Editor's Note: This story has been reviewed and is considerd to be non-canon.
August 1982
"Okay, so we all agree to meet for lunch at 12:15, right?" Artie Grossman questioned for the second time. The plump patrolman met the gaze of each of his fellow officers and waited for conformation before moving to the next. A broad smile crept onto his face when he was completely satisfied that the other four had accepted the invitation.
"Sure Grossie, we’ll be there," Bear Baricza placated. "But the big question is where?"
Bonnie Clark nodded emphatically. "Yeah, Grossman. I’m on the west side today and Jeb is on the east. We’ve got to find a place that’s convenient for all of us."
"Ah," Grossie replied, sticking a finger in the air to emphasis his next point. He dug into the pocket of his uniform pants and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper, ceremoniously opening it as if it were a precious possession. "In anticipation of both the assigned patrol routes and the fact that you would all be willing participants in this little endeavor, I have taken the liberty of calculating the locations of the most central eating establishments. Considering the outer perimeters of all our patrol areas and the traffic patterns for that time of the day, it appears that our best option is Tito’s Tacos on North Wilmington."
Jon Baker wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Tacos? Man, that’s all Ponch and I ever eat. Since he is on vacation this week, couldn’t we please go some place else? Maybe give my taste buds a chance to recover?"
Grossie shook his head doubtfully as he studied the paper in his hand. "I don’t know, Jon. Traffic reaches its highest volume around…."
"Grossman!" the others protested in unison.
"Okay. All right," the patrolman surrendered. "I can see your point. How does Charlie’s Chicken on Vallejo sound?"
"Sounds perfect," the voice behind them said.
As if with choreographed precision, the officers turned to meet the stern look of their sergeant, Joe Getraer. Despite his average stature, the man standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest was an imposing figure. A slight smile played at his lips as the people in front of him subconsciously backed up a step or two. "Now that lunch has been decided upon, how about giving the taxpayers an honest day’s work for a change? Everybody except Baker hit your beats. Jon, you’ve got a call in my office."
The blond motor officer nodded in acknowledgement and stepped aside to allow the others to stampede to the door. Few were those willing to incur the wrath of a Getraer second warning.
"Charlie’s Chicken. 12:15," Grossie quickly reminded before slipping out the back door.
Jon waved toward the officer, but Grossman had already gone. With a slight shrug he followed his sergeant into the office and picked up the phone sitting on the opposite desk. "Officer Baker," he greeted.
He was surprised to hear the voice of his oldest sister answer back. "Christina?" he asked, unable to keep the uneasiness from his tone. "What’s going on?" Immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His sister rarely called him and never at work.
Getraer had returned to his desk, prepared to rebury himself in the mountain of paperwork that was part of his daily existence, but the sharp intake of breath from the young officer made him look up. Not wanting to pry in what was obviously a personal phone call, Joe tried not to listen, but it was hard not to be concerned.
Baker had turned away, but every muscle in his body went taut as he listened to the person speaking on the other end. The tension was radiating from him in waves and Joe unconsciously mimicked the behavior as he waited. After a few more seconds of quiet whispers, Jon hung up the phone, but he didn’t turn around. He simply stood with his head down, a signal to Getraer that all was not right.
"Jon?" Joe called softly. "Is everything okay?"
After a few more moments of silence, the young man cleared his throat and slowly turned around. He was pale as a freshly laundered sheet and Getraer could see that he was struggling to keep his emotions in check.
"Uh," Jon breathed out a ragged breath. "That was my sister. In Wyoming. There’s been an accident. At the ranch. My Dad. I need to…"
"Go on. Get outta here," Joe sympathetically interrupted before Baker lost it completely. "I’ll handle the paperwork."
Unable to trust himself to speak, Jon nodded his thanks as he made a beeline for the door. With his head down and his shoulders rounded, he looked as if the weight of the world had been piled upon him.
Getraer shook his head sadly as he watched Baker’s retreating form. He sighed deeply as he pulled the proper forms from his desk drawer and began to fill them out. Why did he have the sinking feeling that he was about to lose one of his best officers?
-*-*-*-*-*-
It took Jon a little longer to get on the road than he wanted. Although he really didn’t have too many daily responsibilities, he wasn’t the type to just take off without some planning - especially with Ponch on vacation. Ordinarily, he could have relied upon his partner to take care of things in a pinch, like his mail and his motor, but Frank was in Chicago visiting his family and wasn’t due back for another week.
With the phone cradled between his chin and his shoulder, Jon had attempted to pack his suitcase while he made arrangements for care of his horse. At one point, the woman at the stable had put him on hold and rather than waste time, he had taken the opportunity to scan his closet one last time. Without thinking, he grabbed his black suit and a black tie and hurried back to the phone. It wasn’t until he started to put the suit into his bag that he realized what he had done. A funeral suit – a damn funeral suit! He almost made himself ill with the thought.
Jon shuddered as he thought about the suit bag hanging on the hook behind the seat of is truck. Christina had been somewhat vague with the details of their father’s accident, saying only that he had taken a bad fall from a horse. Why had he assumed that it was bad enough that he was going to need that suit? She had implied nothing of the sort.
And what about this "accident"? It didn’t make sense. His father was one of the best horsemen he had ever known. A champion rider in his youth, he had won many ribbons and trophies, and had even been part of the profession circuit before he had settled down to raise a family. He had been adamant about riding the "right way" and had taken the time to make sure that each of his children knew how to ride safely. Respect for the animal is the most important thing, his father had said. Know your horse, its abilities and moods, and you’ll never go wrong. Well, something had obviously gone very wrong with his father.
