Twisted Iron Read online

  Twisted

  Iron

  By

  T.J. Loveless

  Twisted Iron

  Copyright © 2014 T.J. Loveless

  Published by Rough Road Productions

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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

  Published: Rough Road Productions

  [email protected]

  Editing: Blue Water Editing, J. M. Ingman

  Cover Design: © Kari Ayasha, Cover to Cover Designs

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  Dedication

  For Daron and Filly – for whom I found my purpose.

  Prologue

  I stood over the kid, finger on the trigger, waiting for him to decide.

  “Live or die, it makes no difference to me.” I shouldered the twelve gauge, sighting his head. I knew what it would look like, how it would sound should I pull the trigger. The bits and pieces of blowback I’d wash off. Another memory to be held in the black hole filled with years of blood and death.

  How did it come to the point I was threatening a child, a boy no more than eighteen?

  The static foam in my head vibrated, emotions trying to come forward. Years of training wouldn’t allow it, not when survival was on the line.

  All for a house, a piece of property. For my home. The years of history and memories. For a past I had nothing to do with, a man hell bent on revenge for an imagined slight one hundred years ago. For water. For money.

  I pulled the trigger.

  If the world was going to burn, I was going to feed the flames.

  Chapter One

  I held the Sig next to my thigh, breathing slow, the grip natural from years of handling weapons. Judging by the weight, the clip held four bullets.

  I could hear footsteps trying to sneak around the front of the house, but they weren’t adept at shock and awe. More like someone hunting deer or elk instead of a human.

  The safety off, I lifted the weapon, sighting the dark form, the light of unimpeded stars as a guide. The idiot was five feet away from death. I’d play the part of the Grim Reaper, and relish every moment. Exactly as I’d been trained to do for twenty years.

  A fat guy tiptoed around the corner and I waited. He turned and backed up, arm high, hand holding the pistol sideways. The fucker watched too damn many movies. He’d be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn.

  “Psst, I’m back here,” I whispered, putting the barrel of the Sig in the middle of his back, aiming for the heart. One shot would obliterate the muscle. I smiled at the thought.

  He froze, arms high in surrender. “You’ll be charged with murder,” his voice, hoarse and filled with fear, loud.

  Cocking my head, concentrating on the sounds past his labored breathing. I heard one footstep, and nothing. The intruder warned a partner, leaving seconds to decide what to do. I lowered the barrel of the Sig, and shot his left butt cheek. He fell screaming.

  “Shut up, you’ll live.” I kneeled, and waited. Not for long, because the second man ran around the corner of the house, carrying a rifle. He didn’t see me in time. The first shot ringing in my ears, I put a bullet in the second man’s knee.

  I stalked to the side of the house, unable to hear, relying on instinct. Parked at the deep bend of the driveway was their truck, a single cab. At the front of the house, I jogged inside, not seeing the recent renovations. I grabbed the phone mounted in the kitchen, and dialed 9-1-1.

  Karen Barnes’s face ghosted into sight, and I let it stay. A year ago, I’d finally met the woman who’d saved me a decade ago. I hadn’t seen or talked to her in nine months, not since moving home to Dillon, Montana. The memory of her scarred face, the dark blue eyes, never failed to calm the chaos living in my soul.

  “I shot two men, they need an ambulance and need Sheriff Porter to send officers.” I hung up the phone, and grabbed a flashlight. Near the new oak front door, sat a pair of leather working gloves. I sure as hell wasn’t going to touch the weapons.

  At the back of the house, the screams evolved into moans of pain. I handed each man a towel, “Put it on the wounds and press hard.” The two weapons on the ground were moved out of their reach, although I doubted either could shoot. Probably their first gunshot wounds.

  I stood at the side of the house, waiting. The sounds of sirens wailed in the warm late spring air, and I laid all the weapons neatly on the recently mowed front lawn, got on my knees, ankles crossed, hands linked behind my head. I didn’t relish the jail time, but it would be nothing like Denver.

  The formalities taken care of, I sat in a jail cell, waiting. I had no family left in Dillon. I’d been gone for twenty years, and only the old timers, or people I went to high school with, remembered me. None would visit, or help. I understood what it meant to be the town’s prodigal son.

  Sheriff Blaze Porter stood in front of the cell, knocking the heavy iron bars with his Super Bowl ring. He’d been in the NFL many years ago, and after retiring, returned home. He was the only one who talked to me on a regular basis.

  “Did you tell the full truth on the report, son?” He gave full eye contact, voice normal, his six foot seven frame. Most would be intimidated, but he reminded me of the Colonel.

  “Yes.” I stood at the bars, hands where he could see them.

  “The DA didn’t like it much, but your being released on your own recognizance. The judge remembers your father.” He pulled out an old fashioned key ring, and the tumblers made deep metallic sounds. Standing back, one hand swept out. I followed the silent instructions, standing at attention on the other side. The door clanked shut and he held my upper arm. I noted he didn’t put me in cuffs, normal procedure.

