Bruno clung to his t-shirt and Frog still
had uncombed bed-head. He walked over, hands clasped in front of him, a cartoon halo practically hovering over his head.
“French toast Sunday?” he asked.
Patrick fumbled for his phone. Way too freaking early but his son operated by hunger pangs, not clocks. “Give me another
hour, bud. You can have one pack of lunchbox cookies to tide you over.”
“Thank you!” He bolted out of the room. Lunchbox cookies were anything from the snack basket that Patrick frequently
tossed into their packed lunches, everything from four-packs of cookies to little bags of gummy snacks. And Frog knew to only
take one because Dad sporadically counted them. Sneaking extra one day meant going without the next. Patrick didn’t want to
be a hard-ass, no-fun dad, but he had a responsibility to Frog that went far beyond simply parenting him.
He’d promised Bryan he would raise a strong, smart, truthful little human, and Patrick wouldn’t break that promise because
giving in was easier than standing his ground.
He pulled the covers over his head and dozed until his phone alarm went off. Dragged his tired ass into the bathroom for a
steamy shower that helped wake him up. Coffee would chase away the rest of the mental cobwebs. After throwing on jogging
shorts and a t-shirt, he padded downstairs. A half-full glass of juice on the kitchen table was the only sign Frog had been there.
Frog had standing permission to play in their backyard, so after putting coffee on to brew, Patrick went outside. Just as
humid as yesterday but slightly cooler in the morning shade, he found Frog in a dark corner where the back fence met the side
of the carriage house. He’d begun construction on some sort of fort with a combination of plastic Big Blocks and the remnants
of old clothing he’d torn into squares to use as “windows” for his fortresses.
“That way Bruno can’t climb out and run away,” he’d said when explaining his shirt windows to Patrick.
Clever kid.
Bruno now clung to the back neck of Frog’s t-shirt while Frog played with two action figures they’d picked up at a thrift
store. They didn’t belong in the same franchise but Frog didn’t care. He made up his own stories for all his toys, regardless of
what movie or cartoon they’d come from. It had made their early lives easy, because Frog hadn’t cared if his toys were knock-
offs from dollar stores, rather than the latest trademarked superhero. He envied Frog’s imagination. Frog would probably freak
out if he ever got a look at Russ’s workshop.
Is Russ feeling his hangover this morning? Is he even awake?
Patrick had no idea if his quiet neighbor kept to the same swimming schedule on Sundays, which meant he may or may not
be hitting the pool soon.
“Hey, squirt,” he said to Frog. “Still feeling French toast?”
“Yes!” Frog held his Army man high in the air. “We will battle for French toast and win for all the girls we left behind to go
to war.” In his other hand was some kind of blue alien. “You will lose, human! All you will bring home from war are French
fries! Ha ha!”
Patrick snickered softly, unsure how fries were a punishment. Give him greasy potatoes over cinnamon bread any day of the
week. “Well, Mr. Alien, something tells me that French toast will win the battle. I’ll get the bread soaking. You can play for
another thirty minutes, but if Mr. Schar comes outside to swim don’t bother him, okay?”
“I won’t.”
With another glance at the empty pool, Patrick went inside to get the custard ready and soak the bread. No dry French toast
for them. He’d perfected it when Frog was four and refused to eat anything except French toast and bananas for breakfast for a
solid month. Patrick had developed a slight aversion to bananas after that milestone year and, thankfully, Frog now preferred
apple slices with his toast.
He called for Frog to come in and wash up after he flipped the first batch of French toast. Still no sign of Russ, so yeah,
maybe a different Sunday routine. Frog rushed straight upstairs to put Bruno into his tank. Patrick flinched as Frog took those
anxiety-inducing spiral stairs a little too fast for his liking, but Frog was sure-footed and didn’t stumble once.
Frog washed up and set the table with plastic plates and the bag of pre-cut apple slices. Patrick poured himself coffee then
fetched Frog’s earlier glass of juice from the fridge. No sense in wasting it. They ate without speaking, as was their habit
lately, but there wasn’t a whole lot to talk about. Frog fidgeted a lot but he ate with quick, careful bites, eager to finish and get
back to playing.
Sometimes meals were a chore, especially dinner, when Frog was too exhausted from the day to really concentrate on
eating, and his attention bopped all over the place. But Patrick had been raised in a home where meals were for family: no
television, no phones, definitely no tablets or internet. Maybe the radio, but Patrick’s portable speakers had died during the
move and he hadn’t replaced them yet.
One more thing on the long list of Wants, instead of Needs. Until Mom’s house sold and everything was squared away, only
Needs got purchased. Thankfully, he did have a phone interview with a potential tutoring student on Tuesday afternoon.
Patrick didn’t have any particular Sunday plans, other than maybe wading into the shallow end of the pool. He’d found
some child’s arm floaties at a thrift store the other day, and he’d been watching YouTube videos on how to swim, so he was
considering a few lessons for him and Frog. But he didn’t want to overtake the pool area until after Russ was finished using it.
Which he hadn’t yet.
Curious and slightly irritated, he considered texting Russ and asking when he’d do his daily swim. That also seemed pushy
and borderline rude, when Patrick had already told the man that neither he nor his son swam. Use of the pool was in the rent,
though, and Frog had said more than once that he wanted to learn so he could swim like an African dwarf frog.
Russ also might be a grumpy bear when hungover, and Patrick’s natural caregiver instincts hated seeing other people ill or
hurt. He had more of the egg custard left in a bowl, so on a whim, Patrick soaked the last three pieces of this bread loaf (he
always kept a spare in the freezer so he wouldn’t have to rush to the store before lunch). When the new batch of French toast
was cooked, he put them on a paper plate and walked up the driveway to the main house’s front door.
Nerves seized his stomach, and he pressed the doorbell with a slightly trembling finger, unsure what had possessed him
into thinking this was a good idea. Especially after he’d so rudely ended their early morning, poolside chat. Mostly poolside.
Pool-adjacent for Russ, but whatever. As he waited, a few strains of a song he’d once written about regret whispered through
his brain, warning him to take his French toast and go home before he stuffed his foot any deeper into his mouth than he had last
night.
The front door swung open, and Russ’s large body filled the frame. His scowl instantly melted into parted lips and raised
eyebrows. “Hey,” he said.
“Morning,” Patrick replied, taking quick stock of Russ’s appearance. Cotton shorts and a t-shirt, the kind of attire someone
might work out in or sleep in, and bare feet. “Um, I brought you breakfast.”
Russ blinked. “You did?”
“I mean, I had some extra, so I brought it over. I didn’t, like, plan on making you breakfast or anything. Frog likes French
toast, and I finished up the loaf, and I don’t like to waste food, so I thought you might like it.”
Nervous word vomit? Check.
“Oh, that’s really nice. Come on inside.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“I’m not gonna maul you, Fun Size, come on in for a few. I’ve got coffee on.” Russ didn’t sound offended. His tone was
closer to exasperated amusement. He stepped back and swept his arm inward.
Patrick bit his lip and stepped inside. The bright foyer had wood floors covered by a stylish rug, rooms that went to the left
and right, and a staircase straight ahead. Despite the home’s Shingle Style exterior, the interior had clean, modern wood
finishes and what looked like modern art on the walls. Nothing old-fashioned or stuffy about the place for being old enough to
have an existing carriage house.
“Kitchen’s back this way.” Russ led him through a formal dining room to a large, open kitchen complete with black
appliances and what looked like poured-cement countertops—something Patrick had seen on TV renovation shows but never in
person.
He liked the look. “Wow, did Angelo do all this?”
“Not physically, but yeah, he designed the kitchen and approved all the work. He’s good at what he does.”
“He is, yes.” Patrick put the plate on the massive kitchen island. “Um, the French toast should still be warm, but you can
probably nuke it if you prefer it hot.”
“It looks and smells great as is, thanks. Coffee?”
“Please.” While he hadn’t come over intending to stay, Patrick wanted to keep getting to know Russ.
Russ took a pair of matching blue mugs out of a cabinet. “Room for cream or milk?”
“No, I just take sugar, or whatever sweetener you have, thank you.”
“No problem.” He poured two mugs from a simple coffee maker and delivered them to the island countertop, along with an
oddly-shaped, white plastic container with a flap on each end, and a spoon sticking out of one. “Sugar’s in there.”
Patrick picked up the sugar thing and smiled. Tupperware. He spotted a matching set of plastic salt-and-pepper shakers
sitting on a turntable. He couldn’t imagine Angelo had picked those out for this fancy kitchen, so maybe they were personal
items of Russ’s?
He scooped some sugar into his coffee and was about to ask for a stirring spoon when Russ slid one toward him. The big
bear was quiet, but he knew how to serve unexpected guests.
Russ settled on a stool near him with his own coffee, a bottle of honey, and the French toast. “Don’t have syrup,” he said
when he caught Patrick’s curious stare. “Can’t remember the last time I made pancakes or even freezer waffles for myself. This
is a treat, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Russ.” He blew across the surface of his steaming coffee. “I admit, I was a little concerned about you
this morning. You didn’t go out to swim at your normal time.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Sometimes if I’m out late the night before, I don’t always get up for my morning swim. Or I take it before
lunch.” He speared a piece of toast. “Definitely had a late one last night.”
“Right.”
“Mmm, this here is good French toast, thank you.” He cut another honey-soaked piece and scarfed it down. “It’s hittin’ the
spot.”
“I’m glad. My brother used to swear by French toast as a great hangover remedy, which is probably where the habit of
making it Sunday morning came from.” Patrick snapped his mouth shut, annoyed at himself for letting such a personal thing slip
out. But he had a fresh habit of doing that in front of Russ, as if his brain had decided “Talk To This Guy” about anything and
everything.
“Don’t usually get much of a hangover from beer,” Russ said with a charming grin. “Now if I mix it up with liquor? Then it
gets messy.”
“I hear you. The one and only time I got suckered into mixing my beer with tequila shots, I thought I was gonna die for two
days after.”
“French toast didn’t help?”
“I couldn’t keep water down, much less eggy bread. Swore off the hard stuff forever after that.” It didn’t help that
alcoholism ran in the family, and Patrick didn’t want to risk traveling down that dangerous road. Not with Frog to look after.
“No crazy college stories you can tell me while I eat?”
“No boring college stories, either.” Off Russ’s curious glance, Patrick said, “I only did a few semesters and I lived at home
to save money. I was never much of a partier, anyway.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that.” Russ gulped at his steaming coffee. Patrick flinched, unsure how his mouth hadn’t been scalded
when Patrick was still sipping at his own mug. “I sowed my own oats in college the first two years, then buckled down so I got
my degree. Hard to be a teacher without it.”
“So teaching is something you always wanted to do?”
Russ nodded around a mouthful of food. “Had a lot of great teachers as a kid, people who took their time with me. I always
had my nose in a book, a comic, or a drawing pad, so my grades weren’t great, especially math and science. No one at home
cared, they signed whatever report card they needed to sign, but some of my teachers gave a damn. Not to pull on a cliché, but
they invested their time in me.”
Patrick wanted to dig deeper into the comment that no one at home cared, but he didn’t want to be too pushy and get tossed
out. He liked talking to Russ too much and felt strangely at home with him in this big, airy kitchen. The only thing that would
make the homey picture complete was Frog. Speaking of…
He stood and walked to the kitchen windows, but his own yard was difficult to see past two rows of wooden pool fencing.
Frog knew better than to wander out of the yard without permission, but he should have told Frog where he was going. Patrick
hadn’t anticipated being invited in for coffee.
“You okay?” Russ asked.
“Sorry, just looking for Frog. I left him playing in our yard.”
“You could have brought him with you.”
“I didn’t even think to.” Patrick spotted a flash of Frog’s green hair and relaxed. Turned back to face Russ. “He’s building a
fort for Bruno and he gets preoccupied. Sometimes it’s easier to leave him to his imagination than to interrupt when I thought
I’d be gone less than five minutes.”
“Oh. Shit. If you need to get back…?” Russ trailed off, his tone even but his expression seemed to say Patrick was free to
stay and chill for as long as he wanted. Maybe Russ liked talking to him, too.