Jon shook his head, trying not to think about it anymore. He was still a long way from home and the heavy rains he had encountered in the mountains had slowed him down considerably. The clock in the dashboard read 12:14; he had already been on the road for over fourteen hours. He looked at the clock again, 12:15 now. 12:15 – why did that sound familiar? Suddenly it dawned on him.
"Aw," he moaned out loud. "Grossman." He had completely forgotten to tell Grossie that he wouldn’t be able to make their lunch rendezvous. "Well," he said sadly. "Not much I can do about it now. I’m twelve hours late." He hoped that his friend would forgive him.
Thinking about the missed lunch made his stomach grumble with displeasure. It had been hours since he had eaten, and since the truck’s gas gage was rapidly approaching the empty mark, he decided to stop at a convenient store on the outskirts of Salt Lake City.
The store was mostly deserted, except for the pimply-faced cashier and the old man sitting by the front door. The old fellow tipped his wide-brimmed cowboy hat slightly as Jon walked past, but that was the extent of the acknowledgement. That tiny action made Jon smile. He knew he was getting close to home.
A bell on the door announced Jon’s presence when he pushed it open and after a slight nod to the cashier, he made his way over to the deli counter. The selection of food was limited, even by convenient store standards. The solitary hotdog spinning on the machine bore too much of a resemblance to jerky to even be considered and the ham on the only sandwich in the cooler had taken on a greenish cast that threatened to turn Jon’s stomach.
"You got anything else?" he asked hopefully.
The kid looked up from the magazine he was reading, clearly annoyed at the intrusion. "It’s after midnight, man. What you see is what you get."
Heaving a heavy sigh, Jon headed for the junk food isle. The delicacies here were more suited to Ponch’s tastes, but he grabbed a bag of chips and a soda. It wasn’t much, but it would tide him over until he could get some real food. He paid for the food and the gas, then headed back out into the rainy night. With any luck, he would be in Rawlins by sunrise.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The sun was just beginning to blush the morning sky when Jon came to the intersection that would take him to the family ranch. He scrubbed at his bleary eyes and yawned deeply. It had been a long drive without the benefit of many breaks and he was nearly exhausted. Initially, he had planned on making the trip with his other sister, Lynn, who also lived in LA But after calling her office, he remembered that she was already in Wyoming, visiting her son Wes who was a junior at the university in Laramie. Jon was glad and disappointed at the same time. Although he would have liked the company and someone to share in the driving, his sister was the type of person who sometimes wore her heart on her sleeve and he wasn’t sure he could handle that right now.
It took another twenty minutes and a couple more turns to reach the dirt road that lead back to the homestead. A small wrought iron arch spanned the road’s beginning, marking the entrance to the Double Diamond and home.
Purchased by Jon’s great-great-great-grandfather, an English born homesteader turned would-be prospector, and eventual cattleman; the ranch had been in the Baker family for over a century. It had been handed down through the generations and was now under the control of his father and his Uncle Ray. There was a lot of history in the place - it was rumored that Buffalo Bill Cody had stayed at the house when he was looking for acts for his Wild West show- and it made Jon’s heart swell with pride every time he passed under the sign and headed down the drive. This time was no exception.
The feeling that something was amiss, however, hit Jon as soon as he pulled into the large open area that separated the main house from the barns and stables. At this time of the morning, the place should have been humming with activity as the men prepared for the day ahead, but instead it was ominously quiet. Not a sole was around and he could hear the horses in the corral whinnying impatiently.
His senses on alert, he slipped stealthily from his vehicle. On footsteps as quiet as he could make them in his customary boots, Jon made his way to the house. He was halfway up the stairs, when the backdoor flew open and a man rushed out. The older man, startled by the unexpected presence of another person, gasped in surprise.
"Jon? That you?" he questioned, squinting his eyes in the meager morning light.
"Yeah, Uncle Ray. It’s me."
Jon smiled as his uncle hurried to meet him. The older man grabbed the outstretched hand and shook it a firmness that belied his years. "It’s good to see ya," he drawled.
"It’s good to see you too," Jon replied sincerely. Uncle Ray had always been one of his favorite relatives. Easy-going and laid back, he was the antithesis of his father. While his dad lived by a strict work ethic, Ray had taken young Jon under his protective and taught him to see the lighter side of life.
Jon took a step back and appraised his uncle’s appearance. He seemed haggard and tense rather than his usual happy-go-lucky self, which only intensified Jon’s growing apprehension. He was about to ask, but before he could broach the subject, Ray started to fill in the blanks.
"You need to be gettin’ along to the hospital. That’s where everybody is," his uncle told him with a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Things ain’t goin’ too good."
Jon shoulders sagged. "What happened Uncle Ray? Christina said there was an accident… that he fell? How…?"
The older man shook his head. "We’ll talk about it later. Now, you better scoot."
-*-*-*-*-*-
The sense of dread Jon felt increased with each passing mile as he sped toward town and he silently cursed under his breath for not trusting his instincts. Throughout the whole trip, he had tried to convince himself that things could not be that bad. Whatever his imagination could conjure up would be fifty times worse than reality, despite what his gut told him. But apparently his gut had been right on the money.
