Saddle Up: a Cedar Ridge Ranch novella

CH 11: "The Message"

Goddammit!

Garland laid down on the cold metal bench bolted to the floor of the holding cell. He draped his arm over his face and cursed his fucking temper. That prick wasn't worth it, and Garland had known it—even while he was smashing his face with a pool ball.

So, why did you let him get under your fucking skin?

He didn't know. The excessive alcohol sure as hell didn't help. Garland was convinced he would have walked away from the asshole if he'd goaded him about anything other than...

Heff Wilder.

Why had Slader's bullshit rhetoric set him off like a firecracker? Because he'd accused Garland of nailing a teenager? Or because... the accusations were true?

"Fuck..." Garland swallowed hard, and his arm came up off his face, the side of his fist smacking the brick wall with force. "Fuck!" His vision blurred as he stared up at the high ceiling of the cell. Not only had he gotten his ass arrested—he'd beaten the shit out of a fucking cattle baron's son! Harrison Slader had the power to cause a shitload of problems for Frank and the ranch if he decided to get involved—rather than let his asshole son take his licks for once in his life and maybe learn to keep his fucking mouth shut. But Harrison Slader wasn't known for staying out of things, especially when it came to his son.

Garland might be in more trouble than he bargained for—and his shit was bound to splash over onto Frank, Mandy, and the ranch.

• • •

The storm raged outside, beating at the walls from every side. Garland opened his eyes halfway, the lids heavy like lead. The room was dark but for flickering firelight.

Where am I?

He looked at the low log ceiling for a long time before realizing he was in the hunting cabin. But how...? His head a little clearer, he vaguely recalled falling from the saddle. No... not falling... something knocked him off the horse. A tree branch ripped loose by the storm? That seemed right.

Garland could feel the lingering chill in his bones, but not nearly as bad as before. Two thick blankets covered him, generating a comforting warmth. His clothes had been removed—all but his underwear. The dream of Heff lying beside him haunted his mind. He was too exhausted to deny the disappointment of waking up and finding it really was just a dream.

What would you have done if it wasn't a dream? Fuck him again—as if you somehow had that right?

It didn't matter because it was a dream—

Movement in the cabin silenced the thought. Garland turned his head, and the room swayed a little. He closed his eyes against the light dizziness—then something touched him. Something... cold and wet. Garland opened his eyes again to find the hound dog nuzzling him with its nose. He stared at the animal, shocked and confused. Was he still dreaming? None of this made sense—how he got to the cabin... the fire... the dog. He didn't remember anything between hitting the ground and waking up here.

Garland swallowed and tried to speak, his voice hardly more than a raspy, raw whisper, "What... what're you doing here... boy?" Had the hound gotten loose and followed him, getting caught in the storm as well?

The dog whined excitedly and nuzzled him again before flopping one paw on the bunk.

"Happy to see me alive?" Garland's throat felt inflamed and hurt like a bitch to swallow. Breathing the arctic air for God knows how long had likely done a number on the tender flesh of his throat canal. If he didn't catch pneumonia, it would be a wonder.