Maybe we’re both lonely.
“I’m okay to stay for a bit longer.” Patrick returned to his stool. “We have a landline for emergencies. Frog knows to call
my cell first, and if I don’t answer, call 911.” That system had worked well for the first few months after moving here, when
Mom still had the energy to watch Frog for brief periods of time. Right now, the system gave Patrick a slight bit of freedom to
walk twenty yards to his neighbor’s house for coffee.
“Smart kid,” Russ said. “Sounds like he had to grow up pretty fast, though. Grandma dying and Mom not in the picture.”
Not to mention Bryan being in prison, but Patrick wasn’t going there. “He’s doing his best to understand why sometimes
people go to heaven and can’t come back. But yeah, I wish he still had living grandparents to spoil him. My mom’s parents
were pretty great to us growing up. You?”
“No blood family to speak of, not that I know about. I grew up in the foster system since I was about Frog’s age.”
Patrick stared, running that new fact against what Russ had said about no one at home caring about his grades, and
everything tracked. While Patrick’s own father rarely had any use for his youngest son, his mother had always been supportive
of his dreams—even if Patrick’s dreams were often sacrificed on the altar of his brother’s success. “Did your parents pass
away?”
“Dad did, from a bad staph infection docs were never really sure how he caught.” Russ dragged the tines of his fork
through a smear of honey on his plate. “Guess me and Robbie the Frog got one thing in common. Mom left us when we were
babies. Courts couldn’t find her, so I stayed in foster care. Was almost adopted once when I was nine but it fell through.”
“I’m sorry. If this is a painful subject, please change it.”
“S’okay, I don’t really talk about it with anyone anymore. Told Angelo about it in college but it wasn’t somethin’ that came
up during teacher meetings or end-of-year parties, and I don’t make good friends easily. I’m glad Frog’s got you, and I mean
that.”
Russ had no idea what a volatile statement he’d just made because yeah, Frog was lucky that Patrick had agreed to step up
and raise someone else’s biological child. That he was emotionally able to take in a baby, provide for him, and mold him into a
decent human being. Granted, Frog was barely eight and Patrick had plenty of chances yet to fuck up the poor kid, but he’d
done pretty well so far.
Even if he did toot his own horn.
“Frog’s the best thing I’ve got in my life right now,” Patrick said. “Kids can give you gray hair and ulcers but he’s worth
it.”
“I can commiserate a little bit. Some of my art students were crazy talented, and I was always so damned proud to see one
succeed. To get an award or a scholarship. Even had one get into the Savannah College of Art and Design, and I wrote his
recommendation letter. One of the highlights of my career, to be honest.”
“Sounds like you were an excellent teacher. I’m sure a lot of students will look back at high school and think, ‘That Mr.
Schar sure was special, I’m glad he taught me how to use watercolors.’” Patrick smiled warmly, because his words might have
sounded flip, but he’d tried to put as much genuine feeling into them as possible.
Russ smiled back. “My favorite medium to teach was always 3-D art, like sculpting with clay and paper mache, but when
budgets started getting cut, I was mostly stuck with painting and one art history class. Honestly, I’m probably lucky I left when I
did, instead of being forced out because of more budget cuts. They always cut the arts programs first.”
“God forbid high school football budgets ever shrink to make room for art and music.”
“Amen.” He gulped down his coffee then rose to pour more into his mug. “I hated the politics of teaching. But the
community wasn’t lining up at the door for a student art show the way they did for home games and booster rallies, so what can
you do?”
“I guess.”
While he was up, Russ tossed his empty paper plate in the trash and put his fork into the sink. Turned and leaned against the
counter, slightly backlit by the big windows, and it made his short hair glow like an auburn halo. Russ rested a hand over his
belly. “So I guess I gotta wait a while before my morning swim. Thanks again, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.” That felt like a subtle suggestion that he’d stayed his welcome, so Patrick stood. “Um, speaking of your
swim, I was thinking, because I didn’t have any other plans today, that I might teach Frog how to swim. In the pool. When
you’re not using it.”
Russ’s lips twitched. “I thought you couldn’t swim, either?”
“I can’t but I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials. And I bought floaties for Frog, so if we stay in the shallow end we
should be able to at least figure out doggie-style.” Inappropriate mental images of Patrick, Russ and doggie-style (and not
doing it in a pool) flashed through his mind, and Patrick swallowed hard.
“Doggie is the easiest to learn.” Russ’s eyes danced with humor, and Patrick blushed. “For a kid who can’t swim, I mean.
Not too hard for adults, either. Who are learning new things.” His gaze lowered and raised once, quickly, but Patrick caught it.
Russ had just subtly checked him out.
Warmth spread from the top of Patrick’s head, through his chest and abdomen, all the way down to his toes. He loved it
when big guys looked at him like they couldn’t wait to get him into their bed, to maul him out of his clothes, and take him in
hand. Not in a “spank me, daddy” way at all, just in a “relax, baby, I’ve got you” way.
“I like learning new things,” Patrick blurted out. “I mean, um, my best friend Laurine always says no one really stops
learning until they’re dead. And if they stop before they’re dead then they might as well be dead.”
That second sentence almost made no sense but Russ seemed to be following along. “The whole ‘dead if you stop learning’
thing certainly explains a lot of politicians,” Russ said.
He laughed, glad he’d only grabbed his mug handle and not actually drank the last of his coffee yet, or he’d have choked.
“Yes, it does.”
“So you’re interested in learning doggie-style, too?”
Patrick stopped with his mug an inch from his lips, positive Russ was actively trying for a spit-take. He put the mug back
down and raised one eyebrow. “What if I am? Are you qualified to teach me?”
“Probably more qualified to teach you and Frog, since you don’t even know how to tread water. You gotta crawl before you
can walk, friend.”
“Then teach us both.” Throwing down that challenge probably wasn’t Patrick’s smartest move ever but too late now.
Something about Russ made him do and say stupid things he knew better than to do and say, especially after what happened
with Bryan. Patrick had sworn off men, especially men like Russell, who woke up his libido, confused his normally centered
mind, and always ended in some kind of disaster. The last thing he needed was to fuck this up and get kicked out of the carriage
house.
“Fine,” Russ said, completely unaware of Patrick’s inner turmoil. “You guys meet me at the pool at eleven o’clock. Bring
your floaties.” He smirked. “I’ll even bring a life preserver.”
“We’ll be there.” Patrick straightened, nervous about this new plan, and also determined to see it through. He turned and
strode toward the kitchen door. “See you at eleven, Russ.”
“See you at eleven, Fun Size.”
Patrick tripped on his way out of the kitchen.
This is terrible fucking idea.
 CHAPTER SIX

This is a terrible fucking idea.

Only years of politeness learned by being a teacher had prompted him to invite Patrick inside for coffee, when his common
sense had screamed to send the young, fun-sized man away as quickly as possible. What else was he supposed to do when
presented with free breakfast? And then coffee had turned to gentle flirting, and now Russell had committed to swimming
lessons? Patrick shirtless and in swim trunks?
Terrible idea.
And also the first fun thing he’d looked forward to in a long time. He’d loved swimming long before his neck injury left
him with few other sports he could still manage without serious pain. He’d enjoyed playing football in high school and college.
His size had always lent itself to steamrolling other guys on the field, but he’d wanted to teach, not be a pro athlete.
If he tried tackling someone again today, he’d probably end up in screaming pain and several days of a narcotics-induced
haze. No thank you. But swimming lessons he could do. Hopefully.
The flirting about doggie-style had been fun, and Russell liked the way Patrick had been somewhat flustered at first, and
then had stood up to him, practically demanding the lessons for himself and Frog. Russell was a touch nervous to teach a small
child, but Patrick would be there with him in the shallow end, and they would both make it clear to Frog that he was never to
be in the pool area unattended. Period.
He put their coffee mugs in the sink then went upstairs to change into his trunks and swap out his sleeping t-shirt for a
sleeveless one he didn’t mind smelling like chlorine. With time to kill, he settled downstairs to watch another episode of
Project Runway. Angelo had turned him onto it a few weeks ago, and it hit on both of their design sensibilities in different
ways. The great thing about renting from Angelo and the man occasionally living here between projects was that Angelo liked
his smart TVs and streaming apps. Russell had free access to pretty much anything he wanted.
TV helped fill those lonely hours in the evening between the end of his work day and going to bed.
At ten-fifty, he turned off the TV, grabbed a fresh towel from the stack by the back door, and went outside to inspect the
contents of the pool trunk on his patio. A maintenance man came by to adjust the chemicals and stuff, so Russell almost never
opened it. He did find a foam life preserver inside and fished it out, partly to tease Patrick and partly just in case. Never could
be too careful with another person’s kid.
He unlocked his side of the gate, the number code coming easily to his sober brain, and padded into the pool area, the
cement already warmed by the morning sun. They had a bright, sunny day to do this, which was nice. He put the preserver
down by the shallow end’s short ladder then waded into the chilly water. Did a few quick laps to warm up while he waited,
enjoying the easy, elegant way his body glided through the water, when most days he felt like a clumsy oaf stumbling his way
through life.
The only other thing that left him as satisfied was gliding his paintbrush across a canvas.
Too bad his puppets paid most of the bills.
 He’d just made an underwater turn in the deep end and was heading back to the shallow end when two flashes of ivory and
blue caught his attention. He surfaced, able to stand easily in the middle of the pool. Patrick and Frog stood together by their
gate, each clutching beach towels and wearing loose, blue swim trunks. They were bare-chested, too, and Russell tried not to
stare at the expanse of pale skin Patrick was showing off.
He was here to teach, not leer at his elder pupil.
Easier said than done. Fun Size was even tastier looking without his wrapper.
Russell really needed to redirect his focus, and he reached for the first thing that came to mind. “Bruno doesn’t get to share
the swim lesson?”
“Dad said Bruno isn’t allowed in the pool area,” Frog said. “Or he gets rehomed.” He was so solemn, as if losing his
lizard was tantamount to losing his very best friend on earth. For a little boy who’d lived in two homes this past year, that
probably wasn’t too far from the truth.
“Understood. No lizards allowed.”
“Bearded dragon.”
“Yes, sorry. Dragon.” Russell walked to the shallow end ladder, the water falling lower and lower. He’d purposely left his
tank on, even though it billowed under water and clung to his skin above it. And it only occurred to him as he squinted up
against the bright sunlight that with his hair, beard and clothes soaked and sticky, his scar must stand out like black paint on a
fresh canvas.
Frog had a floatie on each arm but he didn’t seem eager to get any closer to the edge of the pool. He clutched a cartoon-frog
towel to his chest like a safety blanket.
“So what do you think, sport?” Russell asked Frog. “You wanna see your dad get in the water first? Prove it’s safe?”
“Yep.”
Patrick approached the short ladder and dropped his towel on the ground. “I haven’t been in a pool since my senior year of
high school.”
“I thought you couldn’t swim,” Russell said.
“I can’t. I was thrown in fully clothed.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I was the closest geek to it when the jocks showed up.” Patrick shrugged and sat on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in
the water much like last night. He wasn’t smiling but he also didn’t seem upset. “I didn’t get invited to a lot of parties but it
was a seniors-only, end-of-year thing, so I figured why not? One last hurrah. Thank God my best friend was holding my cell
phone or my dad would have been pissed at me ruining it.”
Russell frowned. “He couldn’t have blamed you for bullies tossing you in the pool.”
“Trust me, yes, he could’ve. Even after his stroke, he made sure you knew when you’d fu—screwed up.” The new crease
on his forehead seemed to say Patrick wasn’t digging deeper into the comment about his father’s stroke, so Russell let it pass.
“Everyone screws up once in a while. But how about we don’t screw up this first lesson, yeah?”
Patrick nodded. “Okay. What’s first?”
“First, you need more than just your feet in the water.”
Frog giggled then sat just like Patrick, on the opposite side of the ladder from him, still clutching that towel. “Yeah, get
wet!”
