The Valley: A Lee Harden Novel, page 7
She blinked, languidly—the only sign that she’d even heard him.
Bran looked forward again at the dusty trail to his home. “Least, there won’t be within our lifetimes. Well, maybe yours. But not us old bastards. And your dad’s older than me.”
Kat finally swiveled her head and fixed him with those eyes. So beautiful. And yet, creepy as hell, because of what was in them.
“Interior,” she said, the word coming out a little unwieldy.
“Pssh,” Bran waved a hand at her. “Can’t drive all these cattle to the Interior States.”
She frowned, like he was arguing with her. He guessed he was. She thrust a hand out in the general direction of east, where the promise of civilization and cities run by an actual, functioning government—albeit an interim one—was only a thousand miles and one helluva mountain range away.
“Safe,” she said.
“No, yeah, sure, the cities might be safe. Least, that’s what they say. But how we gonna drive all those cattle there? If they didn’t freeze to death in the Rockies, they’d get picked off by packs of infected. Or just regular folks who’re hungry.” He shook his head again. “Ain’t no way.”
Kat frowned, considering it, then just shrugged and looked forward again, like it didn’t concern her. And why should it? She worked for her dad, just as much as Bran did, but where Bran had a mostly-friendly relationship towards his boss—and a sense of loyalty to the guy that’d gotten him out of that work-release hell—there was really no love lost between Colin and Kat.
Colin wasn’t really father material to begin with. Too harsh. Too focused on the ranch. Too set in his ways to budge for the likes of a daughter.
Not to let Colin off the hook for generally being a dick to her, but Kat didn’t make it easy on him. She could be difficult to handle. She had…issues.
You might say she got them from her mother.
“Well, suppose we can’t complain, huh?” Bran said, as he drove the ATV through the front gates—checking the battery and satisfied to note that he’d made the day’s rounds with 10% battery left to spare. “We got a nice place to live, we’re relatively safe, and we got all the beef we could ever eat.”
“Mm,” Kat grunted, looking at a corral of young bulls, herded in for castration. “Cow.”
“’Course, we all probably have ridiculously high cholesterol,” Bran said, steering his way for the Big House. “But who gives a shit about that anymore?”
Kat shook her head. “Not me.”
“Wow, two words in a row?” Bran shoved the shifter into park and yanked on the emergency brake, smiling at her. “Don’t turn into a chatterbox now. I won’t have as much fun if I don’t get to talk all the time.”
He hoisted himself out with tired old grumble and slammed the door behind him. Grabbed the charger that was hooked up to the bank of solar panels along the south-facing roof of the house and plugged the ATV in.
Colin Horner had bought the electric ATV and the solar panels the year before the plague hit. He’d grown tired of paying out the ass for fuel and having to drive to get it. He’d called it “dependence on an unreliable system.” Which turned out to be a shockingly accurate assessment.
Too bad society had gone belly up before he’d been able to buy a whole fleet of them.
Bran angled himself for the front door of the Big House. Then stopped. Looked back over his shoulder.
Kat was still sitting there. Glaring at the house.
Bran sighed. “Don’t be like this again, Kat.”
“Shithead.”
He knew it wasn’t directed at him. “Come on, Kat. You gonna make me talk to the shithead on my own?”
A low growl came from under her bandanna. And then, looking every bit the petulant teenager, she shoved her way out of the ATV and slammed the door aggressively behind her. Loud enough to garner a look from two nearby ranch hands hanging on a fence. When they saw who it was, they wisely looked away.
“You know,” Bran said, as Kat came abreast of him and they started up the front steps. “You probably shouldn’t call your old man a shithead. It’s very disrespectful.”
She gave him a side-eye that spoke volumes about who disrespected who. But Bran didn’t have that kind of relationship with Colin. He couldn’t just call him out when he was an asshole to Kat. All Bran could do was talk to Kat, and try to keep her from making it worse.
“He’s got a lot on his mind, alright?” Bran said, kicking the dust off his boots on the last tread. “Makes him less patient. Makes him a bit snippy. It’s not okay that he takes it out on you, but you should at least try to understand the tough spot he’s in.”