He pulled into the hospital parking lot with tires protesting the sudden change in direction and jumped out of the cab before the engine had the chance to come to a complete stop. Without even a sideways glance, he dashed across the open lawn that surrounded the small medical facility and headed up the sidewalk with a rapid stride. He was so intent in his purpose that he barely noticed the man leaning against the brick wall smoking a cigarette and he started visibly when the man reached out and grabbed his arm.
"There’s no hurry, Kid. It’s all over now," the man said gently.
Jon stared back into starling blue eyes that were so familiar it was uncanny. He almost felt as if he were standing in front of a mirror as he looked at his brother. "Brett," he panted, trying to catch his breath.
Brett held out a rugged hand, but Jon did not take it. His mind was whirling as he tried to process the information that his brother had just presented. No hurry? What the hell did that mean? He tried to ask, but in denial, the question refused to form on his lips.
Brett shook his head sadly and took another long drag off his cigarette before flicking it into the grass. "He’s gone. About half an hour ago."
"Gone?" the younger man finally managed, to which his brother nodded slowly.
Jon’s head fell forward on his chest as all the remainder of the stamina drained from his body. Twenty hours on the road and he was half an hour too late? It wasn’t fair. A million visions of his father flashed through his mind; a lifetime of images passing in a blur of silent snapshots.
Then thankfully, the world seemed to fade away as his view became dim. The only thing that Jon could hear was the blood pounding loud in his ears and it was a welcome change from the words he had just heard. It was peaceful here, much better than where he had just been. His stay was short lived, however, and he came back into reality to find his brother leaning down and in his face.
"You all right?" Brett asked, worried that his kid brother was about to go out on him.
Jon nodded and wiped a shaky hand across his face. "What happened, Brett? What the hell happened?" he demanded. "Christina calls and says I better come home. I drive like a bat outta Hell to get out here. I stop at the ranch, nobody’s around except Ray, who tells me to get into the hospital. And now you’re telling me that…. What’s going on?" His voice increased in speed and intensity with each statement.
"Hey," Brett soothed with a calming hand on his brother’s arm. He waited a moment for Jon to settle down, then pulled him a little more to the side, away from the hospital’s front entrance. It was still early in the morning, and despite what was going on in their lives, there were other people to consider.
The look of disbelief and frustration was still written like a printed page on the Jon’s face and Brett was sure that he was carrying a similar expression. He had been there since the beginning and he was having trouble believing it. He couldn’t imagine the shock that his little brother had to be feeling.
Seeing that Jon was about to start up with another round of questions, he quietly began to explain. "It was just an accident, Jon. Pure and simple. He went out with Ray to check the fences in the east quarter. Something musta spooked his horse. Ray said that the horse reared a little and Dad fell off. The doctor said he musta hit his head when he fell. He never really regained consciousness."
Jon snorted, unconvinced. "He fell off? An experienced rider like Dad just falls off? Just because his horse gets a little spooked? I’m not buying it."
Brett shrugged. "I’m just telling you what I heard. Ray was there. He saw the whole thing."
"No," Jon said, shaking his head. "There’s got to be more to it than that. Something must have really gotten to his horse, something unexpected – a gunshot blast or a snake or something. That horse must have bucked a lot harder than Ray thought. Or maybe a neighboring rancher – you guys have had trouble with Parsons before…"
"Jon," Brett sighed. "Ray never said anything about a gunshot or anything else, okay? It was an accident. It happens. Hell, you probably see it every day. You know that not everything is planned out with evil in mind, so quit trying to make a criminal case outta this. Accept it. Some things just are."
Jon held his brother’s gaze for a second, then sagged. "You’re right," he said with resignation. "I’m tired. I’m not thinking straight." He rubbed his eyes and tried to reground himself. Suddenly, he felt a pang of guilt; he had forgotten someone in his selfish demand for answers. "Where’s Mom? How’s she doing?"
Brett pulled another cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and balanced on his lips as he lit it. "She’s still upstairs with the girls. She needed some time alone, so I came down here." He turned his head and blew out a puff of smoke. "He’s up on the third floor."
Jon nodded and started for the door, but Brett grabbed his arm again. "Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up first. You look like shit, Kid, and Mom doesn’t to see need that."
-*-*-*-*-*-
The next few days seemed to pass in a blur for Jon. There always seemed to be one more detail – the coffin, the eulogy, the wardrobe, the flowers, and the obituary in the paper. The list was endless and each task seemed more arduous and morbid than the last. For someone who dealt with personal tragedy on a fairly regular basis, he was having difficulty coming to terms with his own. He was feeling the strain with each passing hour and he prayed that it would all be over soon.
It was difficult to keep up appearances, especially in front of his mother, but he knew he had to be strong - for both her and his Uncle Ray. Brett was busy tending to the needs of his own ranch, so the responsibility of being the "man of the house" had fallen upon Jon. The notion was foreign to him – he was, after all, the youngest and he had never before been called on to make these kinds of important decisions. Christina had been there, of course, as bossy and overbearing as ever, but it was him that his mother had looked to for answers.
Jon sought and found refuge from the funeral details in work. His father had always impressed upon him the value in a hard day’s labor and it was something that he had carried with him, even to LA. When he was working, he could forget, and, right now, that was the thing he wanted the most. He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that somehow he had failed. His world was filled with an infinite number of "what-ifs" – what if he had driven a little faster? What if he hadn’t taken so long to get on the road? What if he hadn’t stopped in Salt Lake? What if he had gotten there in time?
He tried to convince himself that none of that mattered now, but he was proving to be a tough sell. The guilt had settled in and taken up residency and it didn’t seem like it was gong away any time soon. So he worked extra hard, extra long, to make up for it. The problem was, it wasn’t really helping.
