Chapter Two

Gideon strode across the fairgrounds, head high, gaze unwavering from his path, looking neither to the right nor the left. His pace wasn’t fast or slow, but determined, and nothing distracted his focus—not the sounds of the chattering crowd, the calls of the barkers to play games of chance, nor those selling hot dogs, hamburgers, cotton candy, or peanuts, nor the ones trying to entice him into the sideshow that was set up next to the rodeo on the lot.Noise and voices assaulted him from all sides, but none broke his concentration.

He was going somewhere, and come hell or high water, he was going to get there and do the thing he’d been sent there to do.

If only he knew where it was, exactly, that he was going, why he was going there, and who’d sent him. That’d be a big help.

He silently repeated the list of things he knew about himself like a mantra, fearing if he stopped, he might forget even the little he knew. “I’m Gideon Wayfair. I know that much. It’s my name, I’m sure of it. I’m a turkey-shifter. I was born in Shorthair Holler, Kentucky. I… I…”

As it turned out, it was a very short list.

All information after that seemed lost in a wavy, grayish swirl in his mind. A word popped out now and then, and he could see it clearly—his name, for example, had come to him that way—but the words were few and far between. Darque and Knight Rodeo was another example, which was how he found himself stalking along the midway, but he still had no idea how he got there or what he was supposed to do.

Most of all, he couldn’t understand why he couldn’t remember anything.

He shook his head as if to try to clear it—which didn’t work, and just succeeded in making him slightly dizzy—and stopped to see if he could spot anything that might seem familiar or jar a memory.

Food tents lined both sides of the wide walkway, selling all types of food, from sizzling burgers to brightly colored puffs of cotton candy to deep-fried Oreos, pretzels, and corndogs. The smells made his stomach rumble, reminding him he was hungry. But there was no time to eat, even if he’d had the money to buy food. He didn’t have a single nickel on him—he’d patted his pockets and found them empty.

No money, and no idea of who he was, other than his name, or what business he had there. Only the compulsion to do… something.

There was a nagging little feeling at the back of his mind that insisted the thing he was sent to do wasn’t a fine thing. It was a wrong thing, in fact, dead wrong, but he had no choice. He had to do it anyway.

Whatever “it” was.

He didn’t want to do wrong. His mama, bless her soul, had raised him up right. He was a good boy who’d grown to be a fine man, she’d said so often. Her name had been Hannah, and she was gone now, he remembered suddenly, and a pang of loss and longing pierced him.

Memory loss or no, he knew what his mama said was true in his heart. Maybe when he remembered what it was he was supposed to do, he could stop himself from doing it.

For now, all he could do was walk on, and hope a memory sparked.

Suddenly, he realized a man was keeping pace with him. Not strolling along or hurrying to another location as all the other people were doing, but actually matching him step for step. He glanced over.

The man only reached Gideon’s shoulder, but he was built solidly, like a sturdy, if small, oak tree. Gideon got the impression it would be as difficult to persuade this man from his course of action as it would be to move a tree, too. The man looked to be about fifty, and wasn’t handsome in the classic sense, but his features seemed carved from granite, strong and impressive. Silver rakishly highlighted his dark hair. He had only one eye—the other was covered by a black eyepatch, but the one Gideon could see was brown and sparkled with intelligence.

“Who are you?” The man’s voice was gravelly and deep, and stern. It was not a friendly question, but a demand, and set Gideon’s feathers on edge.

Gideon could see no reason why he shouldn’t answer though. “Gideon. Gideon Wayfair. Who are you?”

“Why are you here?”

Well, that was rude. Gideon had given his name freely. “I asked your name. Is it a state secret?”

The man grumbled and made a few odd, clucking sounds. “Rodney. Now, I’ll ask again. Why are you here?”

Gideon shrugged his shoulder. “It’s a rodeo, ain’t it? I expect I’m here to see bronc-busting and bull riding and so on.”

“You ain’t here to take in the shows.”

Gideon blinked. What did this Rodney fellow know about why he was there? “I’m not? How do you know?”

“That patch on your chest there tells me so.”

Gideon looked down at his chest. He hadn’t taken notice of his attire earlier, but now it seemed a little odd. He was wearing jeans, biker boots, and a black leather vest with no shirt under it. Was he a biker? He couldn’t remember riding a motorcycle; he wasn’t sure he would know how. On the right side of his vest was a small purple patch with a red rooster’s comb on it. “This patch? Do you know what it means?”

“Of course I do. Every bird-shifter worth his tailfeathers would know.”

“I don’t.”

That one sharp brown eye blinked. “That the best lie you can come up with?”