Patrick blew a hard breath out through his mouth, his adorable face the perfect picture of fatherly exasperation. “You’re the
boss.” He pinched his nose and slid right into the pool and under the water.
Russell smiled, impressed by him showing Frog that getting in the water wasn’t a scary thing, even if it was for the first
time in years. Patrick surfaced fast, water streaming down his face and chest. He whipped his head back and forth several
times, sending water flying, mostly at Frog, who yelped and laughed. The sweet, snapshot moment between father and son sent
a tiny bolt of jealousy and loneliness through Russell’s gut.
Even if he’d been straight or bi and married a woman, he’d never wanted his own kids. Never wanted to pass his own
genes along to a kid, too scared he’d die young like his father had, or he’d just up and leave one day for no good reason like his
mother. All he knew about the woman was her name, and it was more than he cared to know at this point.
Present and maybe a few days into the future only. The past could stay there and rot.
“Well, he’s all wet,” Russell said to Frog. “Think he’s ready for the next step?”
“Yeah!”
“How comfortable are you putting your face in the water?” he asked Patrick.
Patrick grimaced.
It took a lot longer than Russell expected to both get Patrick used to being under the water—perfectly safe the entire time—
and then able to float on his back. Well, kind of float with Russell’s hand on his lower back at first. Once he was successfully
floating off toward the deep end, Russell waded over to Frog. “How about it, Robbie the Frog? Ready to get your whole body
wet?”
 “I’ve been all wet before,” Frog replied, pulling on all the indignation a seven-year-old could properly muster. “I used to
run through the sprinkler at Aunt Laurine’s house, and we got into a water balloon fight on my fifth birthday. She got me right in
the giggle berries.”
Patrick sputtered and came up out of his floating position too fast. He flailed and splashed, too far into the deep end to
touch bottom. Russell swam out, wrapped his arm around Patrick’s chest and kept them both afloat. “Calm down and stop
thrashin’, you’re fine,” Russell said.
“Easy for you to say.” Patrick did as asked, though, going limp in Russell’s hold.
Russell ignored how good Patrick’s smaller form felt in his arms as he swam them both back to a spot where Patrick could
touch down. Patrick moved a few inches away before turning, his whole face flaming red while his eyes danced with…
something positive. “Thanks for the rescue, King Size.”
“Not a problem.” Russell bit back the instinct to call him Fun Size, unsure how they’d go about explaining the nicknames to
Frog. “Shouldn’t’ve let you float so far away. You can’t tread water yet.”
“Gotta learn to tread before I can doggie, huh?”
Russell nearly choked. “Um, yeah.” He turned to Frog. “So how about it, sport? Ready?”
“I guess.” Frog surprised him by standing, dumping the towel on the ground and taking a big leap right toward him.

Patrick was not prepared for the way Frog took initiative and flung himself off the edge of the pool, right toward the water
without even a warning. His entire body tensed because, floaties or not, the shallow end was still over Frog’s head! While he
mentally flailed for the three seconds Frog’s flight lasted, Russ seemed to move in slow motion. Russ reached out and caught
Frog securely around the waist and moved with Frog’s momentum, sinking them both about a foot into the water. Enough to
cover Russ’s shoulders, but Frog only went in to his waist before Russ lifted him back up.
“Woohoo!” Frog shouted. “Do it again!”
Russ laughed. “Maybe in a bit, and warn me next time. Not all frogs are meant to swim in deep water, you know.”
Some of Patrick’s initial panic began to fade and his temper rose. “You shouldn’t have jumped like that,” he said to Frog.
“You could have hurt yourself or us.”
“He’s all right, no harm done.”
Patrick glared at Russ. “Please, don’t. Let me parent him.”
Russ blinked hard twice. “You’re right. Didn’t mean to overstep.” He gently passed Frog over and moved a few feet away.
“I’m fine,” Frog said, still smiling without a care in the world. “That was fun. Can I try to swim now? I don’t mind putting
my face in the water.”
Patrick looked at Russ, who nodded without making eye contact. Great, Patrick’s overprotectiveness had just alienated his
new friend. Lovely. “Yeah, we can do that,” Patrick said.
And they did, with Russ directing the action from a distance. Patrick showed Frog how to hold his face underwater, float on
his back, and once Russ decided they were proficient enough, he taught them both how to tread water. Patrick struggled a little
with that one, not used to kicking his feet and moving his arms that way. It felt a bit like rubbing his stomach and patting his
head at the same time. Frog had the assistance of his arm floaties and got it fast enough that Russ was teaching him to doggie
paddle while Patrick was still in the deep end with the life preserver, trying to keep his head above water.
Old dog, new tricks.
And speaking of tricks, he needed to talk to Laurine about teaching Frog slang words like “giggle berries” for his body
parts.
He enjoyed watching Frog and Russ interact, though. In between the lessons, Frog got a huge kick out of climbing Russ’s
big body like a tree and flinging himself into the water. They laughed and splashed like old friends who’d been doing it all
summer. Like any nephew and uncle. Or father and son.
Patrick’s heart gave an unhappy pang. Some days he ached with loneliness and longed for a partner to help him raise Frog.
Someone to spend his evenings with, to plan meals with, and to make future plans with. But his own history with men always
reminded him that being single was safer. Maybe Patrick couldn’t give Frog another dad, but he could definitely give his boy a
new friend.
“It’s time for Daddy to doggie,” Frog announced after his umpteenth jump from Russ’s shoulders.
Patrick bit back a groan. He’d never be able to think of swimming again without sexual innuendo invading his mind, and it
was all Russ’s fault. Russ, whose auburn hair and short beard glinted in the sunlight like an autumn bonfire. The white tank
clung to his chest and showed off a pelt of more reddish-brown hair on his chest and abdomen. The shirt couldn’t be all that
comfortable in the pool but maybe the guy had sun-sensitive skin? Russ was kind of pale and the bare skin on his face and
shoulders was already pinking up.
“Yeah, I think it’s my turn.” Patrick offered Russ what he hoped passed for an apologetic smile. “I’m not a hopeless case,
am I?”
Russ’s half-smile widened and he shook his head. “Nah. Just a little stubborn, but it ain’t easy learning something new as a
grownup. Sometimes you gotta loosen the grip and trust someone else, though.”
“I trust you.”
He quirked a bushy eyebrow. “You sure?”
Oh, so Russ was going to challenge him again? In front of Frog? Patrick planted his hands on his hips, which wasn’t super-
intimidating when the water came up to his shoulders, but whatever. “Yes.”
“Then come toward me until the water’s below your pecs and turn to face the deep end.”
He complied, slightly queasy over what was about to happen. He glanced over his shoulder once, to where Frog was
successfully treading water by the ladder, then faced forward.
“Pinch your nose shut.”
He did.
The water moved behind him, audibly at first, and then something swirled around his legs. Patrick didn’t have time to
wonder. Hands grabbed his upper calves and held his legs apart. Hair tickled his thighs, and then he was being lifted straight
up. Out of the water. Fingers still painfully pinching his nose, Patrick shut his eyes and shouted his surprise as he was
propelled skyward, perched on Russ’s shoulders. Meaty hands clamped around Patrick’s upper thighs, keeping him still while
he flailed with his free hand.
“Timber!” Russ yelled.
They fell backward with a jarring splash that took Patrick’s breath away. Russ was gone and back again in an instant,
helping Patrick right himself in the shallow water. On the sidelines, Frog hooted and hollered, obviously enjoying the show
more than his dad. Patrick coughed and sputtered, more out of indignation than because he’d swallowed any water. Russ gave
Frog a high-five and the complete joy on Frog’s face chased away Patrick’s lingering annoyance at being dunked.
“Well, that happened,” Patrick said.
“You said you trusted me,” Russ replied with a shy smile. “Used to play Timber like that a lot one summer when my foster
parents took us to a community pool. We could run around and play all day, eat cheap ice cream bars for lunch, and they’d
bring us home exhausted.” His smile flickered. “I was always on the bottom, though, because I was a big kid.”
“Can I do it too?” Frog asked. “Please, please, please?”
Russ started to nod, then flinched and grimaced. “Shit. Shoot, I mean.”
“Did you hurt your neck?” Patrick asked, alarmed his own stubborn streak might have goaded Russ into aggravating his
injury.
“Tweaked it. Sorry, sport, maybe another day.”
“Can’t Daddy Timber me? Please?” Frog’s pout destroyed Patrick’s resistance.
“I guess we can try it,” Patrick replied hesitantly. “You won’t really go under with the floaties on.”
“I can stand near where he’ll fall, too.” Russ’s calm voice helped assuage some of Patrick’s nerves over trying this new,
water-based sport with his son.
He had a funny feeling being friends with Russ could lead to a lot of new experiences for them both—a thought that both
intrigued and terrified him. “Okay, let’s give it a try. We’re falling toward the shallow end.”
Frog whooped and pushed off, paddling right over to Patrick with the biggest grin he’d seen on his son in weeks.
“So you’ve gotta go underwater,” Russ said to Patrick, “put your head between his legs, grab his thighs, and then stand
straight up. If you don’t go as straight up as possible you’ll both fall on your faces.”
“Do it right, Dad.”
Patrick considered the directions, not sure how he was going to hold his nose when he dove under and hold onto Frog at the
same time. Watersports were definitely not his forte.
“Then again,” Russ said slowly, “for the first time, it might be easier if I put Frog on your shoulders. Hard to remember to
stand straight up when you’re tryin’ not to drown.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Patrick replied.
“Okay, you hunch down so just your head’s above water. Frog? Paddle over here.”
Patrick braced for his son as Russ swung Frog out of the water like he weighed nothing and gently deposited him on
Patrick’s shoulders. Water streamed down over Patrick’s head and face, and he blinked hard to clear his eyes. He clamped his
hands down around Frog’s thighs and, after Russ pressed a palm against his back, rose out of the water. Frog cheered as he
went up, up, up.
“You ever heard of chicken fighting, Frog?” Russ asked. “If I had someone on my shoulders, then you and him would grab
hands and wrestle until one of you toppled over into the water. Last pair standing wins.”
“I wanna do that!”
“Well, we don’t have a fourth person. Maybe another day. You can invite a school friend over or something. Um, if it’s
okay with your dad.”
Patrick expected to be annoyed at Russ for basically making a playdate for Frog, and he wasn’t. Not as much as he might
have been a week ago, because Russ wasn’t being domineering or pushing his way into Patrick’s life. It was probably a
teacher’s instinct to help a lonely little boy socialize more with kids his own age. Still…
“We’ll talk about it after school starts,” he said, not used to having fifty-five pounds of wet kid sitting on his shoulders for
an extended period of time. After deciding to make French toast for Russ, everything about today was out of character for
Patrick, and now he was going to pretend to be a felled tree to amuse his son.
“Okay.” Frog’s response was only a tiny bit sullen. He was currently perched high in the air, about to do a new thing, so
having friends over wasn’t on the top of his priority list. “Let’s Timber!”
“Patrick, make sure you let go of Frog as soon as your back touches water,” Russ said, “or you could wrench your neck.
He’s got floaties on so he won’t go as far under as you.”
“Makes sense.” Patrick lightly pinched Frog’s thigh. “On three, okay?”
“Yeah!”
Frog’s enthusiasm fueled Patrick’s curiosity over this new thing, and he began the countdown. On three, Patrick pinched his
nose and allowed his overbalanced upper body to topple backward. Frog laughed as they went down, and as soon as the cool
water smacked the back of Patrick’s neck, he let go of Frog and allowed his body to sink to the bottom of the pool. His butt
bounced and he used that bit of momentum to propel himself back to the surface. He didn’t quite manage standing,
discombobulated by the fall and going under completely like that, and he started sinking again.
Russ grabbed his forearm and yanked him up. With the water roiling all around them, Patrick couldn’t manage getting both
feet under him, and he fell right into Russ’s firm, solid chest. Glad for this immovable object holding him up and a chance to
catch his breath, Patrick coughed hard several times and wiped water from his eyes.
“You with us, Fun Size?” Russ asked.