He had called Getraer the first night. It felt so strange, sitting in the room that had been his when he was a boy, talking to the man who was both his superior and his friend. It only added to the surrealism of the whole thing – LA and the patrol seemed a lifetime away. Joe had been sympathetic, of course, conveying condolences that were truly heartfelt, but they did nothing to ease his conscious. He would have felt better if Getraer would have chewed him out, reamed him a new one for not getting there in time, but he had been understanding in the extreme and had told him to take as much time off as he needed. There would be no absolution from Joe.
Most of the following day was spent at the funeral home talking to the director about the various options available for the deceased. Ray had opted out of this part of the arrangement decisions stating that it was really up to his sister-in-law. So Christina, Lynn, and Jon accompanied their mother.
"So you see there are many things to consider before we make any final decisions. I know that money is always an important consideration, but I believe that it is the responsibility of the love ones left behind to insure that the newly departed receive the proper respect that is due to them. Mr. Baker was, after all, not only the patriarch of the family, but also an influential man in the community."
Jon tried not to fidget as he sat in the chair listening to the director drone on in that soft and somber tone that was supposed to have a calming effect on the bereaved. Every syllable grated on his nerves. He wondered if his father would have approved of all this proposed pomp and circumstance. Dad had been, by his own admission, a simple waddy – flamboyancy was for the city slickers.
Christina shot him a dirty look as he shifted in his chair again and he immediately settled. No matter how much time passed, some things never changed. As the oldest child of Charles and Mattie Baker, she had, early on, assumed the responsibility of making sure that her younger siblings stayed in line. And it was a responsibility that she had never taken lightly. Jon loved his sister dearly, but she could be tougher than the meanest Marine drill sergeant.
Lynn, who was seated next to him, witnessed the silent exchange and offered a sympathetic smile. Although she and Jon were not the closest in age, they were the closest in spirit. When, as small children, Brett and his pals had teased and taunted the younger Jon, it was always Lynn who had come to his rescue. Jon still had fond memories his petite sister standing protectively in front of him with her hands on her hips, defying anyone to pick on her kid brother.
He briefly returned the smile and then had to look away. He wondered what was going through her mind at this moment; sitting here making funeral arrangements for someone that she loved. It had only been a little over five years since a drunk driver had killed her husband of fifteen years on a deserted Wyoming back road. The whole family had been stunned by the tragic loss and Lynn suddenly found herself alone with the responsibility of raising her adolescent son. In the past, she had periodically worked part-time just to bring a little extra income into the household, but now she had to find a way to support herself and Wes. At Jon’s persistent urging she had finally been persuaded to try California - the land of opportunity. She had taken him up on his offer and had found a good job as a buyer for a chain of stores specializing in Western apparel, but this suggestion had caused a small ripple of disapproval from the rest of the family, especially his father. It was bad enough that Jon had deserted for a life in the big city, but now he had taken another from the fold. It was a wound that hadn’t yet had time to completely heal.
"The choices are difficult, I understand, especially during this time of grief. But the decisions we make today may have a profound impact on how Mr. Baker will be remembered by his family and friends."
Jon focused his attention on his mother, who was listening intently to the prattling funeral director. She seemed so calm, so together, that it was almost possible to believe that it was someone else’s husband that they were discussing. He couldn’t help but to be amazed although he realized he shouldn’t. Mattie Baker was one of the strongest individuals that he knew. Orphaned at the age of thirteen, she had been kicked around from family to family until she was able to be on her own. She had married young and had immediately started building her own family – she had four children in the span of seven years.
Her inner strength had seen the Baker family through both good times and bad, and this was no exception. To the world, she would remain poised and in control, and Jon knew she would do her grieving in private. It was his job to do the same.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Jon threw Lynn a pained look from across the crowded living room. All day, he had felt her eyes on him and he had lost count of the number of times over the past two days that she had inquired about his well being. Didn’t she realize that he was a trained professional? He could handle this. At least he thought he could.
In reality, it had been hard keeping his emotions under wraps. Tears had threatened wherever one of his father’s longtime acquaintances had recounted a tale that they thought he would find interesting or had simply wished to express their sympathy, but he managed to keep his feelings at bay, sometimes just barely. He wished for the umpteenth time that this whole mess was behind them. His dad was dead – fine, it’s over, let’s move on.
He could feel Lynn still staring and fearing another interrogation, he once again made his way around the room, thanking the new arrivals for their thoughts and prayers during this time of sorrow. Just a couple more hours, he silently reminded himself. The viewing was over and his father laid been laid to rest. If he could just get through this gathering after the funeral….
When things finally started to wind down, Jon made his escape, fleeing to the corral to be with the horses. That was the great thing about horses; they didn’t ask questions. He was eyeing the gait of a young colt when he caught Lynn’s approach out of the corner of his eye. Easily falling back into the customary habits of the area, he greeted her with a slight nod.
The sun had just begun to set on the western horizon, dropping the temperature with each degree of its descent. Lynn pulled the sweater she had slung around her shoulders a little tighter as she stood next to her brother.
"Everyone gone?" he asked when they had been silent for almost a full minute.
Lynn nodded, her eyes on the same colt that Jon had been observing earlier. "Mrs. Jackson and Miss Olan are just finishing cleaning up."
Jon bent down and picked up a small stone, rolling it unconsciously around with his fingers. "Where’s Mom?"
"Lying down. It’s been a long day for her."