“It ain’t a lie. I really don’t know what it means.” Gideon bit his lower lip. How much should he tell this Rodney person? Should he trust Rodney at all? What choice did he have? If he didn’t take a chance, he’d just be roaming around the rodeo all day and night hoping something might spark a memory. “Look, I don’t know you—I think—but I need someone to help me. I’ve lost my dadgummed memory. Can’t remember no more than my name, where I’m from, and where I am.”

Rodney folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Lost it, huh? Why should I believe you?”

“Don’t have a good answer for that, ’cept it’s the truth. I’m Gideon Wayfair, turkey shifter. Born in Shorthair Holler, Kentucky. I’m here at the Darque and Knight Rodeo. Your name is Rodney. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine. And I don’t know what this here patch means anymore than I know anything else.”

Rodney shook his head. “You understand why I can’t just take your word for anything, right? You’re here at the rodeo wearing that patch, and telling me you’ve lost your memory? I’d be out of my mind to believe anything you got to say.”

Gideon rubbed his hands over his face and stopped walking. “Lookee here, at least tell me what the patch means. Maybe that’ll spark something. You could do a fella that much of a favor, can’t you?”

Rodney hemmed and hawed for a moment, looking all around them as if expecting someone to be watching them. “Well, I can’t just let you go waltzing around the rodeo by yourself getting into who knows what kind of trouble. Come with me.” He took Gideon by the elbow, strong fingers digging into Gideon’s flesh. “Don’t try to run, now. I’m a rooster-shifter, and I’ve got sharp spurs that I’m not afraid to use.”

“Where would I run to? I don’t know where anything is.” Gideon allowed himself to be led through the crowds, past the huge arena, and a wall featuring colorful sideshow posters to a small, shadowed spot near the back of the rodeo. Rodney brought him to a rickety old aqua-and-white trailer with a set of rusty, slanted stairs.

Rodney reached up with his free hand and opened the trailer’s squeaky door, then shooed Gideon up the shaky stairs and inside. He followed and shut the door behind them.

The trailer smelled musty, as if no one had aired it out in a good long while—if ever. The trailer was narrow, singlewide, and was more than showing the age of its creation, which from the looks of things was back in the seventies. There was a tiny kitchenette along with a small built-in dining area, and farther back, a miniscule living room with a pair of threadbare brown armchairs and a surprisingly new television set. Still farther back was a bedroom with one double-wide bed covered with a faded patchwork quilt. A pair of doors flanked the bedroom. One probably opened to a closet, while the other was no doubt a bathroom. Everything had the look of age, worn and scratched, and in need of a good scrubbing.

Gideon’s mild disgust at the state of the mobile home must have shown on his face because Rodney harrumphed. “Yeah, it ain’t much, worst one on the lot, to be honest, but it keeps the rain off my head, and it’s paid for.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Gideon hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt. The place was shabby with a capital S . Then he questioned why he should feel so fussy about it. What did he have? Nothing. Not even a memory of a home.

“You want a beer?”

“Huh?”

“Beer. You remember what a beer is, don’t you?” Rodney snorted a bit and went to the ancient Frigidaire in the kitchen. “Park your butt.”

Gideon slid into one of the aqua-colored vinyl bench seats at the dining table. “I know it’s alcohol, but I don’t remember if I drink it.”

Rodney returned with two bottles of amber liquid and placed one in front of Gideon. “You do now.” He popped his open and tilted it to his lips.

Gideon watched Rodney take a long, slow drink, suddenly fascinated by the way his throat worked as he drank. It was… sexy. That was the word. Sexy, and did things to Gideon’s body he’d forgotten worked that way. “Uh.”

“Uh? Need me to open it for you?”

“No, no. I got it.” Gideon twisted the bottlecap off as Rodney had done and took a sip. The taste brought back a flash of memory. He was sitting in a dark bar with a few other men, drinking and laughing. Goze , he thought. Goze and Harry and Rambo. Those were the names of the men, he was sure of it, but who were they?

Rodney tapped the table, bringing him out of his thoughts. “What’s going on in that pointy little head of yours? You remember something?”

Gideon twirled the bottle slowly between his palms. “Maybe. Just got a flash of me and a few others sitting in a bar. I remembered their names, but not how I knew them. That don’t make no sense, does it? How does a fella know somebody’s name but not how he knows them?”

Rodney shrugged. “Amnesia is a funny thing, ain’t it? Bits and pieces of memory float up like bubbles in beer. Alone, they don’t mean nothing. Put ’em together, and you got yourself something. What were their names?”

“Goze, Harry, and Rambo.”

“Don’t know ’em.”

Gideon’s lips hitched in a smile. “I don’t expect you would lest you knew me, and you don’t.”

“Well, that’s true enough, I reckon.” Rodney took another drink, then fixed him with a stare that practically pinned him to the seat. “Truth be told, I don’t give a shit about your friends. I only care about that patch on your chest and how it got there.”