Kat caught his arm as he reached for the doorknob, stopping him.
He looked at her and was surprised to see a rare depth of emotion in her eyes. She jammed a finger into her chest, and then pointed at the house, and all around them, as though gesturing to existence itself. “I,” she said. “Didn’t ask. For this.”
Bran was so surprised that she’d struggled through an actual full sentence, that it took him a moment to catch what she’d actually said. And the feelings behind it.
Something in his chest ached for the girl. His shoulders slumped.
If Kat had been cooler with physical contact, he might’ve laid a hand on her shoulder, but he held back. “I know you didn’t, Hon. But we’re here anyway. So let’s try to make the best of it.”
Unconvinced, her eyes narrowed and she turned to the door.
Well, Bran guessed that was that, and went in.
As Big Houses on large ranches went, Bran had only seen a few, and knew that this one was “humble.” But compared to a regular person’s house, it was large and nicely decorated, with all the wood and leather a cowboy could hope for. And plenty of stone. Stone everywhere. Can’t put wood or leather there? Have some stone.
The foyer opened up into a great room, the tall ceiling held up by massive pine timbers stained a warm chestnut. Two of Colin’s men sat in plush leather chairs with a table between them, a chess game in full swing.
The guy whose pieces had all been slain was Darryl, and he was nice, though a bit dull. The guy who had slain all those pieces was Joaquin, and he was whip smart, but broody and generally mean.
Joaquin was facing Bran as he walked into the great room and peered at him over steepled fingers. Gave no greeting. Just stared.
Darryl, on the other hand, turned and grinned. “Oh, hey, Bran.” Slightly less jovially: “Hey, Kat.” Jovial again, to Bran: “Y’all looking for Mr. Horner?”
Bran just kept on walking through the great room. “He in his office?” he asked without really needing to. Colin was in his office more often than not. More and more, lately.
“Yeah,” Darryl called back. “But—”
Joaquin’s low, cold voice: “He asked not to be disturbed.”
Bran pulled up short of the door to the office and turned to look at Joaquin. Both he and Kat, glaring at the man at once. But Joaquin seemed more disconcerted with Kat’s attention than Bran’s.
“He told me to see him as soon as I got back,” Bran said, evenly. Then clicked a finger-gun at him. “But thanks for doing such a fine job in guarding our fearless leader from…you know…chess champions or whatever.”
Colin hadn’t always had two of his ranch hands in the house with him at all times for protection. That was a more recent development. Darryl seemed as flummoxed by it as the rest of the ranch. Joaquin seemed to be deadly serious about it. As though there was some sort of war going on, and any one of them, Bran and Kat included, might have turned coat and become spies for the other side.
Colin's getting paranoid, Bran thought. Again. For the thousandth time.
Then he rapped a knuckle on the door and announced himself. “Boss. It’s Bran. And Kat.”
From behind the big wooden door, the sound of a chair creaking. Movement. Shuffling. A drawer closing. Then, “Come on.”
Bran pushed his way in, making space for Kat to get by, then closed the door behind him, not failing to give Joaquin a passive-aggressive little smirk.
The office was spacious, but not cavernous. A couple of leather chairs, situated around a desk that was not drastically large, but nice enough to make the statement that you were talking to The Man.
The Man himself was standing behind the desk, his broad shoulders framed by a painting of a pair of cowpokes wrangling a steer, and above the painting, a set of horns that Bran had always thought were a bit out of place, seeing as how they didn’t even raise longhorns here.
Colin was a large individual, but Bran somehow couldn’t see him as anything but withered. He’d known the man before the world went into the shitter, and he’d been filled out to proportions that most would consider bear-like. Now, though, his worn-out shirts hung loose on his deflated chest, tucked into faded and oft-mended jeans. The waists of those jeans were folded over in places to accommodate the use of the extra notches Colin had put into his belt.
