16. Galen

Chapter 16

Galen

S till smelling the reek of pot all around him, Galen made his way to the mess tent, but the movie was over, the night had gotten a little cooler, and everyone was headed to the campfire.

There, Blaze quickly built a fire, and nobody paid Galen much mind as he sat on one of the hay bales where he could see the reflection of dancing flames on the almost smooth, barely ruffled surface of the lake. There was no moon, so the stars were out, blinking overhead as they danced in the solar breeze.

Royce held court, sitting on a large hay bale near the fire. He read one of the ghost stories from a Foxfire book out loud, his voice dipping or rising, depending on how intense the story was.

Galen didn't believe in ghosts and thought the idea of reading aloud to a gathering of grown men, half of whom were criminals, was perhaps a waste of time.

Still, being still, sitting there as the evening grew darker, allowed him to gather his thoughts. Or at least to attempt to gather them, as they were scattering like little bits of dust, refusing to come together.

On top of all of them, however, formed the image of Bede's face, his eyes intense. As he'd moved closer to Galen in that area behind the first aid hut, his intention had been quite clear, though it was a bit of a muddle now. Had Bede been on the verge of kissing him?

Where on earth had Bede gotten the idea that Galen would ever, in a million years, want to hook up with him? To accept advances from an ex-con? There was no way. Simply no way.

He was shocked. But he was not made of stone, and something inside of his chest had responded when Bede had stepped closer, just about bursting through layers of muscle and bone.

He'd almost choked keeping it inside. It was as if that part of him, part of his heart, had taken on a life of its own.

And now, sitting by the campfire, he wanted nothing more than to be miles away so he wouldn't have to deal with any of this. While his team-leading skills seemed to be getting better, he was wary. It might be a fluke.

Certainly after Bede had been bold enough to make a pass at his boss, whether or not Galen responded, it would probably go back downhill. Fast. Zipline fast.

Realizing he was slumped forward, like a drunk yet to come off a bender, Galen straightened up. He pretended he was very invested in the ghost story Royce was currently telling, something about a woman trapped in a well who died and pioneers who stayed in a haunted log cabin.

Galen felt Gabe's attention on him and knew that he might have to fess up in their very first team meeting on Saturday about the fact that Bede had made a pass at him.

The ghost story ended, and a low, friendly discussion sprang up about whether or not ghosts existed. Galen used that time to make a hasty exit, without saying goodnight or anything.

He needed to be off by himself, so he took the path along the edge of the lake toward the dock.

He didn't have his swimsuit with him, so maybe he would just take off all his clothes and use the dock as a jumping off point. Use the dark still waters of the lake, speckled by starlight, to wash himself clean and start anew.

Then he could get rid of the intrusive thoughts pushing into him, all of which were tagged by images of Bede. Bede smiling. Laughing. The side eye glance he'd given Galen when he'd suggested they could get pup cups at Starbucks.

These were not thoughts he should be having.

But when he got to the dock, he saw someone was already there. It was Bede, hunkered down in the grass, his very fancy boots in the grass beside him. He was barefooted, and wearing only a t-shirt and jeans. Still stoned, obviously. Coming down from his high.

"What are you doing out here?" Galen asked, keeping his voice low, in case—in case what? Everyone else was at the campfire, and it was just the two of them.

"What?" Bede stood up, clasping the tops of the boots between the fingers of one hand. "Oh, this. I'm throwin' my boots in the lake," he said, the words soft and slow. "They remind me of Winston."

"You're going to what ?" Galen knew he'd not misheard. In fact, the back-and-forth motion of Bede's arm was indicative of someone who was gearing up to throw whatever he had in his hands as far as he could.

"You heard me."

"I sure did," said Galen, sputtering. "But why would you do that to such nice boots?"

"What's it to you?" asked Bede, in that same, almost sleepy voice.

"I'll tell you what's it to me."

Bede was high and all kinds of vulnerable from the pot, so Galen took a deep breath and took a mental step back from what he'd been about to say. Stuff about how much the boots cost, how much it might cost to replace them. None of which was important in the face of what Bede was going through as he came down from his high.

And though, had anyone told him even weeks ago that he'd be handling someone like Bede with kid gloves, he might have laughed, yes. In their face. But he wasn't laughing now.

"Whatever is going on with you, throwing those boots in the water is not the answer," said Galen, thinking he might take the boots from Bede before he did toss them in the water. In the ranch's store, he'd seen with his very eyes the moment Bede had fallen in love with those boots, and in spite of everything, he didn't deserve to lose them.

Galen took a step forward.

"You going to turn me in?" asked Bede, clutching the boots to his chest.

"You going to smoke pot again?" Galen shot back.

Then Bede laughed, letting go of the boots so they crumpled to the grass.

"Are you laughing at me?" Galen's jaw dropped with astonishment.

"Yeah, I'm laughing at you," said Bede, his smile wide, still sleepy, still-pot induced. "You're not afraid of anything , are you." And in a whisper, he added, "Not even me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Galen's question was loud enough, sharp enough, to echo across the lake, and come back with a slap.

"You just wade in and damn the consequences," said Bede with a wide, evocative wave of his hands. "In a prison yard, you'd be dead inside of a heartbeat. That or you'd be running the place."

"In case you haven't noticed," said Galen, totally confused, focusing on the only part of that he actually understood. "This isn't a prison yard."