"She seems to be holding up pretty well, all things considered, " he replied, tossing the stone off to the side.
"Yeah, better than some I know."
Knowing that the comment was aimed at him, Jon glared at her with a thinly veiled look of exasperation. Apparently he hadn’t been as good at covering his tracks as he thought. He sighed deeply, wishing he could tell her how he really was; that he felt so guilty and mad and not knowing exactly why. Right now there was a gaping hole in his life and everything seemed so out of sync, like he was somehow lost and drifting. But he knew he couldn’t say anything, especially not to Lynn who had already suffered too much tragedy in her young life.
He could not imagine what the rest of the family must be feeling. Small things had driven a wedge between Jon and his father over the years, creating a certain distance with which they had both felt comfortable. While the rest of the family had remained fairly close, father and younger son had drifted apart. Jon shook his head. If he felt this bad over his father’s death, then what the other were feeling must be a thousand times worse.
Lynn watched her younger brother’s inner turmoil boil for a moment before she finally reached the point where she could no longer keep quiet or her heart would break. "You’ve done a lot for Mom and for Uncle Ray these past couple of days. I know they appreciate it. Dad does too."
The unexpected mention of his father in the present tense caught Jon off guard and he had to look away.
"Look," she said sympathetically. "I know you feel bad that you weren’t here at the end. And you probably think that the rest of the family is resenting that fact so you have been going out of your way to make up for it. But you don’t have to try so hard, Jon. There’s no resentment here. No one is holding it against you. It wasn’t your fault."
Jon bit his lip as he studied a clump of tall grass near the corner of the stable. The slender blades were swaying gently in the evening breeze, creating a soft rustle as they rubbed together. He tried to concentrate on that sound, hoping to block out his sister’s voice before it was too late.
Lynn shook her head at his stubbornness. She knew he was hurting, but he seemed unable or unwilling to share his grief. If he was going to get through this, he had to get it out in the open – male pride be damned.
"You know, I’ve been where you are right now," she admitted truthfully. "You feel like you have let everyone down and you’ve convinced yourself that you don’t have the right to have feelings that you’re having. You’re letting the guilt get to you and you’re keeping everything bottled up because you don’t think you deserve to feel better. It’s keeping you from feeling the things you should be feeling. And that’s not a good thing. It’s not healthy."
A wave of sorrow passed across his face and his eyes welled at her words. It was if she was reading his mind and that upset him. He was supposed to be the strong one here. Swallowing hard, he quickly tried to bury the look and change the subject. He knew he was grasping at straws.
"It was a nice turn out."
"Jon…"
"The eulogy was pretty good. Not too long."
"Jon... Please."
"Couldn’t… couldn’t have asked for better weather."
"Jon. It’s okay for you to be angry with him for dying."
He turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger to stave the unexpected flow of moisture. A tiny whimper escaped and he held his breath, praying for control. Maybe if he didn’t breath…
But nothing could stop the ragged sob that came when he felt the soft pressure of his sister’s hand on his back and with that touch he was lost. His face reddened as embarrassment over the outburst warred with the bittersweet release of his tears, but he was powerless to control any of it and his whole body shook with the force of his silent weeping.
Crying tears of her own, Lynn pulled Jon down to her, gently cradling his head on her shoulder as he finally surrendered to his emotions. "It’s okay," she soothed. "Let it all out."
-*-*-*-*-*-
Despite Charles Baker having kept a very tight reign on the activities of the ranch, things were in a bit of chaos following his death. There was an air of uncertainty as to who would now be responsible for what. Ray wasn’t getting any younger and the years of hard work were beginning to take their toll. He certainly wasn’t up to the challenge of running the ranch by himself. Brett had gone into partnership with a high school buddy a couple years back and they were busy tending to the needs of their own place.
Christina was more than willing to take over the business end of the operation. She had a good head for that sort of thing, plus a strong enough will to make sure that everything was done right. Her husband, Luke, had been working as a ranch hand since before they were married and he would continue on in that capacity, but their two boys were too young to take up the slack. It wouldn’t be enough. The ranch was still a man short.
Jon knew that things had been tough for ranchers over the past few of years. Harsh winters and the rising cost of fuel had made it more expensive to raise a herd. That, combined with the falling price of beef due to foreign importation, made it more and more difficult to make ends meet. Right now, it would be impossible for the family to hire an experienced hand.
There was only one choice. Jon would have to turn in his badge and baton for a pair of spurs and a lasso.
The call to Getraer was going to be one of the most difficult he would ever have to make. He loved being a CHP officer and all that went with it. Over the years, he had made many friends, including several who were closer to him than his own family. He would miss them all, but especially Ponch.
Jon couldn’t help but smile when he thought about his partner. What an unlikely pair they had been! They hadn’t exactly gotten off to an auspicious start; he had caught Ponch riding a dirt bike in a restricted area. After a brief lecture about the value of wearing a helmet and a warning to ride only where permitted, Jon had confessed his desire to learn to operate a motorbike. Initially Ponch had been skeptical, assuming that Jon was putting him on, but in the end had agreed to give the patrolman a couple of lessons. Before long, the two had become fast friends. It was Jon who finally convinced Ponch that the CHP was where he belonged.
Upstairs in his room with the door shut, Jon stared at the phone in his hand. If he made this call, his life would change forever. The decision to move to California had been a difficult one. As much as he had loved the open spaces of Wyoming, he knew that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life trying to please his father. It would have been impossible; nothing he ever did was good enough as far as that man was concerned. So when the CHP recruiter had approached him after his tour of duty in the Marines, he knew he had found what he had been looking for – the chance to both help others and to be his own man. It was an opportunity he just couldn’t pass up.