“Yeah, sorry.” He coughed again. “Frog?”
“Can we do it again?” Frog asked, his voice bright with laughter.
“I think your dad needs a break,” Russ replied. “But you got your first Timber. How did it feel?”
“Great!” Frog screeched in the same moment Patrick said, “Dizzying. I definitely need a break before another Timber. How
about you keep practicing your doggie paddle, instead? We don’t wanna keep Mr. Schar tied up all day in the pool. It’s gotta be
after lunchtime.”
“Ooh, yeah, can we have hot dogs?”
“Sure.” He’d bought a package the other day now that Frog was on a warm-meat only kick and wasn’t interested in a
simple ham and cheese sandwich for lunch anymore. His food phases seemed to change with whatever new adventure program
he watched or animal book he read, and right now cold meat was bad.
Patrick wasn’t going to argue the nutritional merits of cold deli ham versus a boiled hot dog, as long as Frog ate the food he
asked for.
“Grillin’ up some hot dogs sounds like a fine lunch for a Sunday afternoon,” Russ said.
“Oh, we don’t have a grill, I just boil them for a few minutes and put them on sandwich bread.” Bread he’d have to toast
since he hadn’t taken the other loaf out of the freezer yet.
“You can use my grill if you want.” Russ jacked his thumb toward the patio. “I mean, as long as you ask first, I don’t mind.”
“Really?” A week ago, Russ had come across like a reclusive “Get off my lawn!” type of neighbor, and now he was giving
swim lessons and offering his grill? A grill less than ten feet from his kitchen door?
“Sure. Don’t use it much myself but Angelo showed me how it works. How about you bring the dogs and I’ll bring out the
condiments?”
“Okay.” Patrick’s day was on point to become one of the oddest of his life. And as he climbed out of the pool with Frog to
go get lunch started, he was very much okay with it.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

Russell may or may not have gone inside his house and used his phone to double-check how the monster gas grill actually
worked. He’d used it once before, under direct supervision from Angelo and a few of his friends, so Russell hadn’t been in any
danger of blowing himself up.
Today was not the day to risk a fire, especially not when Patrick was being so open and inviting with Russell. Allowing
him to spend time with Patrick and Frog, teaching them new things, and learning new things himself about the way a close
father/son pair interacted. Russell had no frame of reference for that. All the father figures in his life had been exactly that:
figures. Stand-ins doing their best to guide yet another foster kid for the brief weeks or months he was placed in their care.
And he did have a few good examples of supportive men who did their best with the resources they had, but they hadn’t
been able to offer the one thing Russell had craved for his entire life: unconditional love.
He had no illusions of getting love of any sort from Patrick, but he enjoyed spending time with the young dad, and if he
could gain another friend? He’d take it.
Once he had the grill instructions semi-memorized, he glanced out the kitchen window. Still no sign of his guests, so he
rushed upstairs to change into dry clothes, mostly so his sopping t-shirt didn’t stick to his skin in weird ways. He hadn’t been
this self-conscious about his body since the first year after the stabbing, when every glance his way felt like a judgment about
his scar.
After changing, he returned to the kitchen, grabbed a small serving platter from the cupboard where Angelo kept random
entertaining pieces, and pulled a handful of things from the fridge, not sure what his neighbors liked on their hot dogs. One of
his foster dads had been a solid believer in mustard only; ketchup didn’t belong on a hot dog. Russell was all about the
toppings, so he got ketchup, two kinds of mustard, dill relish, pickled jalapeños, and a jar of sauerkraut.
Options were good, right?
He took the tray outside, deposited it on the picnic table, and uncovered the grill. Got it started up and warming so they
could grill the dogs as soon as Patrick brought them over. He kept glancing past the still, empty pool to the carriage house,
curious what was keeping his lunch guests. Russell hadn’t bothered to shower—he probably should have grabbed a pain pill
while he was inside, though—but maybe Patrick didn’t like the smell of chlorine on his skin?
The grill was ready to go by the time Patrick and Frog walked up the driveway to the side gate, each carrying a reusable
shopping bag. Frog’s bag had the hot dogs and a loaf of frosty white bread. An odd choice but okay. Patrick produced paper
plates, plastic cups, and a two-liter bottle of cola.
“Crap, I didn’t bring ice,” Patrick said.
“Don’t worry, I can get some. You didn’t have to bring soda.”
“Frog asked. We don’t splurge on a lot of soda, so I agreed today was a good day to have some with lunch.”
“Oh. Excellent. I’ll be right back.” Ducking into the house for a bowl of ice was a good excuse to grab both a pain pill and
a pair of tongs for the hot dogs. Couldn’t believe he’d forgotten tongs, but his neck was also screaming at him for relief. He’d
be extra careful once he was dealing with open flames and splattering grease. He also brought out a new bag of potato chips
for everyone to snack on.
Russell preferred sweet tea to cola but would drink it because Patrick had been kind enough to offer.
Frog had been busy setting the table for them, while Patrick stared at the open grill a bit dumbly, but also in a totally
adorable way. He had the bag of bread in one hand and the hot dog package in the other. “It ain’t rocket science,” Russell said
gently. “Just slap the dogs on the grill and let ‘em go until they’re as black as you like.”
Patrick flashed him an exasperated look. “I know that. I’m just trying to figure out how to toast the bread. I had to pull it out
of the freezer.”
“Oh. Should be okay to toast on that top rack there. Flames won’t scorch it. But if it doesn’t work, I’ve got a toaster
inside.”
“Okay. Let’s test it on the grill first.”
“Go for it, friend.”
The first piece of bread let off too much steam on the grill, so Russell took the bread inside to toast while Patrick watched
the hot dogs. They shouldn’t take too long. Russell liked his nice and burned on the outside but he’d eat whatever his new
friend cooked up for him. Once the bread was toasted and no longer cold in the middle, Russell stepped outside and into the
wonderful smell of grilling processed meat, plus a peel of innocent laughter from Frog, who was playing some game by himself
in a nearby patch of grass.
For one brief, wistful moment, Russell wondered what it would be like if this was truly his life. His husband and kid in
their yard. Their house and their life together. He’d given up on that dream years ago, but…maybe it was still possible?
You don’t know how to be a dad, stop it.
He blinked and the dream disappeared, replaced by a simpler reality of Sunday lunch with his neighbors.

Patrick’s stomach was a nervous mess of indecision and confusion, and he hated both things equally. His indecision had begun
the moment he climbed out of the pool to fetch the hot dogs, and his confusion had begun at least an hour earlier in the pool.
The warm feelings he had for Russ were new and strange, and he didn’t understand where they were coming from, other than a
deep sense of gratitude for his friendship. And for how much Frog was enjoying himself.
He hadn’t seen Frog so open and excited about anything in months, not since Mom took a turn for the worst and their lives
began unraveling again. Fortunately, Frog had been able to finish first grade before his summer break became a hectic sea of
packing, cleaning, and getting Mom’s house ready for the Realtor to inspect, photograph and list for sale. Then the task of
moving to the carriage house, and while Frog still lived in the same school district, he was no longer within walking distance
of the homes of the few friends he’d made here.
Patrick liked the idea of a small pool party with Frog’s friends. Unlikely to happen before school started but maybe on a
weekend in September. He’d adored Russ for offering the pool and for strangers to invade his solitude, even if only for a few
hours. A few hours that would mean the world to Frog.
So yeah, warm feelings of gratitude toward Russ. Feelings that seemed to grow a little bit more as he stood by the grill,
joined after a spell by Russ and the now-toasted bread. Russ stood an arm’s reach away, watching without directing Patrick on
how to grill a hot dog. Patrick had never actually done this before, not on an open flame, but how hard could it be? Get them
hot, get marks on them, and don’t let them burn too much.
The yard was quiet now, save the occasional spit of grease hitting the fire, or Frog’s muffled comments as he played his
made-up game in the grass. And it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence between strangers, either. Just…quiet. Peaceful.
“You ever had a real grilled cheese dog before?” Russ asked quietly after several minutes.
“Like when you pour that gloopy canned cheese on the dog? A few times at a ball game. Why?”
“Nah, that’s not the real way. You gotta slice the hot dog in half lengthwise, but don’t cut all the way through. Both sides
stay attached. Grill it open-faced like that, more flat. Once it’s cooked, you put sliced cheese on it and let it melt, then put it on
the bun. Pepper jack with a hot Italian sausage is a great combo if you don’t mind a little heartburn later.”
Patrick chuckled. “My stomach prefers I stay away from anything too spicy, but I love the idea. Would you have preferred
yours cooked like that?”
“Nah, the regular way is fine. Just curious is all. Getting to know you.” Russ seemed poised to add, “like a good neighbor
would” to his statement but didn’t. Instead, something warm filled Russ’s eyes, and when he smiled, Patrick smiled back.
“So have you always lived in Reynolds?” Patrick asked, climbing aboard the “getting to know you” train. When that
warmth in Russ’s eyes seemed to dim, Patrick realized his question might have hit a nerve. “Is that too personal?”
“Nah, it’s a fair question. In and around Reynolds since it’s the center of a big county, and I was in and out of a few homes
over the years. Only lived in the city proper twice, though, and I really liked it here, so when I aged out and was on my own, I
stayed. It’s what I knew, you know? Couldn’t figure the point of hauling ass to another state where I’d have to learn everything
new. Not like you did.”
Patrick turned one of the hot dogs and flinched at the overly-charred casing. Guess he’d found a hot spot. “I’d visited Mom
here a few times after she moved from Nashville, so I had a general idea of the town and its layout. The college and some of
the neighborhoods. But learning a brand-new place is never easy, and some folks need a big damned reason to go through the
stress of it all.”
“Like your mom getting sick?”
“Yeah.” He turned another dog, and this one wasn’t as bad. His stomach growled.
“Think you’ll ever move back to Nashville?”
Old anger and shame over his failures in Nashville came screaming back, and Patrick swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry.
Thankfully, Bryan was serving time in North Carolina, not Tennessee, so even when he got out and came back to them…. “I
don’t really have anything to go back for. The music career I wanted didn’t pan out.” And that was putting it mildly, but it was
all Patrick was ready to discuss today.
“You know, some of the bars around here do open mike nights, if you wanted to perform or somethin’. Get your name and
music out there again. And Neighborhood Shindig always has musical guests on weekends.”
“Nah, that’s not really for me. You remember that movie Coyote Ugly? About the girl who wants to be a songwriter in New
York City, but in order to get her songs noticed she has to perform at open mikes? Only she has horrific stage fright?”
Russ’s bushy eyebrow quirked. “I think I missed that one. But did she overcome her fear and get famous?”
“Guess you’ll have to watch the movie and find out.”
“Only if you watch it with me.”
The flirty comment stopped them both dead, complete silence filling the air. Patrick held Russ’s gaze, unsure exactly what
Russ was asking him to do. Was watching a movie together code for a booty call? Or was it a genuine invitation? Before
Patrick could clarify, Frog bounded over to them with a sharp, “Are they done yet? I’m hungry!”
“In a minute, sport,” Russ said, breaking their gaze-lock by squatting down to Frog’s level. “You like yours regular or
extra-crispy?”
“Just regular.”
“Coming right up then. Condiments?”
“What’s a comident?”
Russ laughed. “Condiment. Stuff you put on top. Ketchup? Mustard?”
“Just plain please.”
“Can do.”
All movie talk fell to the wayside while they got a perfectly grilled hot dog onto a piece of dry toast for Frog. Armed with
a handful of chips and a cup of soda, Frog settled at the picnic table with a huge grin, excited for this simple food in the way
only children could be. Frog took lots of gulps of soda in between bites of his plain dog but never once complained.
“How do you like your wiener?” Patrick asked. The instant the words passed his lips, his face heated and he leaned
forward, hoping to blame his sudden, obvious embarrassment on the grill.
“Nice and crispy,” Russ said, perfectly nonplussed. “Whichever is really blackened I’ll take.”
“You like food all burnt to hell?”