He knew he was shouting, but he'd never been more confused in his life. Both by Bede's behavior and the shooting-up-from-the-depths-of-his-soul sparks that he could not control.

But Bede didn't move closer, didn't have the same expression on his face that he'd had behind the first aid hut. Instead, he looked tired, shoulders slumped. The aftereffects of the pot wearing off, perhaps. Or something else.

"Yeah, I noticed." The tone in Bede's voice was one of misery. As if being out of prison was far worse than being in it.

"You need to take those boots back to your tent," said Galen, making himself sound more stern than he felt.

"Sure thing, boss," said Bede, a little bit of humor seeming to return to him as he bent to scoop up the boots, clasping them to his chest with one arm.

"Put those on. Don't walk in the woods barefoot."

"Yes, boss." Bede put his boots on over his bare feet, one at a time, then straightened, looking at Galen with as much derision as he might eye someone in airport security. "That better?"

"Yes." Galen laughed low, in spite of himself. "Jesus, Bede."

Bede smiled at him, and even winked before turning to walk along the path by the lake, slipping into the dark trees like a ghost returning whence it had come.

Leaving Galen with his heart beating hard, not only that he'd imagined Bede might kiss him, but that he might welcome it.

In the morning, he'd have to deal with the fallout of their encounter.

But later. For now, he strode to the end of the dock, stripped down to his skin, and dove in.

The dark waters of the lake covered him with cool, silken layers, delicious and silent, and he swam underwater for a good long way before he surfaced through the glassy surface.

Keeping himself afloat by the barest movement of his arms and legs, he looked up at the stars in all their stillness. And let his mind go still.

Air and liquid pooled together in a sweet embrace for a good long while, slowing his heartbeat, cooling the flush from his cheeks. Then he shivered. Maybe it was time to get out.

Slow strokes brought him to the ladder on the floating end of the dock, and he hauled himself up, dripping. He had no towel, but his cotton shirt served the same purpose, and when he was dressed, he slipped on his socks and laced up his boots and slowly made his way through the darkness to his tent, and made a mental list of what he needed to do.

First, he needed to snag a meeting with Gabe and get some advice on how to better handle his team. Sure, at the end of his first week, things were improving, but he wanted to stay on track with that and not falter at his job of being team lead.

Second, he needed to figure a way to keep the relationship between him and Bede strictly platonic. To find a way to pretend that nothing was happening between the two of them. Brush it off as an odd flicker of interest.

Third, he needed to pretend to hell and back that he simply did not care to know Bede better. That the laughter shared between them and long moments of friendly camaraderie were just that. Moments in passing. Not worth paying more attention to.

In his tent, he traded his lake-dampened clothes for clean boxers and a t-shirt, then brought out the stack of folders from the low shelf, found Bede's and thumbed through it.

His attention slid across the prison intake photos showing Bede in all his bad-assery-ness next to the text. Galen had scanned most of it before, but now read more slowly.

Raised by an aunt in a bad neighborhood, Bede had fallen into crime by circumstances not of his own making. But then he'd risen to the top of his game, shipping and selling drugs. Until the shootout.

Galen knew all of this. So what was he looking for? There it was. Winston Ludlow, the member of Bede's team who had died in that shootout.

Galen already knew this, but now he also knew that Winston was important enough to Bede that Bede's impulse had been to throw away a pair of much loved boots because they reminded him of Winston.

Slapping the folder shut, Galen put it back on the shelf. Then he sat on the edge of his cot, forearms propped on his thighs, hands dangling.

He knew he needed to get some sleep. The night was still warm, making him glad that he'd taken a dip in the cool lake. Unless it rained, which didn't seem likely, the following day would be hot as well.

And in the morning he found out he was right. The sun rose over the trees like liquid gold, and after breakfast, Galen took his team all the way to the bridge to start hacking away at the knapweed.

Right away, everyone was dragging their heels, large patches of sweat appearing along their backs and beneath their arms inside of ten minutes.

Even Bede was dragging, probably due to the aftereffects of smoking pot, but also because, even in the shade, it was too hot.

Bede was not only dragging, he looked ragged, as though he tossed and turned all night.

They worked for a while, but Galen knew what the guidelines were for the weather. In winter, if it was below freezing, you didn't work your team. In summer, if was above a certain temperature with a certain dew point, you pulled your team off the job.

Galen didn't have his phone with him to check the exact measurements, but he was just about to call a halt to work when Gabe stepped into the clearing beside the path. He was wearing his cowboy hat, and beneath that, a short-sleeved t-shirt, and probably the thinnest blue jeans known to man.

"What's up, Gabe?" Galen asked, going over to him. "I'm just about to call a halt."

"Good," said Gabe. "That was what I was coming to say. Early lunch. We've got fans and misters in the mess tent. This afternoon should cool off, but be sure to add extra breaks."

"Can do," said Galen.

He wasn't surprised to hear the groans of gratitude and the pleased expressions on the faces of his team. He led the way in propping their tools against the supply shed, and then to the mess tent. There, as he stepped into the coolness of the misters and tall fans, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Maybe, now that he wasn't so hot, he could figure out what he needed to do. To make a plan and to stick to the plan. Full speed ahead. That was the ticket, right? Right ?

But, really, he had no idea. Hearts were fickle, including his own.