  The next two hours were spent getting out of the county jail. I needed a shower and sleep, but dawn was fast turning to day. The world worked when the sun was up in a small town.

  “Listen, Aiden, I know the past several months have been hard. But you can’t just shoot people.” Blaze, at six foot seven and around two eighty, had surprisingly light footsteps. He took shorter steps to keep from walking ahead, a gesture much appreciated since he stood a good seven inches taller than me.

  “Then they should stay the hell off my property, or at least not be loaded for bear when visiting,” I retorted.

  “Come on, I’ll take you home.” He pointed at the passenger door of the squad car.

  I hesitated. I had no choice, since it was twenty miles to the house. The mileage wasn’t the problem, it was the exhaustion flooding every muscle. I followed directions.

  The drive was silent, and I stared out the windshield. Dillon was not what I remembered, grown in the past decade because of the oil and gas industry. The people were unfamiliar, new buildings, a new way of life. I caught a glimpse of red hair, and frowned. The face was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  Shrugging off the maudl
in musings, I listened to the police scanner. Blaze spoke into the mike a few times, giving orders, answering questions. Someone reporting a stolen truck, a neighbor’s dog attacking a family pet, a suspicious person pacing in front of the bank. The sound ate the miles.

  We turned off the highway, and on the only road leading to the family home. It turned into gravel, and at the last turn, a well-worn dirt driveway.

  The house, a late two story Victorian, shone in the bright sunlight. The new windows, paint and wood made it appear younger. Lessons of family history and the house shadowed the back of my mind, reminders of why I fought.

  He parked by the porch. I held the door handle, stared at the dashboard. “Thanks, Blaze. I know you are risking a lot associating with me, even the little you do.” I pushed the door open and had a foot out, when a huge hand landed on my forearm.

  “Son, I don’t give a damn what they think. They’ll keep me in office simply because of my past and the fact I’m damn good at what I do. But you need to forgive them. When you do, you’ll find more friends.” He let go of my arm, and stared out the windshield. “Your family and mine have been in Dillon for over a century. We’re linked, and for that reason alone, I’ll never walk away from you. What happened to your father remains only in the memories of the old timers. Get out more, say hi to people. You might be surprised at the friends you could make.” He glared. “Stop being the damn pariah and local hermit. There’s no reason for it, son. Now get the hell out of my squad car, and try not to kill anyone for at least a week.” He put the car in drive and left me standing alone in the circular drive.

  Police tape cordoned off sections of yard, and I tracked the footsteps. The two men were going to live, although the big guy would need some reconstructive surgery, and the other guy would limp for the rest of his life. I squatted near the stains of blood, trying to understand.

  I heard a neigh from the barn. Probably the real reason Blaze worked hard to get me out of jail. Rogue Spy, the only surviving colt of Running Maverick, the full brother of Five Alarm. The colt was a yearling, but because of his bloodline, worth two hundred thousand dollars. Leaving him unprotected was a bad idea.

  It wasn’t his bloodline I cared about. Karen gave the colt to me, a gift from a friend. I wasn’t sure what to do, I didn’t show horses. I thought about sending Rogue to Karen, letting her train and show him. I stood, rubbing a hand over the high and tight haircut. I didn’t want her to think I was ungrateful for the generous gift, but he’d die at the rate my little range war escalating.

  I strode into the barn, intending to let him have the run of the front pasture. His head popped over the stall door, lips flapping. I grinned. The sorrel coat, the wide, bright white blaze, the intelligence and spirit showcased in the soft brown eyes reminded me of Five Alarm. I put a hand on the soft nose, stroking and making clicking noises. He deserved better than a man who had no time, or patience.

  I let him loose to play and graze in the pasture, cleaning out the stall. The mundane task calmed the raging thoughts, pushing tired muscles to the extreme.

  The sun heated the air, and sweat drenched the AC/DC t-shirt. I whipped it off, concentrated on fixing a few boards, or the colt would end up with a massive wound.

  “I see you kept in shape,” a feminine voice echoed in the empty barn.

  I finished hammering in the last nail and turned to face the visitor. I stopped, every muscle tensing, but not in battle readiness. Something else, sending electrical shocks up and down my skin. “Do I know you?” I put the hammer on a nearby bale of hay and grabbed the t-shirt, drying my face.

  “You don’t remember me, Squirrel?” Arms crossed, and pushing a nice set of breasts together, she popped a hip out, and tilted her head. Red hair slid over one shoulder in a silky wave.

  At the mention of the childhood nickname, I gaped. “Jillian Winters? Jilly Bean?” I marched forward, putting the t-shirt on, not bothering to stop the mile wide grin. I grabbed her in a massive bear hug, chuckling at the squeak of surprise. Ending the hug and stepping back, hands holding her upper arms, and I studied her. “It’s been twenty-five years!” I gave her another, gentler hug.

  She laughed, the wonderful belly laugh I remembered from our childhood. “Yes, since Mom and Dad moved to Alabama in seventh grade.”