His father had not taken the news well and it had been the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. The final brick had been laid in the wall that separated them.
How ironic, that in death, his father had taken away one of the things that he cherished the most.
-*-*-*-*-*-
After a couple of weeks, Jon began to fall into the routine of ranch life. Early mornings and late nights made for some long days, but there was satisfaction in the work. His favorite part of the job was the time spent riding on the open range, far away from the traffic and smog that were such an intrinsic part of LA. His biggest regret was that he had left Old Gray behind, at least for the time being. Lynn had agreed to check in on the horse from time to time, but it wouldn’t be the same as him being there.
The night of his father’s funeral Jon had called Joe. Ever sensible, Getraer had talked him out of quitting and into an extended leave of absence. The CHP would give him one year before he had to make a final decision about his future in the patrol. In reality, he thought that it was fruitless – he wouldn’t be going back, but the idea that the door was still open helped to ease the sorrow somewhat. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel once that year had passed.
On this day, Jon guided the chestnut mare slowly along the fence line, looking for broken wire or loose posts. Beside him, his Uncle Ray rode in silence. They both were thinking the same thing, though neither of them had given it a voice. Finally, Jon pulled back on the reigns and brought his horse to a stop.
"Where did it happen?" he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.
Ray also halted his mount and cleared his throat. All morning he had been thinking about his brother and the fateful day when he had taken that terrible fall from his horse. They had been checking this particular stretch of fence when it happened and he wondered how Jon had known that.
"Right up there," he said solemnly, jutting his chin vaguely forward. "Right next to the big ol’ Ponderosa Pine."
Jon gave the horse a gentle nudge with his heels and rode to the spot that Ray had indicated. When he reached it, he dismounted. For some reason, it felt almost sacrilegious to be standing on that patch of ground.
"Ray?" he questioned when his uncle stopped beside him. "What exactly did happen?"
Ray looked away from his nephew and out over the landscape. In the distance, the peaks of the Seminoe Mountains rose majestically toward the blue sky. This had once been a peaceful place; a quiet place that had, for him, been spoiled by the stubbornness of one man. He had no intention of spoiling it for another. "It’s like you heard, son," he hedged. "For some reason his horse got a little spooked and gave a little hop. Next thing I know, your dad goes tumblin’ off the back. It all happened so quick there wasn’t time to do nothin’ about it. Just one of those things."
Jon shook his head in disbelief. "You know, I’m having a hard time buying this one. Something is missing from it."
The older man sat up stiffly in his saddled and narrowed his eyes at Jon. "You don’t think I pushed him or something, do ya?"
Immediately realizing how accusatory he sounded, Jon waved his hands. "No, no. I didn’t mean anything like that. It’s just that, well… It just doesn’t feel right. I don’t know how else to describe it. A man with his experience doesn’t take a fatal fall from a horse without some extraneous reason."
Ray regarded the younger man for a moment, debating how much to reveal. "It’s not for me to say," he finally said cryptically.
"What?"
Ray shook his head and turned his horse around. "You’re askin’ the wrong one." With that he gave a quick slap of the reigns and set the animal in a gallop in the direction of the homestead.
Jon watched his uncle’s retreating form for a moment, then turned his eyes toward the nearly cloudless sky. He was getting frustrated. Obviously Ray knew something about his father that he didn’t, but his uncle wasn’t talking. With a rising sense of anger, he mounted his horse and urged her toward home. He was determined that someone was going to give him an answer – now!
-*-*-*-*-*-
Christina’s husband, Luke, was standing outside the stable talking to the blacksmith when Jon came in at a full gallop. He looked up with surprise and concern when Jon dismounted and turned the horse loose in the corral.
"You guys finished already?" he asked curiously. "I figured you and Ray would be out most of the day."
Jon bit the inside of his cheek to keep his temper in check. It wouldn’t do any good to get upset with Luke. "Something’s come up," he said with a tight jaw. "Where’s Christina?"
Luke nodded toward the house. "I think she’s up in the office. Is it something I can help you with?"
"No!" Jon snapped before he could catch himself. He quickly dropped his tone and plastered an apologetic smile on his face. "No. But thanks for the offer. It’s kinda personal and I’d like to hear the answer from my big sister. You know…" he shrugged off the rest of the thought.
Luke smiled warmly. "Yeah, I get ya." In reality, he felt a little sorry for his brother-in-law as he watched him amble across the yard to the house. The young fella didn’t realize that he was going in there with entirely the wrong attitude, and if he wasn’t carefully he might just get his head bitten off for his trouble.
Jon pulled open the back door, his temper cooled only slightly by his encounter with Luke. The ranch’s office was downstairs just off the kitchen making it easy for dusty ranch hands to see the boss without making a mess in the rest of the house. He strode to the closed door and knocked loudly. "Christina!" he called. "I need to talk to you."
When the only reply was silence, he knocked again with a bit more force. "Christina. Come on, it’s important." There was still no answer, so he turned the knob and opened the door. Except for some furniture and several large stacks of papers, the office was empty. Cursing under his breath, he shut the door and stalked down the hall, determined to find his sister.
