Nobody

Run, Johnny, Run

Pru was dead.

This was an inescapable fact of life.

Sighing, I got out of the big bed that seemed so empty without her.

Feeling empty inside I dressed quietly in the darkness of the bedroom. The big room, with evidence of Pru's touch everywhere, was pitch black except for the small night-light I kept plugged into the wall. I went through it carefully. Boxers, sock, white t-shirt for starters. I stared at the wardrobe where my clothing was carefully hung and took it all in. Slacks, button down shirts, everything a respectable Texas rancher would wear, minus the field hand clothing. I sighed and grabbed a pair of slacks and a shirt that cost more than most people made in two months and put them on, followed by tooled cowboy boots with silver eagle's wings on the heel and toes. I picked up the roll of cash I'd hoarded, shoved it in my pocket. I put my dogtags around my neck, tucked my wallet into my back pocket, clapped my hat on my head, and looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked like a damn fool.

The door whispered quietly when I opened it, walking out into the frontroom. Nobody was there, the house sleeping.

Brett, my son, was probably asleep cuddled up with his wife, a woman he met at rodeos, like I'd met his mother. Years gone by he would have been required to join the military to earn his inheritance, but my siblings and I agreed that with the way the military had treated the veterans of the last three wars they could pound sand in their ass for a hundred years before they got one more drop of Bomber blood.

Instead, the family now required college and starting at the bottom.

I stopped in the kitchen, staring at the table for a long moment before setting the note down. It was short and simple.

DON'T LOOK FOR ME

Underneath was a power of attorney over everything I owned but my veteran's benefits.

Including the right to the ranch, the cattle, the crops, everything.

The Bomber legacy.

With that I walked out of the farmhouse that was over a century old, that had survived Indian attacks, range wars, the Civil War, and even Santa Anna's army, and headed into the Texas night.

My brothers and my little sisters would be angry. I knew they'd ignore the note and look for me.

But I couldn't stay in that house a moment longer. Not another second.

Pru was dead.

Pru and I had lived there since I got out of the military after Desert Storm. I'd taken too much damage, given too much, and the slight limp I had was a tiny legacy of what I'd been through.

The pickup truck was new. Only a year old. I thought about Ant, my best friend, who had left only a week ago. His car was ten years old, he couldn't afford a newer one.

But I knew that Heather was riding next to him, his children in the back seat, and for that, I envied him so badly I hated him.

The truck started up with a purr. If anyone was awake, they'd probably figure I was off to Austin or some such on errands.

The gate swung open silently, the little beacon somewhere on the truck signalling to the gate to open up for me as soon as I thumbed the button on the dash. I turned onto the highway and headed out.

The night was dark, the road purring by as I drove five miles above the speed limit.

I only had the beginning of a plan. I didn't know where I was going in the end, but right now, I had the initial plan.