Read Online In Reach by Pamela Carter Joern - Free Book Online Page B

fringe-vested men wearing holsters and chaps. Jason looked at the crowd and tried to guess which were tourists and which were locals. Some of the men looked tanned and leathery, some were even bowlegged. But then, Jason knew most modern ranchers drove sports vehicles and sat around in computerized offices. For all he knew, the guys in the crowd who looked like real cowboys might be actors. Or stockbrokers in disguise like his dad.
    Dave plopped his beer down on the table, sloshing the foam over the side. “I’d buy you one, kid, but I don’t want to get arrested.” He set a root beer in front of Jason, frosty mug.
    Dave lowered himself to the straight-backed chair, stuck one booted leg out in front of him, tipped the chair back on its heels. “You’re probably the only guy in here wearing an earring.”
    Jason tossed his head to lift a blond wave off his eye.
    “What’s next? A tattoo?”
    Jason felt Dave looking at him. He wanted something from him, Jason didn’t know what. He picked up his mug of root beer. He’d have preferred a Coke. His dad—fake costume, fake beer.The fake poker game over in the corner was heating up to a staged gunfight. Pretty soon they’d be caught in a fake crossfire.
    “Look at that big guy.” Dave pointed to a mounted buffalo head that loomed over the bar. “Once king of the prairie. Here’s to you, you poor sonofabitch.” Dave lifted his glass to the buffalo and drank.
    Jason wished his dad would just eat so he could get out of here. He felt sick to his stomach. One of the cowboys in the poker game accused another one of cheating.
    “My dad was one of those guys who couldn’t adapt. Happy growing sugar beets on a few acres, then the war came along. After that, the name of the game was progress.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “Can’t accommodate, you’re obsolete.
    Jason said nothing. He’d heard this sob story before.
    Dave took a swig of beer, ran his tongue over his lips. He gazed into the glass eyes of the buffalo. “I was just about your age, full of myself.” He paused. “Told my mother that if I ever had kids and couldn’t provide a decent living, I hoped somebody’d take a shotgun to my head. I was quite the little hard-ass.”
    Jason thought about the checks his mom got every month in the mail. Maybe they bought his dad peace of mind, but they didn’t mean squat. He dropped his buffalo burger into the red plastic basket and shoved it across the table. “I can’t eat this stuff,” he said. The basket collided with his dad’s beer, then dangled precariously on the edge of the table before falling to the floor.
    Dave leaned his head forward and surveyed the damage. He picked up his beer and raised it to his lips. Holding the beer suspended, he looked at Jason. “Suit yourself,” he said.
    After supper, Dave insisted that they drive ten miles north to the Kingsley Dam. The landscape shifted as they moved out of the town limits. Cornfields gave way to yuccas and sage. The air was drier, the sun more insistent, the trees huddled around lowplaces or watering troughs. In the distance Jason spotted a lone windmill keeping vigil on the prairie.
    “I remember fishing in Lake McConaughy,” Dave said, driving north. “One time, our whole family went. Camped out right on the sand. White bass every time we threw in the line. We must’ve hit a school. Caught so many we ran out of bait. Mom had a couple shiny buttons, so we tried those. Worked just like a minnow. Dad decided we should use fish eyes. Damned if they didn’t strike at those. A guy up around the bend wasn’t catching a thing, yelled at us, wanted to know what we were using for bait. I asked Dad what I should say. He said, ‘Tell them the truth, Son.’ So I yelled back, ‘Fish eyes.’” Dave snorted. “’Course the guy didn’t believe me. Let out a blue streak.”
    Jason was silent. He was thinking about fish eyes, iridescent silver and green. He saw the empty sockets of the eyeless,