Most people still found him intimidating, on account of his height and broadness, and…well, everything about him, really. His hair was gray and bristly, as though it were made out of wire brushes. His brows were thick and stern, and often sat hooded—as they did now—over cold gray eyes that always looked like they were squinting into the sun. Or squinting at something he found mildly distasteful. His arms, visible due to his rolled-up sleeves, were thinner than they once were, but still corded with lean muscle, and his hands had the gnarled hardness of tools that saw a lot of use.
Bran stuck his thumbs in his belt and sauntered over to the other side of the desk. Kat followed, looking around the office as though she’d never seen it before, though Bran knew that was just what she did to avoid looking at her father. Colin didn’t like it when she looked at him.
“What’s the word?” Colin said, his voice sounding as it always did—dry and harsh, like something being dragged through gravel.
Before answering, Bran glanced hopefully at a decanter on the corner of Colin’s desk, to assess if there was enough whiskey in there that he could bum a small pour. But only a thin base of amber sat at the bottom. A couple of the ranch hands brewed it and distilled it, but with the drought hitting them hard in their grain reserves, whiskey production had been impacted. Colin let the ranch hands have what they did manage to make, to keep morale up.
Bran let out a mostly-inaudible sigh. “Camperland couldn’t pay.”
“And?” Colin prompted.
“And they’re gone.”
“What about the Redoubt?”
“Not gone. Yet. But they probably won’t pay. Asked for more time. But I got the distinct sense that extra time wouldn’t make a difference. They’re just stalling.”
“Uh,” Colin grunted, frowning out the large window to the left of his desk. “Well, that’s just fine by me. Corn or no corn, I’ll get what I want.”
“Yeah, so…” Bran leaned his hip against the arm of one of the leather chairs. “There’s a thing about that. With the Redoubt, I mean.”
Colin looked up sharply, a question in his eyes.
Bran elaborated. “Some strangers rolled into the Redoubt just before we got there. They were in some sort of talks with Ted. There were five of them—two older guys, two younger guys, and a woman.” He looked significantly at his boss. “All with armor, rifles, and what looked like plenty of ammo.”
Colin leaned back from his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “They planning to make a stink about things?”
“That wasn’t clear,” Bran said. “I talked to the lead guy—battered fucker with only one eye. He says they’re just traveling merchants, passing through, looking to make some deals. He didn’t elaborate on what he was selling.”
Colin sniffed and gazed out the window again. “You sure there were only five of them?”
“I only saw five,” Bran admitted. “And they only had one vehicle—crew cab truck. Guess there coulda been more hiding, but that’d be an awful cramped pickup if there were more of them.” Bran snapped his fingers. “Oh, and one of them I didn’t even see.”
“Thought you said you saw five.”
“I misspoke. I saw four, and it was implied that there was a fifth, aiming a rifle at me from somewhere.”
“Motherfuckers.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Colin shook his head and turned back to Bran. “Doesn’t matter anyhow. There’s only five of them.”
“Five, heavily armed.”
Colin made a face and waved it away. “I don’t care if they’re goddamned Navy SEALs, Bran. There’s only five of them. Only so much five people can do, no matter who they are, and something makes me doubt they’re anything special.”
Bran shrugged, knowing better than to argue with his boss. He wanted to tell him that there was something hard about that guy with the one eye, something dangerous about him that Bran didn’t care for. But he kept it to himself. Because, really, Colin was mostly right. It didn’t matter who they were. Five of them couldn’t hold out. Not against what Colin could throw at them.
Bran realized, after a moment, that Colin was inspecting him hard. Those cold eyes just soaking him in. He felt like he couldn’t move when Colin was staring at him like that. As though Colin were a snake and Bran had to stay still to keep from being bitten.
“What’s the problem, Bran?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
Colin huffed, mirthlessly. “You come in all sighing and down around the mouth, talking about Camperland being gone like they were your friends or some shit. You been ruminating a bit too much again lately?”
Bran smiled, despite not feeling like it. “What can I say, boss? I’m a thoughtful guy.”
“Well, spill it, then. Don’t hold me in suspense.”
“I’m just gonna piss you off.”
“Then piss me off. But don’t just stand there keeping it buttoned up like a bitch.” A pointed glance at Kat. Then back to Bran. “Speak.”