“For certain foods char gives it flavor. One of my foster dads was a grilling fan.” Russ smiled, seemingly more to himself
than Patrick. “As in he liked to grill a lot but he wasn’t very good at it, so I got used to the flavor of char on meat. Dress it up
with a lot of ketchup and it’s always edible.”
“I bet the same could be said for school cafeteria food where you taught?”
“Yeah. Trust me, I brown-bagged it a lot. I’m not fancy or nothin’, but I taught myself how to cook enough at dinner that I’d
have a portion for lunch the next day.”
“That sounds like a handy skill.” He moved three of the hot dogs away from the direct heat and concentrated on blackening
the last two for Russ. “I was better about portioning like that before we moved here. Once I started caring for Mom, I was
happy having food on the table she and Frog would both eat.”
“Was your mother a picky eater?”
“Not before she got sick. Chemo screwed up her sense of taste, and then all the meds she was taking at the end…” Grief
swelled behind his breastbone but Patrick refused to cry in front of his new friend. “We didn’t starve but now that Frog and I
are settling in here I’m going to cook more often. Fewer boxed and frozen dinners.”
“You do what you gotta do to get by, right? And those dogs look good, I’m too hungry to wait any longer.”
Patrick smiled. “Okay.”
They joined Frog at the picnic table and began assembling their own hot dogs on toasted white bread. The variety of
condiments Russ had brought out amused Patrick. He preferred his sauerkraut warm but wasn’t going to complain as he heaped
his dog with kraut and whole grain mustard. Russ covered his with ketchup and pickled jalapeños; he definitely seemed to
prefer spicy food.
Frog was done before Patrick managed two bites of his own hot dog, and he excused Frog to continue working on Bruno’s
castle. He couldn’t see Frog from the table, but he wasn’t as antsy about Frog being in their yard alone as earlier, because Frog
knew exactly where Patrick was.
With Russ. Having lunch. And making wiener innuendo, after learning how to swim and doing his first Timber with his son.
They didn’t talk while they ate, and in the comfortable silence, Patrick started humming. He didn’t realize he was doing it,
because the habit was so ingrained and unconscious, until Russ asked, “Who are you humming?”
Patrick blinked at him, a potato chip halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”
“The song you were humming. I don’t recognize it.”
“Oh, um.” Part of him wanted to lie and pull a band from thin air, but he didn’t want to start this friendship with Russ off
with more lies. He was already telling one huge lie of omission every time he introduced himself as Frog’s father. Had he
raised Frog since he was a baby? Yes. Was he biologically Frog’s father? No. “The song is called Silent Witness. I wrote it.”
Russ’s eyebrows went up and he put down what was left of his second hot dog. “Really? You play multiple instruments
including the fiddle, you teach music and voice, which means you can sing, and you also write original stuff? Damn, Fun Size,
that’s impressive. You’re more like the girl in that coyote movie than you let on.”
“A little bit, I guess.” Patrick never used to mind hearing other people sing his songs. Not until his best one was basically
stolen from under his nose, and he was royally screwed out of millions of dollars. His ego had never fully recovered from that
blow. “When I’m composing something new, I live and breathe the music, so it just exists in my brain. Comes out without
permission sometimes.”
“Well, from what little I heard it sounds good. Catchy.”
“It was supposed to be a ballad but I still haven’t finished it. I guess it’s my great white whale, getting that song right.”
“I feel that way about my fire squirrel.”
“Your what?” Was that code for something? What the hell was a fire squirrel?
“It’s the puppet I’ve been working on for my online shop. I can’t seem to get the damned thing’s eyes right. It looks
permanently pissed off, no matter what I do.”
“Maybe it’s supposed to be pissed off. People associate fire with anger, right? Embrace it’s pissy-ness.”
Russ’s gaze flittered from Patrick to his plate to other points around the yard, before landing on Patrick again. “You could
be right. Do you, um, want to see it? The puppet?”
“I’d love to.” Patrick couldn’t bring himself to turn down the offer—especially since he’d never expected it. At their very
first meeting, he’d gotten the impression that Russ was very private, didn’t like to share his space, and would essentially be a
hermit for the duration of Patrick and Frog’s stay in the carriage house. Now they’d spent half the day together and Russ was
inviting him inside. Again.
To see his private studio.
He put the chip down and wiped his fingers on a napkin.
“Are you done eating?” Russ asked.
“Yup. I want to see this fire squirrel.” He glanced at Russ’s plate. “Are you done?”
Russ shoved the rest of his hot dog into his mouth as he stood. He looked like a puffy-cheeked chipmunk while he chewed.
Patrick followed him through the patio doors and into a familiar kitchen, still as spotless as it had been that morning. Russ led
him to the left and a door Patrick had assumed was a large cupboard or closet. It opened to a narrow, steep staircase.
“The housekeeper’s staircase,” Russ said as they ascended. “It leads to a small room that was their quarters once upon a
time, back when this house was built.”
“Which was when exactly?”
“Angelo said it was built in 1875 and is one of the oldest original homes in Reynolds.”
“When was the town founded?”
“Around the same timeframe, I think. Post-Civil War. There was a town here before but I don’t remember the name. The
place was burned to the ground during the war, and some rich dude from New York state decided to buy and build here. A man
named Nathan Reynolds. The town was built up around his house, which is now the main office for the college.”
“Wow, I didn’t know any of that.”
They stepped out into a small room with simple blue-painted walls and the same hardwood floors as the downstairs hall.
Floors that were likely in every room in the house if it was as old as Russ said. And Angelo seemed like the type to prefer
original hardwood to laminate or carpet.
“No reason you should know the history,” Russ said. “You’ve only been here a year. I bet a lotta people who grew up here
don’t know the history. Hell, I only know the highlights.”
“Because one of your foster dads was a history buff?”
Russ snorted. “Foster mom. She liked to swear she was distantly related to Nathan Reynolds and had been cheated out of
an inheritance.”
The room had a single window which looked out over the backyard. Patrick spotted a flash of green hair exactly where he
expected Frog to be. “So did you believe your foster mom’s story?”
“Not really. She also talked to her houseplants like they were people and was convinced the moon landing was filmed on a
Hollywood soundstage.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah.” Russ stepped out into a wide hallway with multiple doors on both sides that stretched toward what Patrick
assumed was the main staircase he’d seen in the foyer. They went down to the third door on the left, which was only one of two
wide open. “I could tell you stories, but I won’t. Instead, welcome to my studio where the strange things in my head turn into 3-
D puppets.”
A small bubble of excitement spurred Patrick forward, and he followed Russ into the room. His attention immediately went
to the left corner where an easel and workspace with an assortment of paints and brushes held court, as well as what looked
like a stack of canvases. He wasn’t sure why the painting setup surprised him so much—probably because Russ had only
mentioned his puppets and being an art teacher.
The rest of the room was an eclectic cache of storage bins, material, wire, bits of metal, and an elevated workstation that
reminded him a bit of an architect’s desk. In the middle of it all was a red, orange and black creature with a thick, fluffy tail,
striped fur and the fiercest expression he’d ever seen on a fake animal outside of Japanese anime. Patrick approached the desk
slowly, almost scared of startling the thing even though it wasn’t alive. Beyond his initial impression of its anger, he also saw
life in the creature. The spark of inspiration that had driven Russ to create the fire squirrel in the first place.
“It’s beautiful,” Patrick said. “I can see its energy.”
“Energy? It’s a collection of wire, resin and fake fur.”
“All individual things you brought together to create something brand-new. This didn’t come out of thin air, Russ, it came
from your head and your heart.” He ran a single fingertip down the soft fur between the puppet’s glass eyes. “Your hands gave
it life.”
“Like your hands and voice bring music to life?”
“Yes. When I want them to.” He couldn’t imagine the hours of work it had taken to create such a unique thing. “Is it rude to
ask how much you sell these for?”
“Depends. Commissions are usually a flat rate depending on the size and scope of the project. Ones I do on my own, like
that guy, I put up for auction. They usually go for a couple of hundred. I sold one last year that went up to almost a grand but it
was a bigger piece.”
“Wow. Sounds as if you’ve got fans.”
“I’ve shipped to a couple of the same people over the years, but collectors usually want a similar animal. I have a woman
in Oregon who always bids on my dragons, and a guy in Arizona who’s a fan of my fairy dogs.”
“Fairy dogs?”
Russ smiled shyly, and the expression was endearing as hell. He pulled out his cell phone, swiped a couple of times and
then held it out. Patrick took it and scrolled through a collection of photographs, all finished puppets. Russ definitely favored
giving animals wings and adorable expressions. Nothing quite as intense as the fire squirrel, though.
He handed the phone back. “I’m impressed. You have a real talent, Russ. It’s nice getting to know a fellow creative.”
“I hear that. I mean, Angelo is creative in his own way, but it’s a different kind of creative than what I do, or even what you
do as a songwriter. Do you, uh, think you could play something for me sometime?” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “I showed
you mine.”
Patrick chuckled, liking this less serious, flirty side of Russ a lot more than he should. “I suppose one day. Something I
wrote a long time ago, maybe. I can’t play unfinished stuff for other people, it’s too personal.”
“I get that. I don’t usually let anyone but Angelo see my puppets before they’re finished.”
“So I’m special then?”
“Yes.” Russ’s entire face softened, and his gaze flickered toward Patrick’s lips a few times.
Was Russ going to kiss him? Did Patrick want him to? It had been too damned long since Patrick had seen to his own needs
beyond a quick wank in the shower, and he liked Russ. He felt good around the older man in a way he couldn’t voice but felt so
damned nice for a change. Like Russ could make things okay for a little while with something as simple as a smile or a hug. Or
a swim lesson followed by grilled hot dogs.
Patrick licked his lips, silent encouragement. Russ’s nostrils flared and he took a step closer, into Patrick’s personal space.
Patrick’s cell blared with Frog’s ringtone, and he took a full step backward as the reason for his long, dry spell inserted
itself between them. He answered. “Hey, buddy.” All he heard from Frog’s end was his little boy crying, and Patrick ran.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

I almost kissed my neighbor.

The thought rang like thunder in Russell’s head for several seconds after Patrick tore ass out of his studio, and it kept him
from following Patrick right away. He’d been nervous as hell to show Patrick his private workspace, too used to being made
fun of for being such a big, hairy dude who “played with paints and stuffed animals all day long.” That particular bit of rude
criticism he’d received on a dating app profile he’d long ago deleted had stuck with him.
But Patrick had treated his room reverently, as if he’d stepped into a historical cathedral and not a home art studio. He
seemed in awe of the fire squirrel and its fierceness, and his eyes had lit up like stars while scrolling through Russell’s photo
gallery. The innocent joy in Patrick’s smile had spoken to something deep inside Russell that was lonely and always seemed to
wake up when Patrick was nearby.
It scared him a little but it felt right. So had wanting to kiss Patrick.
And then someone called and the way Patrick answered made him assume it was Frog, especially the way Patrick fled.
Concern finally lubed his stuck gears, and Russell raced after Patrick, nearly slipping on the narrow back stairs on his way
down. He didn’t use them much because they were mildly claustrophobic to him, but he’d enjoyed the chance to show off a
historical feature of the house.
Patrick was already in his own yard by the time Russell made it outside, and Russell tracked him behind the carriage
house. The closer he got, the better he could hear Frog sobbing and his worry compounded. His neck didn’t like the jostling but
Russell ignored the pain and ran faster, ending up a gasping, sweaty mess by the time he got to Patrick and Frog.
Frog was in Patrick’s lap, his face scrunched and tear-streaked, while Patrick was sucking on the palm of Frog’s left hand.
Russell stared, not quite understanding, until Patrick turned his head and spat into the grass. “He put his hand down on a bee,”
Patrick said.
“Shit, is he allergic?”
“Mildly. He won’t stop breathing or get hives or anything crazy, just be itchy and his hand will swell a little.” He kissed
Frog’s temple. “Mostly he’s upset he squashed the bee.”
“Bees are pollinators,” Frog said, his voice raspy with angry tears, as if his beloved Bruno had been squashed instead of a
little honeybee. “They’re good bugs. I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t, sport.” Russell sat beside them and gently patted Frog’s leg. “It was an accident and I bet it scared you,
huh?”