He was about to go upstairs when he noticed that the screen door to the front porch was ajar. Pushing it forward enough to stick his head around the corner, he saw his mother sitting at a round patio table at the far end of the large porch. She was deeply engrossed in whatever she was reading and didn’t look up even though the screen door squeaked when he opened it further. Concerned about startling her, Jon cleared his throat as he approached. "Mom, have you seen Christina?"
Despite her years, Mattie Baker was still an attractive woman. Small and slender, she was anything but frail. Her skin glowed with the tan of hours in the sun, tending to the young horses or weeding the huge garden that kept the family and laborers in fresh vegetables throughout the summer. Her hair, although beginning to show some gray highlights, was still predominantly blonde and her crystal blue eyes twinkled like that of a child. She smiled at the sound of her son’s voice. It was music to her ears – she had missed him terribly.
"She’s gone to town," she said laying the magazine down on the table. "She’ll probably be gone most of the day." When she saw the look of discontent cross her son’s face she asked, "Why? What’s wrong?"
Jon removed his hat and absently scratched his head, uncertain where to go from there. He wanted answers, but he didn’t want to upset his mother.
Mattie watched him for a moment, his motions so like his father’s it was almost painful to see. But she had never been a woman to back away and she could tell something was definitely bothering him. "What’s on your mind, Jon?"
The inner war over, Jon decided to cut straight to the point. "Tell me about Dad. What happened that day he went out? There was more to it than a fall from a horse."
Like Ray, Mattie had known it was only going to be a matter of time before Jon started asking more questions about his father’s death. She sighed and pulled the chair next to her away from the table, silently indicating that he should sit. "You’re right," she said when he had settled. "There is more to it than that."
She looked him straight in the eye, determined to get it out in the open as quickly and painlessly as possible; mincing words was only going to make it harder. "He had a brain tumor – inoperable and terminal."
Her words hit Jon like a shot to the gut. "What?"
Mattie nodded in response to his question of shock. "About eight months ago, he started getting dizzy spells and headaches – bad enough to keep him in bed some days. And you’re father never stayed in bed, no matter how sick he was. After about a month, I finally convinced him to see Doc Yardly down at the clinic. We figured it was just allergies or maybe migraines. We never dreamed it would be a tumor. The doctors told him he only had a few months left."
Jon leaned back in his chair, confusion clouding his face. "Wait a minute. You knew about this for eight months? Why didn’t you say something?"
Mattie bent forward and placed a comforting hand on his knee, hoping that he would somehow understand. "We didn’t want to worry you. There was nothing that anybody could do."
He stood up so abruptly that the chair tipped over backwards. "You didn’t want me to worry?" he said in a raised voice tinged with anger. "You knew Dad was going to die and you never said a word because you didn’t want me to worry! What the hell kind if thinking was that?"
"Jon," Mattie pleaded. "It wasn’t my decision alone. It was the way your father wanted it and I agreed to his wishes. You had your life out there in California and we didn’t think it was fair for you to have that kind of worry hanging over your head when you were so far away. He was a proud man, Jon. He didn’t want people to know he was sick."
"Did anybody know besides you and Dad? Did Ray know?"
Mattie also stood, wanting to reach out to her son, but his question stopped her in her tracks. How could she tell him the truth without hurting him now? "Yes, Ray knew." She took a deep breath before continuing. "And Christina and Brett and…"
Jon stared at his mother; a mixture of emotions shining in his eyes. "Lynn?" he asked, not sure he really wanted to her the truth. "Did she know too?"
"Honey, she found out by accident. We asked her not to say anything to you."
The hurt of betrayal stung like a forceful slap to the face. How could Lynn have kept something like that from him? His father – yes, even his mother if she thought it would protect him, his sister, his brother…but Lynn? It was unthinkable.
"Jon," his mother said softly. "I’m sorry, but…" She gently touched his arm, but he pulled away.
"No!" he shouted as he stormed off the porch. "Not now. Just leave me be."
He ran to the corral and grabbed the chestnut mare. With one smooth motion, he swung up in the saddle and urged her into a gallop. It was a long time before either of them stopped running.
-*-*-*-*-*-
"This is not a toy," Charles Baker explained to his youngest son. "It’s a weapon, and like any other weapon, you need to handle it with care."
Twelve-year-old Jon took the pellet gun from his father’s outstretched hand. It was his first gun – a real gun – just like Dad’s… almost. He brought the scope up to his eye and carefully aimed through the sight.
"You must never point it at anyone; it doesn’t matter if it’s loaded or not," his father continued. "You’re not to fire it near the house or the barn. And don’t be shooting at birds or any other living thing – it can kill before you know it. Do you understand me, son?"
The boy nodded enthusiastically. He could hardly wait to try it out. There wouldn’t be a tin can safe from his deadly aim.
Charles smiled. "You’re a big boy now, Jon. I expect you to act like it."
Jon ran off with his gun in hand and the small tin of BBs in his pocket. He had seen some old cans and bottles near the burn barrel and the fence would be a perfect place to line them up. He would be like Wyatt Earp or Wild Bill Hickok; best gunslingers in the West.
He lined his targets up on the fence, then proceeded to shoot them down one by one. As he was walking around the fence to set them up for another round, movement in the grass caught his attention. He watched as a small field mouse poked its head out from behind one of the fence posts.
His father had told him not to shoot at animals, but this was just a dumb ol’ mouse. What harm would there be in that?
Jon looked around to make sure that no one was watching, then raised his gun and took aim. His shot went wide and the mouse took off on a run. He pumped the gun furiously and fired again in the direction the mouse had gone. Suddenly there was a high-pitched squeal and then silence.