“Woof,” Bran said, before he could really stop himself.
The outside of Colin’s brows arched up, while the centers cinched down a bit more. An expression that Colin reserved only for moments when he needed the other party to know he wasn’t fucking around. Bran took his point, and dipped his head, half in apology, and half in acquiescence.
Bran chose to look at the floor. “What’re we doin’ here, boss?”
“There’s a lot of ways to interpret that question.”
“I’m saying, what are we doing with these people? Why are we doing this whole thing? With the dam, and the water tax, and the…” he waved a hand. “Slaughter. I mean, I get it, it’s your land, it’s your family’s land, yada yada. But it seems like a whole lot of mess for not much gain. You get your pastureland back, sure, but for what? Ain’t nobody buyin’ beef, boss.” Bran thumped his heel against the ground and reluctantly hazarded a glance at his boss’s face to see how much shit he’d just buried himself in. “Guess I just wanna know why I gotta do this shit.”
“Violent felon with a conscience,” Colin growled. “It’s a real charming act.”
Bran bristled inwardly, but kept his expression neutral. “Man shouldn’t be shamed for having a conscience. And yeah, maybe I do feel a little bad. There was kids in Camperland. And there’s kids in the Redoubt, too.”
“There’s kids every damn place there’s people. What’s your point?”
“My point is, have I ever said no to you?”
Colin seemed taken aback. He raised his chin, evaluating Bran again. Then he slowly shook his head. “Don’t suppose you ever have.”
Bran nodded. “I haven’t. And I’m not planning to. But I do want to know why. And if you won’t tell me just to assuage my conscience, then maybe just tell me why because I’m loyal, I’ve stuck by you all these years, and I never say no.”
Colin let out the wheezy, windy chuckle. The one that came with no accompanying smile, and only the very slightest twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Alright, fine,” he said. “Guess I owe you that much.”
Colin hitched his thumbs behind his belt and gave them an upward tug. “You think the world gone and ended. But it didn’t. It just restarted.” He raised a hand and twirled a finger in a circle. “All this shit? It’s just the Wild West again. Who owns the land? Nobody owns shit anymore, except whoever can keep it by force. Now, there’s civilization coming, Bran. It’s coming again, sure as shit. The Interim Government ain’t gonna stay on the other side of the Rockies forever. And once they get here, there’ll be rules that come with them. But for now, there are no rules. Which means I have between now, and whenever the new government finally crosses the Great Divide and brings their laws to us, to become the biggest land and cattle owner in the country.”
Christ. He really would have come out of the Great Depression a millionaire. The type of guy that didn’t look at the fall of society as the end of the world, but instead, as an opportunity. Bran found that he admired it. And was also somewhat terrified by the implications.
Colin finally let a smile range across his face, making his lips look taut, like the expression put too much tension on them. “I don’t give a shit about selling beef to people right now. I’m growing the herd, Bran. And I’ll just keep on growing it until people are ready to buy beef again. And when that happens, won’t we be sitting pretty?”
Bran pursed his lips and considered the logic of it. Oh, yes, plenty of logic. It all made sense. It was just a tad heavy on the Machiavelli and a hair light on scruples.
Colin didn’t wait to see if Bran approved of his plan, likely because he really didn’t care. He swiveled his gaze to Kat, and it became harsh and mirthless again. “Which reminds me of something else.” He rapped a finger on the desktop—a single, hard thump, surprisingly loud, like his fingers were made of stone. “Two head of cattle. Dead. Torn up. Down by the gorge.”
Bran felt his stomach twist up in sympathetic anxiety for Kat. “Coulda been wolves. Or coyotes.”
Colin hit Bran with his eyes and made it feel like a physical blow. “It weren’t wolves or coyotes. It was infected. I know the fucking difference.” Back to Kat, his face getting even harsher, the veins beginning to stand out on his forehead, and an unhealthy flush coming to his scalp. “Now, you got two fucking jobs around here, Kat. Two.” Raising a mean rod of a finger with each point: “You go with Bran on his rounds. And you keep my cattle from being preyed on. Any particular reason why you couldn’t do your damn job last night?”