  “How are your parents? Come inside, and get something to drink. I need to clean up, and we can play catch up.” I held a hand out.

  She grabbed it, and another electric shock hit from head to toe.

  Inside, I handed her a glass of sweet tea, and excused myself. I took a fast shower, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, joining her in the kitchen. She sat at the island, sipping the tea, a contemplative expression marring her features.

  I took a bottle of water from the new fridge and sat facing her. “Talk to me.”

  Swirling the tea in the glass, “Heard you were in town. I had to see for myself.” She met my gaze. Her eyes were a beautiful jade color, exactly as I remembered.

  “I didn’t know you were back,” I gulped half the bottle. She was tense, and holding her breath.

  “I’m the ER doctor at the new hospital. I took care of the men you shot last night.” Setting the glass down, and she turned to face me. “When they said it was you, and spoke of old fashioned lynch mobs, I had to see for myself.”

  I stared into the bottle opening. I couldn’t explain, not really. It would mean telling someone of my current mental state, and crazy conspiracy theories. I didn’t understand all of it, making telling her impossible.

  “Aiden, is it true you left after high school?” her voice low, gentle. She was working up to something.

  “Yeah. Joined the Army, ended up a mercenary for the government.” I guzzled the last of the water, and went to get another one. A hand on the fridge door, “Jillian, why are you asking me these things?” I didn’t turn, not wanting to know if she was judging me. I didn’t want to ruin the wonderful memories of a gangly little girl always willing to get into mischief and create adventures across the valley floor.

  “Is it true you were part of the Karen Barnes scandal?”

  Anger surged. “Scandal? What fucking scandal?”

  Surprise flickered, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Sorry, bad choice of words.” She sighed. “I didn’t come to get your hackles up, just trying to get a feel for the man you are now.” She stood, meeting me at the fridge. Putting a hand on my shoulder, pulling, the other hand lay gently against my cheek. It felt right, natural. I frowned and tried to resist. She gripped a little harder and I gave in to her insistence. “Is what I heard happened in Wyoming true? In Oklahoma?” Her eyes searched mine, but I left them blank.

  “Yes.” Static foam filled the voids.

  She nodded once, and stepped back, dropping her hands. “It explains the men’s stories. They are saying you tried to kill them in cold blood, and using the incidents of last year as proof of your killer mentality.”

  I opened the fridge, taking out the pitcher of iced tea and a bottle of water. I refilled her glass, and cracked open the bottle. “Go on.”

  “Aiden, what is happening? This isn’t the town I remember fondly.”

  I shrugged, refusing to bring her into the mess. “Times change, Jillian. Is this the only reason you came out?”

  “Don’t go on the defensive. I needed to know if you were a cold-blooded killer, or someone reacting to another bad situation. I want to get to know my Squirrel again.” She smiled.

  My brain short circuited.

  “What have you got to eat?” She moved around the kitchen, opening cupboards, making clicking sounds with her tongue. “Oh, I can do something with what you’ve got.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should feel as if my space was invaded, or happy she believed I wasn’t a serial killer.

  Time sped up, as she created a meal with ease, and we talked about the lighter side of our lives since seventh grade. She spoke of Alabama, and adjusting to a culture different than Dillon. Going to med school at
Harvard, and eventually working her way back to Montana.

  I said little.

  The smell of garlic, lemon, bread, and parmesan cheese filled the kitchen, with its honey oak cabinets, black granite counters, black tiled floors and gleaming stainless steel. She’d whipped up a batch of homemade pasta, and an hour later, my stomach growled loud enough to break through her endless chatter.

  “Oh good, maybe you’ll eat all of it. Afraid I made enough to feed a small army,” she grinned.

  “I’m starving for a decent meal. I do home-assembled, not homemade.” I watched the food with laser intensity.

  She pulled the loaf of French bread from the oven, setting it aside. With admirable efficiency, she filled two plates, cut the bread and slathered each slice with butter. Moments later, she set a plate in front of me. I didn’t wait for an invitation.

  The first mouthful caused an involuntary moan of ecstasy. I ate as fast as possible, and stared at the empty plate moments later.

  Her laugh brought my head up and I smiled. “Sorry, but that was great. Where’d you learn to cook like that? If I remember right, your mother couldn’t boil water.”

  She refilled my plate and returned to her own. “No, Mom still can’t cook worth a damn. But to help with tuition expenses, I worked at an Italian restaurant. The chef liked me and showed me how to do cook Italian properly.” She ate in a sedate manner, as if relishing every bite.

  I nodded, unable to talk around the mouthfuls of pasta and sweet lemon garlic sauce.

  I plowed through dinner, sick of my own cooking. I hadn’t had a decent meal since Laramie. I pushed the plate away after the fourth serving, rubbing my stomach. The belch came out of nowhere. Jillian laughed.

  I did the dishes, letting myself enjoy the easy banter. It would end soon enough, and I needed all the good memories I could store.

  Nothing good ever lasted in my life.