“Yeah. It hurt but Daddy’s making it better. He’s sucking the poison out.”
“That’s good. It won’t hurt as much now.”
Frog sniffled while Patrick sucked and spat a few more times. Russell sat there, offering his silent support because, even
though Patrick hadn’t said anything, Russell could still see the panic in his eyes. But little boys got bee stings and scraped
knees, and Frog was calming down now that Daddy had made it better.
 “I think that’ll do it, buddy,” Patrick said after one final spit. “It might be a little sore for a while. Why don’t you go inside
and get a freezer pop?”
“Yeah!” Smashed bee forgotten now that he’d been offered a sweet treat, Frog sprang from Patrick’s lap, rescued Bruno
from the block fort, and went inside.
Patrick didn’t get up right away. He sat with his hands in his lap, staring down at them, and Russell detected the faintest
tremble in his shoulders as he came down from what had probably been a huge adrenaline rush. “Do you need anything?”
Russell asked.
“I’d say a shot of whiskey or four, but I’m not much of a drinker. Just need to sit for a minute.”
“Snack’s a good way to distract Frog so he doesn’t see you get upset.”
Patrick looked up and nodded. “Thank you.”
“For what?” He hadn’t done anything special.
“For coming out here to make sure we were okay. For being nice. There aren’t enough genuinely nice people anymore, and
I’m grateful that I got one for a neighbor.”
“Same back at you. I’m real glad you got to rent here and that Angelo has an aunt who likes to meddle.”
“You mean Mrs. Fratelli? She’s a nice lady. She visited Mom every week after she was no longer able to attend Mass.
She’d read Mom’s favorite Bible passages and sing for her, too. I know Mom loved those visits.” Patrick’s expression
flattened. “Can’t say they did much for me, so I usually took Frog out for two hours. It became our alone time, out of the house.”
“Not religious?”
“No, I am a confirmed atheist and have been for a long time. I’ve gotten more than one irate phone call from parents of
Frog’s friends over the years who say it’s disgraceful that we don’t go to church, that Frog doesn’t know Moses from John the
Apostle. And the few who’ve found out I’m gay, too?” He mimicked his head exploding.
“I get that. Not the angry parent thing but your side of it. I went to church with the foster families who took me but it never
stuck. I think of myself as spiritual, I guess, because I like to think there’s something greater than us out there for human beings
to be so damned complex and creative.”
“And I get that.” Patrick picked at a few blades of grass. “Were you going to kiss me earlier?”
If Russell hadn’t been sitting, he might have tripped over his own feet at the blunt way Patrick asked that. “Um, I was
thinking about it but I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Oh. Why?”
He’d been honest with Patrick about everything so far. Might as well stick with it since it was working. “Because I wasn’t
totally sure you wanted me to, and I don’t wanna ruin our friendship by doing the wrong thing. Or misreading signals. I know
today’s the most time we’ve spent together so far but I really like you, and I don’t make friends real easy.”
“If it helps, you didn’t misread me. I was and am flattered that you showed me your art. I respect how hard that must have
been, and I like you a lot, too. I haven’t had much of a social life these last couple of years for personal reasons.” He tilted his
head in an adorably shy way. “I don’t want to mess up our friendship, either.”
“So we both like each other and we’re both nervous about screwing up this friendship.” Russell picked a piece of clover
and stared at its three, super-thin leaves. “What a pair, huh?”
“A pair of cowards?”
“A pair of guys who are gun-shy about dating because we’ve got baggage. And we like having a friend-neighbor we can
count on. I mean, you can count on me for anything from a cup of sugar to a medical emergency to, uh, whatever I can do.”
Patrick chuckled. “You proved that today with the bee sting. But I don’t think I’ve ever actually needed to borrow a cup of
sugar from anyone. I’ve learned how to make-do with whatever I have in the moment.”
“Always a good skill for cooking. Maybe not so much for relationships?”
“I’ve never been in a real relationship.” For a split second, Patrick almost looked panicked. “Not that we’re…I mean, it
isn’t…fuck. Crap.” He scrambled to his feet and walked to the rear fence. Stopped and rested his elbows on the top.
Russell stood more slowly, unsure what to do or say. For as much as he wanted to storm over, drag Patrick into his arms,
and kiss him senseless, Russell was terrified of all the same things. He closed half the distance between them but wasn’t sure if
he was too close or too far away. “Look, I’m not above a casual hookup to get off, but I get the impression maybe that’s not
what you’re used to?”
Patrick’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not. I prefer getting to know someone before our clothes come off. The one time I slept
with someone I didn’t really know, it blew up in a spectacularly bad way. Everyone got hurt in the end and it wasn’t worth the
cost.”
Protective feelings bubbled up inside Russell’s chest. “Did he hurt you?”
“Yeah, he did.” Patrick stood straight and turned, arms crossed high on his chest. His face was red and anger burned in his
eyes. “Someone I love a lot tried to settle the score and it became a huge mess. Police got involved. But the other guy had
evidence on his side and I had nothing, so my defender went to prison for assault. He’s still in.”
“Wow.” Russell wasn’t sure he could ask what happened between Patrick and this hookup jerk without wanting to break
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we’ve got the right one, anyhow. This bird don’t look to me like a
feller who would do a girl a meanness.”
“Hmp! You always was soft in the head, Burt,” his companion
grunted.
But he left his prisoner in peace after that. Burt had said one true
word. Clint Reed would not want a half-dead hobo dragged to the
Diamond Bar K. He would prefer one that he could punish himself.
Tug plodded through the fine white dust that lay inches deep on the
road. A cloud of it moved with them, for the horses kicked it up at
every step until they ascended from the valley into the hills. The man
who walked did not have the reserve of strength that had been his
before he had gone to the hospital. There had been a time when he
could go all day and ask for more, but he could not do it now. He
stumbled as he dragged his feet along the trail.
They reached the summit of the pass and looked down on the
Diamond Bar K. Its fenced domain was a patchwork of green and
gold with a background of pineclad ridges. The green patches were
fields of alfalfa, the gold squares were grain ripe for the mower.
Downhill the going was easier. But by the time the horsemen and
their prisoner drew up to the ranch house, Tug was pretty well
exhausted.
While Dusty went in to get Reed, the tramp sat on the floor of the
porch and leaned against a pillar, his eyes closed. He had a
ridiculous feeling that if he let go of himself he would faint.
 CHAPTER VI
“NOTHING BUT A GAY-CAT ANYHOW”

With an unusual depression Betty had watched the tramp move

down the dusty road to the railroad track after he had declined her
offer of employment. An energetic young person, she was
accustomed to having her own way. One of her earliest delightful
discoveries had been that she could nearly always get what she
wanted by being eager for it and assuming that, of course, the others
involved would recognize her plan as best, or at least would give up
theirs cheerfully when she urged hers.
But this ragged scamp, out of whose heart youth and hope had been
trampled, was leaving her dashed and rebuffed. She liked to make
conquests of people in bending them to the schemes she made for
the regulation of her small universe, though she would have denied
even to herself that she liked to manage her friends. In the case of
this drear-eyed boy, the hurt was not only to her vanity. He might be
five or six years older than she, but the mothering instinct—the
desire to save him from himself and his fate—fluttered yearningly
toward him.
She did not blame him. There was at least a remnant of self-respect
in his decision. Nobody wants to be done good to. Perhaps she had
seemed smug to him, though she had not meant to be.
He was on her mind all the way back to the ranch, so much so that
she blurted out the whole story to her father as soon as she saw him.
Clint Reed moved to prompt action. He did not see eye to eye with
his daughter. What concerned him was that these bums should
waylay and insult Betty. It was a nice state of affairs when a girl was
not safe alone on the roads. He gathered his men and gave them
orders to find the hoboes and bring them to the ranch.
The girl’s protest was lost on Reed. It hardly reached his mind at all.
Besides, this had become public business. It was not her personal
affair. If hoboes needed to be taught a sense of decency, the men of
the community would attend to that.
Betty went into the house dissatisfied with herself. She had not
meant to make more trouble, but to enlist her father’s sympathy in
the cause of the young fellow who had saved her from the other
tramp. As for the one who had attacked her, she did not care
whether he was punished or not. She had much rather no hue and
cry over the country was made about it. Though she did not say so,
she hoped the vagrants would get away uncaught.
She busied herself with household duties. Under her direction and
with her help, Bridget the cook was putting up half a dozen boxes of
peaches. The two women worked into the middle of the hot
afternoon before they had finished.
“An’ that’s that,” Bridget said with a sigh of relief as she sealed the
last jar. “Fegs, I don’t mind a hotter day this summer. It’s a b’iler.”
She was an old family servant and was in part responsible for the
bringing up of Betty. More than one rancher in the neighborhood had
attempted the adventure of wooing Bridget Maloney, but none of
them had been able to lure her from the Diamond Bar K to become
the mistress of a home of her own.
“You’d better lie down and sleep an hour, dear,” the girl advised.
“An’ phwat would I be doin’ that for wid all these kettles an’ pots to
be cleaned up? Scat! Get ye out o’ my kitchen now, mavourneen, an’
I’ll redd up in a jiff.”
Betty found a magazine and walked out to the shade of a pine grove
where a hammock hung. She settled herself comfortably and began
to read. It was delightfully cool among the pines after the hot kitchen.
She grew drowsy. Her eyes closed.
The sound of far-away voices was in her ears when she wakened.
As her thoughts cleared, so did the voices. She heard Dusty’s,
strident, triumphant.
“It’s up to the old man now.”
The girl turned in the hammock and saw the squat cowpuncher go
jingling into the house. Burt lounged on a horse, his right leg thrown
round the horn of the saddle. Some one else, partly hidden from her
by the ponies, was sitting on the porch.
She got up quickly and walked toward the house. The man on the
porch, she saw presently, had a rope around his waist the other end
of which was fastened to the saddle of Dusty’s mount. An eyeflash
later she recognized him.
“You!” she cried.
The tramp called Tug rose. He did not lift his hat, for he no longer
had one. But his bow and sardonic smile gave an effect of ironic
politeness.
“The bad penny back again,” he said.
“What have they been doing to you?” she asked breathlessly.
He had been a disreputable enough specimen when she had last
seen him. The swollen and discolored face, the gaping shoes, the
ragged coat; all of these he had carried then. But there were
scratches like skin burns down one side of the jaw and on his hands
that had come since. His coat was in shreds. From head to foot dust
covered every available inch.
“Your men have been having a little sport. Why not? The boss had
his first and they had to follow his example. They’re good obedient
boys,” he scoffed bitterly.
“What do you mean? What did they do?” she demanded sharply.
He shrugged his shoulders and she turned imperiously to the man
on horseback. “Burt, you tell me.”
The lank cowboy showed embarrassment. “Why, Dusty he—he
kinda dragged him when the fellow lagged. Jus’ for a ways.”
“On the ground? That what you mean?” The dark eyes flashed
anger.
“Well, you might say so. He sorta stumbled, an’ he’d been right
sassy to Dusty, so—” Burt’s explanation died away. He felt he was
not getting very far with it.
“So you acted like brutes to him—to a man who had just fought for
me when—when—” A sob of chagrin and vexation choked up in her
throat. She stamped her foot in exasperation.
“Don’t get excited about me,” the victim gibed. “I’m nothing but a
gay-cat anyhow. What’s it matter?”
Dusty strutted out of the house, his spurs making music.
The girl turned on him with pantherish swiftness.
“Who told you to torture this man, Dusty? What right have you got to
make yourself law on the Diamond Bar? You’re only a drunken
lunkhead, aren’t you? Or did Father ask you to be judge and jury on
the ranch?”
It was ludicrous to see the complacency vanish from the fatuous
face. The jaw fell and the mouth opened.
“Why, Miss Betty, I figured as how he’d done you a meanness, an’ I
thought—”
She cut his explanation short with stinging ruthlessness. “What for?
You weren’t hired to think, but to obey orders. You’d better get back
into the wheatfield before Father comes. Pronto.”
