Chapter Three

Gideon’s fingers drifted to caress the patch on his vest. It was round, embroidered, and slightly worn, telling Rodney that Gideon had had it for some time. Or, at least someone had it for a long while. It might have been sewn onto Gideon’s vest only recently. Rodney doubted it though. Not the way members of the Red Wattle Clan felt about their patches. They were sacred. Nobody would give theirs up without a fight to the death.

He knew that better than anyone.

“What do you remember about that patch you got there?” Rodney asked, pointing to it. When he reached over to touch it, he noticed Gideon reflexively pulled away.

“I don’t remember nothing about it. It’s just there. Do you know what it is? You do, don’t you? Tell me.”

“Friend, I don’t think you’re in the position to demand nothing from nobody,” Rodney growled. “And I don’t respond real well to orders. Not anymore.” His fingers tapped his eyepatch. “Not since I lost this.”

“What happened?”

Rodney grumbled under his breath. “Ain’t none of your business. So, you don’t remember nothing, huh?” He drained the rest of his beer. “Maybe it’s something medical, huh? You get bonked over the head recently?”

Gideon blinked, then slowly probed the top of his head. “Maybe. I feel a few sore spots.”

“Must be some reason you lost your dadgummed memory. Best if we take you to see Doc McCready, have him take a look-see at you. Maybe he can figure it out.”

Gideon immediately shook his head. “No, I ain’t going to no doctor.”

“You’ll go where I tell you to go.”

“What? Am I your prisoner, then?” Gideon’s lip curled over his teeth in a snarl.

“Maybe. Maybe that’s exactly what you are. We ain’t relatives. We ain’t friends. We ain’t coworkers. What’s that make us, then, ’cept jailor and prisoner?”

Gideon gained his feet in a heartbeat. His beer tipped over, bottle clattering, amber liquid flooding the table and dripping to the floor. “I’m not nobody’s prisoner!” He stepped out from behind the dinette table, hands fisted at his side.

“I say you are!” Rodney assumed a fighter’s stance, body turned sideways to make a smaller target, one foot slightly behind the other, knees flexed, fists balled. “Now, you’re either gonna calm your fine little ass down, or I’m gonna take it down. Your choice.”

They stood stock-still in the tiny kitchen, space allowing them only to be a foot away from each other, both breathing hard. Then Rodney sighed and put his fists down. “Look, I ain’t gonna wallop you. Don’t seem right, beating on a man who don’t know who he is. Doc McCready is a fine man. A trustworthy man. I wouldn’t take you there otherwise.”

“How can I trust you? I don’t know you!” Gideon remained with his hands fisted, as if ready to pounce.

Rodney pressed his lips together tightly, then nodded as if to himself. He motioned for Gideon to follow him to the back of the trailer. He disappeared into the bedroom for a moment, then returned holding a small black velvet box in his hand. Showing it to Gideon, he cracked open the lid of the box.

Nestled on black satin inside was a round red-and-purple patch. The patch of the Red Wattle Clan.

Gideon’s eyes grew wide. He touched the patch on his chest, knowing it was the same as the one Rodney was presenting to him on black satin.

But Rodney snapped the case closed when Gideon reached for the patch. He brought it back into the bedroom and slipped it into the drawer where it was kept, then returned. “There. Seen it, didn’t you? That ought to tell you to trust me, don’t it?”

Gideon fingered his own patch again and slowly nodded, although he didn’t seem overly convinced.

“Think hard. Those fellas you said you remembered—what were their names? Dozer, Henry, and Fez?”

“Goze, Harry, and Rambo.”

“Yeah, them. Concentrate now. Any of them wearing that patch?”

Gideon closed his eyes and tried to think. He brought up the memory of them sitting at a table in a darkened bar, drinking cold bottles of beer. He tried to zero in on what the men were wearing. All black leather—two wore vests and one wore a jacket. Yes! All of them sported the Red Wattle patch. “Yes, I think they did. They did! They all had on the same patch.”

“Good. Now you know why you were with them. They were your friends, your comrades. The bar you was drinking in was probably owned by a Wattle. I got a patch too. That should tell you to trust me.”

“How do I know you didn’t steal it?”

Rodney bit back a surge of anger. “Steal? The Red Wattle patch? Be easier to break into Fort Knox and steal the gold bars they got in there. A man would die before he’d let anyone take his patch. Why would I kill to get a patch, and why would I keep it if’n I did?” He lifted his chin in defiance. “The patch is mine. I earned it.”

“Then why don’t you wear it? And how’d you lose your eye?”

Both good questions. Rodney eyed Gideon before deciding somethings were best kept close to the vest, especially when dealing with a man who couldn’t remember who he was or why he was there. “I’ll make a deal with you. You gonna let me take you to see Doc McCready, and after you get your memory back, I’ll tell you how I come to lose my eye.”

“He knows you’re a member of the Red Wattle Clan?”

“No, and he ain’t gonna know. Nobody knows. Ain’t nobody’s business but my own.”

“Then how can he be trusted?”

“I’ll vouch for him,” Rodney said. “That ought to be enough for you.”

Gideon shook his head. “I don’t know…”

“Look, I ain’t asking you to marry the guy. Just let him look you over, maybe figure out why you lost your memory and how you can get it back.”

Gideon hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then finally nodded. “Alright. I’ll trust you since you have the patch. I don’t know what the patch means or why I have one, or why my friends have one, but it must be important.”

“It is. Trust me. That patch ain’t easy to earn.” He grabbed a towel from the miniscule sink and mopped up the spilled beer. “Doc ought to be back from lunch by now. Let’s go.”