The cowboy shut his mouth with a view to opening it again in self-
defense, but Betty would have none of his excuses. She shooed him
from the scene indignantly. While she was busy with Dusty, the lank
rider quietly vanished.
The prisoner watched her, the rope still about his waist. His mind
paid tribute to the energy with which she got results.
“Greatly obliged,” he said with sarcasm. “I suppose your father won’t
have me hanged now.”
“Take off that rope,” she said.
“That’s an order, is it?”
“I don’t blame you for hating us all,” she flamed. “I would in your
place. The whole place is bewitched to-day, I believe. We’re all
acting like bullies instead of the quiet, decent people we are. Take
Dusty now. He’s a good little fellow, but he thought you’d attacked
me. He wouldn’t stand that. Men in the ranch country won’t, you
know. They look after us women.”
“That’s a peculiarity of the ranch country, I suppose.”
She ignored the derisive gleam in his eyes. “No ... no! Good men
always do. I wish I could tell you—could show you—my thanks
because you stood up for me. I’ll never forget. It was fine, the way
you fought for me.”
“Nothing to that. I’d been saving a punch or two for him. Don’t forget
that I’m a good-for-nothing bum, on the authority of your own father.
No need of getting sentimental. Don’t make the mistake of putting
me in a class with him and other such truly good men as your friend
Dusty and the lamblike foreman who beat up Cig because he
wouldn’t apologize for being alive.”
Voice and manner both fleered at her, but she was determined to
accept no rebuff.
“Did Dusty hurt you? Can I do anything for you? Tell me. I’d be so
glad to. Let me get you a drink.”
Like a flash, she was off at her own suggestion to the kitchen. His
impulse was to go at once, but he could not escape his past and be
deliberately discourteous to a woman whose only desire was to help
him. He waited, sullenly, for her return. Why could she not let him
alone? All he asked of the Diamond Bar K was for it to let him get
away and forget it as soon as possible.
When the girl came back, it was with a pitcher and a glass. The
outside of the jug was beaded with moisture. From within came the
pleasant tinkle of ice.
Betty filled the tumbler with lemonade.
The vagabond had no desire to accept the hospitality of the ranch,
but he found it impossible to affront her churlishly again.
“Thank you,” he said, and drank.
The drink was refreshing. Two fresh-beaten eggs had been stirred
into it for nutrition.
“Another?” she begged, and poured without waiting for an answer.
The ghost of a smile crept into his eyes. It was the first hint of
wholesome humor she had yet seen in him. He offered her, with a
little bow, a quotation.
“‘I can no other answer make, but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks.’”
The dimples broke into her cheeks as her smile flashed out in the
pleasure of having broken the crust of his reserve.
“That’s Shakespeare, isn’t it? I’m dreadfully illiterate, but it sounds
like him.”
“It does a little, doesn’t it?” He raised the glass before drinking.
“Happy days, Miss Reed.”
“That goes double,” she said quickly.
The sardonic mask, that had for a moment been lifted, dropped
again over his face. “Many more like this one,” he fleered.
“You may look back on it and find it a good day yet,” she said
bravely.
He handed back the empty tumbler. “Afraid I’m not an optimist. Now,
if you don’t mind, I’ll be going. The ranch might change its mind
about that hanging bee.”
“But I do mind,” she protested. “I don’t want you to go yet. Please
stay and meet my father. He’s not really hard and cruel as you think.”
Again she saw on his lips the dry, bitter smile.
“Think I’ll take your word for it. I’ve met him once.”
“No, you haven’t met him—not to know him,” she cried softly, giving
rein to swift impulse. “You’ve not met my Daddy—the best man in
Paradise Valley. You can ask any one about him. He’s the squarest
that ever was. The man you met was exasperated and—and not
himself. Dad’s not like that—really.”
“Indeed!” His voice was a compound of incredulity and indifference.
It put her out of court.
But her good impulses were not easily daunted. She had already
learned that this young fellow wore armor of chain-mail to protect his
sensitive pride. In her horoscope it had been written that she must
give herself, and still give and give. The color beat through her dusky
cheeks beneath the ardent eyes. She stabbed straight at his
jaundiced soul.
“If it were my father only that you don’t like—but it isn’t—you don’t
find joy in anything. Your mind’s poisoned. I was reading the other
day how Mr. Roosevelt used to quote from Borrow’s ‘Lavengro’: ‘Life
is sweet, brother—there’s day and night, brother; both sweet things;
sun, moon, and stars, all sweet things—and likewise there’s a wind
on the heath.’ It’s because he felt this in everything he did that they
called him ‘Greatheart.’”
It came to him that the name might not inaptly be applied to her. He
thought of Browning’s “My Last Duchess”:
“... She had
A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed: she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.”
He hardened his heart to her generous appeal to him. “It’s a very
comfortable point of view to have,” he said with no spring of life in his
voice.
“And a true one,” she added swiftly.
“If you say so, of course.” His skeptical smile made no concessions.
He turned to leave, but stopped to look at a cloud of white dust
moving down the road toward them.
 CHAPTER VII
TUG SAYS, “NO, THANK YOU”

The advancing dust cloud rose from a little group of horses and men.
Some of the latter were riding. Others were afoot.
“Lon’s caught them,” said Betty. “I’m sorry.”
“Not so sorry as they’ll be,” returned the ragged youth grimly.
The foreman swung heavily from his horse. Though he was all
muscle and bone, he did not carry his two hundred pounds
gracefully.
“We got the birds all right, Miss Betty, even if they were hittin’ the trail
right lively,” he called to the girl, an ominous grin on his leathery
face. “I guess they’d figured out this wasn’t no healthy climate for
them.” He added, with a swift reversion to business, “Where’s yore
paw?”
“Not back yet. What’ll he do with them, Lon?” the girl asked, her
voice low and troubled.
Distressed in soul, she was looking for comfort. The big foreman
gave her none.
“He’ll do a plenty. You don’t need to worry about that. We aim to
keep this country safe for our womenfolks.”
“Oh, I wish he wouldn’t. I wish he’d let them go,” she said, almost in
a wail.
“He won’t. Clint ain’t that soft.” Forbes stared at the disreputable
vagrant standing beside Betty. “What’s he doing here?”
“Dusty dragged him back. That’s all the sense he has.”
Lon spoke just as though the vagrant were not present. “Lucky for
him he’s got an alibi this time.”
“Is it necessary to insult him after he protected me?” the girl
demanded, eyes flashing. “I’m ashamed of you, Lon.”
He was taken aback. “I reckon it takes more’n that to insult a hobo.”
“Is a man a hobo because he’s looking for work?”
The foreman’s hard gaze took in the man, his white face and soft
hands. “What would he do if he found it?” he asked bluntly.
“You’ve no right to say that,” she flung back. “I think it’s hateful the
way you’re all acting. I tell you he fought for me—after what Father
did to him.”
“Fought for you?” This was news to Lon. His assumption had been
that the young fellow had merely entered a formal protest in order to
clear himself in case retribution followed. “You mean with his fists?”
“Yes—against the thin-faced one. He thrashed him and put me on
my horse and started me home. Then Dusty ropes him and drags
him here on the ground and you come and insult him. He must think
we’re a grateful lot.”
As they looked at the slim, vital girl confronting him with such
passionate and feminine ferocity, the eyes of the foreman softened.
All her life she had been a part of his. He had held her on his knee, a
crowing baby, while her dimpled fingers clung to his rough coat or
explored his unshaven face. He had fished her out of an irrigation
ditch when she was three. He had driven her to school when for the
first time she started on that great adventure. It had been under his
direction that she had learned to ride, to fish, to shoot. He loved her
as though she had been flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood. It
was a delight to him to be bullied by her and to serve her whims.
“I renig,” he said. “Clint never told me the boy done that. I had it
doped out he was just savin’ his own hide. But I’ll take it all back if
it’s like you say. Shake, son.”
The tramp did not refuse to grip the big brown hand thrust at him.
Nor did he accept the proffered alliance. By a fraction of a second he
forestalled the foreman by stooping to knot a broken lace in one of
the gaping shoes.
Cig, who had been edging closer, gave Tug a rancorous look. “I ain’t
forgettin’ this,” he promised. “I’ll get youse good some day for rappin’
on me.”
“He didn’t tell on you. Some of my men brought him here in the
gather like we did you,” Forbes explained.
“Wot’ell youse givin’ me? He rapped. That’s wot he done, the big
stiff. An’ I’ll soitainly get him right for it.”
“That kind of talk ain’t helpin’ you any,” the foreman said. “If you got
any sense, you’ll shut yore trap an’ take what’s comin’.”
“I’ll take it. Don’t youse worry about that. You’d better kill me while
youse are on the job, for I’ll get you, too, sure as I’m a mont’ old.”
Reed drove up in the old car he used for a runabout. He killed the
engine, stepped down, and came up to the group by the porch.
“See you rounded ’em up, Lon.”
“Yep. Found ’em in the cottonwoods acrost the track at Wild Horse.”
The ranchman’s dominant eyes found Tug. “Howcome you here?” he
asked.
The gay-cat looked at him in sullen, resentful silence. The man’s
manner stirred up in the tramp a flare of opposition.
“Dusty brought him here. I want to tell you about that, Dad,” the girl
said.
“Later.” He turned to Tug. “I want a talk with you—got a proposition
to make you. See you later.”
“Not if I see you first,” the ragged nomad replied insolently. “I never
did like bullies.”
The ranchman flushed angrily, but he put a curb on his temper. He
could not afford to indulge it since he was so much in this youth’s
debt. Abruptly he turned away.
“Bring the other two to the barn,” he ordered Forbes. “We’ll have a
settlement there.”
York shuffled forward, in a torment of fear. “See here, mister. I ain’t
got a thing to do with this. Honest to Gawd, I ain’t. Ask Tug. Ask the
young lady. I got respeck for women, I have. You wouldn’t do dirt to
an old ’bo wot never done you no harm, would you, boss?”
His voice was a whine. The big gross man was on the verge of
blubbering. He seemed ready to fall on his knees.
“It’s true, Dad. He didn’t touch me,” Betty said in a low voice to her
father.
“Stood by, didn’t he? Never lifted a hand for you.”
“Yes, but—”
“You go into the house. Leave him to me,” ordered Reed. “Keep this
young man here till I come back.”
Betty knew when words were useless with her father. She turned
away and walked to the porch.
The cowpunchers with their prisoners moved toward the barn. York,
ululating woe, had to be dragged.
Left alone with the tramp called Tug, Betty turned to him a face of
dread. “Let’s go into the house,” she said drearily.
“You’d better go in. I’m taking the road now,” he said in answer.
“But Father wants to see you. If you’ll wait just a little—”
“I have no business with him. I don’t care to see him, now or any
time.” His voice was cold and hard. “Thank you for the lemonade,
Miss Reed. I’ll say good-bye.”
He did not offer his hand, but as he turned away he bowed.
There was nothing more for Betty to say except “Good-bye.”
In a small voice of distress she murmured it.
Her eyes followed him as far as the road. A sound from the barn
drove her into the house, to her room, where she could cover her
ears with the palms of her small brown hands.
She did not want to hear any echo of what was taking place there.
 CHAPTER VIII
A RIFT IN THE LUTE

In the cool of the evening Justin Merrick drove down from the
Sweetwater Dam to the Diamond Bar K ranch. It was characteristic
of him that his runabout was up to date and in perfect condition. He
had an expensive taste in the accessories of life, and he either got
the best or did without.
Hands and face were tanned from exposure to the burning sun of the
Rockies, but he was smooth-shaven and immaculate in the
engineer’s suit which fitted his strong, heavy-set figure so snugly.
He drove with precision, as he did everything else in his well-ordered
life. There was in his strength no quality of impatience or turbulence.
He knew what he wanted and how to get it. That was why he had
traveled so far on the road to success and would go a great way
farther.
To-night he anticipated two pleasant hours with Betty Reed. He
would tell her about the work and how it was getting along, his
difficulties with the sand formation at the head gates and how he was
surmounting them. Even before she spoke, he would know from her
eager eyes that she was giving him the admiration due a successful
man from his sweetheart.
Afterward he would pass to more direct and personal love-making,
which she would evade if possible or accept shyly and reluctantly.
She was wearing his ring, but he doubted whether he had really
stormed the inner fortress of her heart. This uncertainty, and the
assurance that went with it of a precious gift not for the first chance
comer, appealed to his fastidious instinct, all the more that he was
sure she would some day come to him with shining eyes and
outstretched hands.
To-night Merrick found Betty distrait and troubled. Her attention to
the recital of his problems was perfunctory. He was conscious of a
slight annoyance. In spite of his force, Justin was a vain man, always
ready to talk of himself and his achievements in a modest way to an
interested and interesting young woman.
It appeared that her father had had a difficulty with some tramps,
which had eventuated in insolence that had brought upon the
vagrants summary physical punishment. From her account of it,
Justin judged that Reed had not handled the matter very wisely.
There was a way to do such things with a minimum of friction.
But he saw no need of worrying about it. The tramps had been given
what they deserved and the affair was closed. It was like a woman to
hold it heavily on her conscience because one of the ne’er-do-wells
chanced to be young and good-looking.
“If you’d seen him,” Betty protested. “A gentleman by the look of him,
or had been once, fine-grained, high-spirited, and yet so down-and-
out.”
“If he’s down-and-out, it’s his own fault. A man’s never that so long
as he holds to self-respect.”
This was incontrovertibly true, but Betty chose to be irritated. Justin
was so obviously successful. He might have had a little sympathy for
the underdog, she thought. Everybody did not have a square, salient
jaw like his. Weakness was not necessarily a crime.
“He looks as though life had mauled him,” she said. “It’s taken
something vital out of him. He doesn’t care what happens any more.”
“If he can only mooch his three meals a day and enough cash to
keep him supplied with bootleg poison,” the engineer added.
They were walking up to the Three Pines, a rocky bluff from which
they could in the daytime see far down the valley. She stopped
abruptly. If she did not stamp her foot, at least the girl’s manner gave
eloquently the effect of this indulgence.
“He’s not like that at all—not at all. Don’t you ever sympathize with
any one that’s in hard luck?” she cried out, her cheeks glowing with a
suffusion of underlying crimson.
“Not when he lies down under it.”
She flashed at him a look resentful of his complacency. It held, too,
for the first time a critical doubt. There was plenty to like about Justin
Merrick, and perhaps there was more to admire. He got things done
because he was so virile, so dominant. To look at the lines and
movements of his sturdy body, at the close-lipped mouth and
resolute eyes, was to know him a leader of men. But now a
treasonable thought had wirelessed itself into her brain. Had he a
mind that never ranged out of well-defined pastures, that was quite
content with the social and economic arrangement of the world? Did
there move in it only a tight little set of orthodox ideas?
“How do you know he lies down under it?” she asked with spirit.
“How do we know what he has to contend with? Or how he struggles
against it?”
If his open smile was not an apology, it refused, anyhow, to be at
variance with her. “Maybe so. As you say, I didn’t see him and you
did. We’ll let it go at that and hope he’s all you think he is.”
Betty, a little ashamed of her vagrant thoughts, tried to find a
common ground upon which they could stand. “Don’t you think that
men are often the victims of circumstance—that they get caught in
currents that kinda sweep them away?”
“‘I am the captain of my soul,’” he quoted sententiously.
“Yes, you are,” she admitted, after one swift glance that took in the
dogged, flinty quality of him. “But most of us aren’t. Take Dad. He’s
strong, and he’s four-square. But he wouldn’t have gone as far as he
did with these tramps if he hadn’t got carried away. Well, don’t you
think maybe this boy is a victim of ‘the bludgeonings of chance’? He
looked like it to me.”
“We make ourselves,” he insisted. “If the things we buck up against
break us, it’s because we’re weak.”
“Yes, but—” Betty’s protest died away. She was not convinced, and
she made another start. “It seems to me that when I read the new
novelists—Wells, Galsworthy, or Bennett, say—one of the things I
get out of them is that we are modified by our environment, not only
changed by it, but sometimes made the prey of it and destroyed by
it.”
“Depends on how solid on our feet we are,” answered the engineer.
“That’s the plea of the agitator, I know. He’s always wanting to do
impossible things by law or by a social upheaval. There’s nothing to
it. A man succeeds if he’s strong. He fails if he’s weak.”
This creed of the individualist was sometimes Betty’s own, but to-
night she was not ready to accept it. “That would be all very well if
we all started equal. But we don’t. What about a man who develops
tuberculosis, say, just when he is getting going? He’s weak, but it’s
no fault of his.”
“It may or may not be. Anyhow, it’s his misfortune. You can’t make
the world over because he’s come a cropper. Take this young tramp
of yours. I’d like to try him out and show you whether there’s
anything to him. I’d put him on the work and let him find his level.
Chances are he’d drift back to the road inside of a week. When a
man’s down-and-out, it isn’t because he doesn’t get a chance, but
because of some weakness in himself.”
Betty knew that in the case of many this was true. For a year or more
she had been an employer of labor herself. One of the things that
had impressed her among the young fellows who worked for her was
that they did find their level. The unskilled, shiftless, and less reliable
were dropped when work became slack. The intelligent and
energetic won promotion for themselves.
But she did not believe that it was by any means a universal truth.
Men were not machines, after all. They were human beings.
However, she dropped the subject.
“He’s gone, so you won’t have a chance to prove your case,” she
said. “Tell me about the work. How is it going?”
The Sweetwater Dam project had been initiated to water what was
known as the Flat Tops, a mesa that stretched from the edge of the
valley to the foothills. It had been and still was being bitterly opposed
by some of the cattlemen of Paradise Valley because its purpose
was to reclaim for farming a large territory over which cattle had
hitherto ranged at will. Their contention held nothing of novelty. It had
been argued all over the West ever since the first nesters came in to
dispute with the cattle barons the possession of the grazing lands. A
hundred districts in a dozen States had heard the claim that this was
a cattle country, unfit for farming and intensive settlement. Many of
them had seen it disproved.
The opposition of powerful ranching interests had not deterred Justin
Merrick. Threats did not disturb him. He set his square jaw and
pushed forward to the accomplishment of his purpose. As he rode or
drove through the valley, he knew that he was watched with hostile
eyes by reckless cowpunchers who knew that his success would put
a period to the occupation they followed. Two of them had tried to
pick a quarrel with him at Wild Horse on one occasion, and had
weakened before his cool and impassive fearlessness.
But he did not deceive himself. At any hour the anger of these men
might flare out against him in explosive action. For the first time in
his life he was carrying a revolver.
Clint Reed was a stockholder and a backer of the irrigation project.
He owned several thousand acres on the Flat Tops, and it was
largely on account of his energy that capital had undertaken the
reclamation of the dry mesa.
The head and front of the opposition was Jake Prowers, who had
brought down from early days an unsavory reputation that rumor
said he more than deserved. Strange stories were whispered about
this mild-mannered little man with the falsetto voice and the skim-
milk eyes. One of them was that he had murdered from ambush the
successful wooer of the girl he wanted, that the whole countryside
accepted the circumstantial evidence as true, and in spite of this he
had married the young widow within a year and buried her inside of
two. Nesters in the hills near his ranch had disappeared and never
been seen again. Word passed as on the breath of the winds that
Prowers had dry-gulched them. Old-timers still lived who had seen
him fight a duel with two desperadoes on the main street of Wild
Horse. He had been carried to the nearest house on a shutter with
three bullets in him, but the two bad men had been buried next day.
The two most important ranchmen in the valley were Clint Reed and
Jake Prowers. They never had been friendly. Usually they were
opposed to each other on any public question that arose. Each was
the leader of his faction. On politics they differed. Clint was a
Republican, Jake a Democrat. There had been times when they had
come close to open hostilities. The rivalry between them had
deepened to hatred on the part of Prowers. When Reed announced
through the local paper the inception of the Sweetwater Dam project,
his enemy had sworn that it should never go through while he was
alive.
Hitherto Prowers had made no move, but everybody in the district
knew that he was biding his time. Competent engineers of the
Government had passed adversely on this irrigation project. They
had decided water could not be brought down from the hills to the
Flat Tops. Jake had seen the surveys and believed them to be
correct. He was willing that Reed and the capitalists he had
interested should waste their money on a fool’s dream. If Justin
Merrick was right—if he could bring water through Elk Creek Cañon
to the Flat Tops—it would be time enough for Prowers to strike.
Knowing the man as he did, Clint Reed had no doubt that, if it
became necessary in order to defeat the project, his enemy would
move ruthlessly and without scruple. It was by his advice that Justin
Merrick kept the dam guarded at night and carried a revolver with
him when he drove over or tramped across the hills.
 CHAPTER IX
UNDER FIRE

All day the faint far whir of the reaper could have been heard from
the house of the Diamond Bar K ranch. The last of the fields had
been cut. Much of the grain had been gathered and was ready for
the thresher.
The crop was good. Prices would be fair. Clint Reed rode over the
fields with the sense of satisfaction it always gave him to see
gathered the fruits of the earth. His pleasure in harvesting or in
rounding-up beef steers was not only that of the seller looking to his
profit. Back of this was the spiritual gratification of having been a
factor in supplying the world’s needs. To look at rippling wheat
ripening under the sun, to feed the thresher while the fan scattered a
cloud of chaff and the grain dropped into the sacks waiting for it,
ministered to his mental well-being by justifying his existence. He
had converted hundreds of acres of desert into fertile farm land. All
his life he had been a producer of essentials for mankind. He found
in this, as many farmers do, a source of content. He was paying his
way in the world.
To-day Reed found the need of vindication. He was fonder of Betty
than he was of anything or anybody else in the world, and he knew
that he was at the bar of her judgment. She did not approve of what
he had done. This would not have troubled him greatly if he had
been sure that he approved of it himself. But like many willful men he
sometimes had his bad quarter of an hour afterward.
It was easy enough to make excuses. The Diamond Bar K had been
troubled a good deal by vagrants on the transcontinental route. They
had robbed the smokehouse only a few weeks before. A gang of
them had raided the watermelon patch, cut open dozens of green
melons, and departed with such ripe ones as they could find.
Naturally he had been provoked against the whole breed of them.
But he had been too hasty in dealing with the young scamp he had
thrashed. Clint writhed under an intolerable sense of debt. The boy
had fought him as long as he could stand and take it. He had gone
away still defiant, and had rescued Betty from a dangerous situation.
Dragged back at a rope’s end to the ranch by the luckless Dusty, he
had scornfully departed before Reed had a chance to straighten out
with him this added indignity. The owner of the Diamond Bar K felt
frustrated, as though the vagabond had had the best of him.
He was not even sure that the severe punishment he had meted out
to the other tramps had been wise. The man Cig had endured the
ordeal unbroken in spirit. His last words before he crept away had
been a threat of reprisal. The fellow was dangerous. Clint read it in
his eyes. He had given orders to Betty not to leave the ranch for the
next day or two without an escort. Yet he still felt uneasy, as though
the end of the matter had not come.
It was now thirty hours since he had last seen the hoboes. No doubt
they were hundreds of miles away by this time and with every click of
the car wheels getting farther from the ranch.
He rode back to the stable, unsaddled, and walked to the house.
Betty was in the living-room at the piano. She finished the piece,
swung round on the stool, and smiled at him.
“Everything fine and dandy, Dad?”
His face cleared. It was her way of telling him that she was ready to
forgive and be forgiven.
“Yes.” Then, abruptly, “Reckon I get off wrong foot first sometimes,
honey.”
He was in a big armchair. She went over to him, sat down on his
knees, and kissed him. “’S all right, Dad,” she nodded with an effect
of boyish brusqueness. Betty, too, had a mental postscript and
expressed it. “It’s that boy. Nothing to do about it, of course. He
wouldn’t let me do a thing for him, but—Oh, well, I just can’t get him
off my mind. Kinda silly of me.”