Rodney quickly ushered Gideon out of the trailer, wanting to get him to Doc McCready’s before he changed his mind, and before Rodney had second thoughts about trusting a man wearing the colors. It’d been a long, long time since Rodney had anything to do with the Red Wattle Clan, and he wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with it now. Still, he had to find out what Gideon was doing at the Darque and Knight Rodeo. Was he alone here? Were there others? What was the objective? He had to know.

He escorted Gideon out of the trailer and, not quite trusting him to walk alone, kept a hand on Gideon’s elbow as they made their way to the large white tent where Doc McCready set up shop. It was there that Doc treated the bumps, bruises, and broken bones common among rodeo workers, as well as illnesses specific to paranormals of all kinds.

“Doc? You in here? You busy?” Rodney called from just outside the tent.

“Rodney What do you want? I don’t have time for nonsense,” Doc McCready’s voice carried to them from inside. “I’ve got two mama sheep in labor, and neither is going to have an easy time of it.”

Rodney sighed. Doc McCready was one of the few people at the rodeo who knew Rodney in his human-form as well as his rooster-form, and could tolerate Rodney in either. Barely. Doc was sworn to secrecy, and McCready was one of the very few people Rodney trusted to keep that secret. “Doc, I got somebody here who needs help.”

“Alright, alright, bring him in.”

Rodney held open the tent flap and allowed Gideon to enter ahead of him. It took a minute for his eye to adjust to the dimmer lighting inside the tent.

Doc was on one side of the long tent. Two women, both obviously pregnant, were cossetted on twin beds. Both faces were strained and shiny with sweat.

“Uh, maybe we should come back later. Looks like he’s got his hands full with these ladies,” Gideon said, taking a step backward.

“No, no. Neither of them are ready to pop yet,” Doc said. He walked up to Gideon and motioned for Gideon to have a seat on an exam table on the opposite side of the tent from the laboring sheep-shifters. “What brings you here, son? What are you, and what ails you?”

Gideon looked to Rodney, who gave him an encouraging nod. “I’m Gideon Wayfair, and I’m a turkey-shifter. I’ve lost my memory.”

“Lost your memory? How?” McCready asked.

Rodney huffed. “That’s what we’d like you to tell us . He don’t know how he lost it, and we need him to get it back.”

Doc’s eyebrows raised, but he nodded. “Alright then, let’s take a look-see, shall we?” He listened to Gideon’s heart, took his blood pressure with a cuff, and his temperature with a forehead thermometer. “Your vitals are all good. Remove that vest off and let me take a look at you.”

Gideon did as he was told. Rodney noticed a few interesting scars, the kind a man might pick up in a fight or while in the service, and added that information to the little he knew about Gideon.

Doc was looking at Gideon’s arms, when he stopped. He pointed to a few spots on Gideon’s arms and chest. “These contusions and abrasions… do you remember how you got them?”

Gideon shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t.”

Doc nodded. “You’ve got a lump on your head, too. I think maybe you were in an accident of some kind. Automobile, maybe? Industrial? Let me see your legs.”

Gideon rolled up his jeans, exposing strong calves lacy with abrasions.

Doc pointed to the wounds on Gideon’s arms, chest, and legs. “This looks a lot like road rash to me. You ride a bike? Anything sounding familiar?”

“I… I don’t know,” Gideon answered. He looked pale. “I…”

Rodney put a hand on Gideon’s arm and watched him closely. “You’re remembering something, ain’t you?”

“J-just a flash. I don’t even know if it’s real.” Gideon shivered. “There was a loud bang and screaming. I don’t know if I was the one screaming or if it was somebody else. I don’t even know if it’s a real memory or not.”

“That’s probably it then, like the doc said. You had an accident and lost your memory.” Rodney stopped himself from saying that the accident probably had something to do with the Red Wattle Clan. “Come on. We’ve taken up enough of Doc’s time already. From the sound of things, you’re needed by the sheep-ladies, Doc.”

“If I knew for sure what happened, I might be able to give you something to help with the pain, but without knowing, I can’t take the chance. You can take Tylenol in your human form, for all the good it will do you. The bruises will fade soon enough, and I don’t think anything’s broken. Your memory will probably come back as you heal,” Doc said. He gave Gideon a couple of capsules, then was already moving toward the other side of the tent where the laboring ladies’ groans were getting louder. “You come back and see me if you need me.”

“Thanks, Doc!” Rodney called as he hauled Gideon out of the tent. He didn’t say a word until they’d threaded their way through the maze of RVs to Rodney’s ancient one and were safely ensconced inside.

“I wonder what kind of accident you were in,” Rodney said, once they were sitting at the table again. “And what it had to do with the Red Wattle Clan.”

Gideon shrugged. “I don’t even know for sure if I was in an accident. I could’ve just fallen off a barstool and bonked my head. Got any more beer? I sort of spilled mine before.”

Rodney nodded and quickly went to the fridge to retrieve two more beers. He handed one to Gideon. “That road rash tells a different story. Feeling any better?”

Gideon opened his and took a deep swallow. “Nope. Now, I held up my end of the bargain. I went to see Doc McCready. It’s your turn. How’d you become a member of the Red Wattle Clan?”

Rodney was tempted to argue but knew he couldn’t. He’d given his word as one Red Wattle to another, and that promise was sacred. Besides, it would be sort of a relief to talk about it. He never had, not once, not since it happened twenty years ago, and now that he could, he wasn’t sure how to begin.

He retrieved the black velvet box that contained his patch, set it on the kitchenette table, and let him mind drift back into the past.