He was perplexed by the noise; it was too loud to have been the mouse. Cautiously Jon crept up to the patch of tall grass and pushed it to the side. His heart dropped to his toes when he saw the cat lying on its side, blood oozing from the wound in its neck.
With shaky hands, he laid down his gun and picked up the slain animal, cradling it tight to his chest. Its body was limp and the eyes were already glazed over and unseeing. Tears threatened to break loose as he neared the barn where his father was working on the tractor; he knew his dad was going to be so disappointed.
"Dad?" Jon called out softly.
His father slid out from under the tractor. One look at the boy’s stricken face and the dead cat in his arms and he knew what had happened.
Jon burst into tears. "I didn’t mean to do it! I was messing around… shooting at a mouse… but I hit… I killed him!" he wailed between heaving sobs.
Any anger for disobedience that Charles might have had melted at the sight of his distraught child. He knew that it had been an accident and that his son was truly remorseful. He had learned his lesson the hard way and was owning up to it by his admission.
Taking the cat from Jon’s arms, he gently laid it to the side and knelt down to pull the boy into a tight hug. "It’s all right," he soothed. "It’s going to be okay."
Later that day, father and son buried the cat. The incident was never mentioned again.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The sun warmed his face as he lay with his eyes closed in the tall grass. In the background the nearby creek babbled gently as it coursed through the rocky streambed, momentarily providing a palliative distraction from his thoughts.
Jon breathed in deeply, taking in the sweet air of this place. As a youngster, this had been his Narnia, his private place of retreat from the hassles of the world. It felt and sounded no different now than it had twenty years ago. He could almost make himself believe that that was where and when he was. It might as well be.
He knew he had acted childish; running away from his mother when all she was trying to do was to explain, but the answers to his questions had been hard for him to hear. It was too much too fast and he was having difficulty putting it all into perspective. He wasn’t sure which was more devastating; the news that his father was dying even before the fall or the fact that the whole family had conspired to keep it from him. He was the youngest, but he wasn’t a baby. He would have handled the situation calmly and rationally like an adult.
But it was a moot point now, really. He had been stripped of the opportunity of bridging the gap that had come between him and his father. Maybe if he had known sooner – or at all – they might have had a chance to make it right before it was too late? Maybe they would have reconnected that bond that they had shared when he was a child?
However, the nagging little voice in the back of his mind saw fit to point out that it had been his father’s idea to keep him in the dark. Maybe not all broken fences were meant to be mended?
-*-*-*-*-*-
By late September, the leaves of the aspen poplars had already started to turn golden yellow, warning of an early winter to the area. Jon knew that it was almost time to start moving the small herds of cattle that were spread throughout the high country down to the valley pastures. It would be a daunting task with just him, Ray, Luke, and the few hired hands that were still on the payroll. Usually, there would have been a much larger group, but this year money was just too tight.
He also knew that he could no longer afford to keep paying the rent on his apartment in LA. He received a small salary for the work he was doing on the ranch, which included a roof over his head and three square meals a day, but the meager stipend of cash was not nearly enough to cover his expenses in California. With most of his savings already gone, there was no choice but to break the lease and put his stuff in storage. So despite Christina’s complaints, he took a long weekend and headed west.
It felt good to be back in familiar territory, yet it was not quite the same. Nothing really had changed as far as scenery, but the feel of the place was wrong. He could look around and imagine himself coming home from a day on patrol, but something just wasn’t right. It felt as if he no longer belonged here. The trouble was, he felt the same way in Wyoming. He was becoming a man without a place to call "home."
The first thing he did when he arrived at the apartment was to call Ponch. Although they had exchanged a postcard or two, neither felt as if they had had the chance to say goodbye. His former partner, ecstatic that he was back in town, immediately began making plans, and Jon could hear the disappointment in Ponch’s tone when he told him the reason he was here. Nevertheless, Ponch readily agreed to help with the packing and moving. He showed up on Jon’s doorstep with another person in tow; a tall blonde by the name of Bobby Nelson, Ponch’s new partner.
Something twisted in Jon’s gut when the introductions were made; someone else had taken his place in Ponch’s life.
"Yeah, Bobby here is still on probation," Ponch explained. "I’m his training officer."
Jon smiled and nodded, still reeling a bit from the realization that life at the patrol had gone on without him. "You’ll make a good MTO," he said. He wanted to tease Ponch about how rough his probation had been, but he wasn’t sure how his friend would take the mild taunts in front of his trainee, so he kept his mouth shut. Inwardly, he sighed. Even his relationship with Ponch didn’t feel right.
The packing didn’t take very long since Jon was really a man of few possessions. He let Ponch and Bobby load the furniture into the back of the rental van while he took care of wrapping and packing the more delicate objects. It was hard to decide what was to be sent to storage and what he would be taking with him back to Wyoming. There were so many memories here. He picked up one of the picture frames that adorned the shelves on the far wall and carried it with him as he plopped down on the sofa. It was a picture of him and Ponch holding up their commendation certificates after they had cracked the car rally bank robberies.
He smiled as he stared at the two men in the photo. That had been a good day. Not only had they received their commendations, but Ponch had also been awarded a citation for a whole year of safe driving while on patrol; something that Getraer readily admitted he thought he’d never see.
Jon, however, had had faith in his partner; so much faith in fact that he had called Ponch’s family and asked if they could attend. Only Marie, Ponch’s mother, was able to get away, but having her there had certainly made the day more special for Ponch.
He was so engrossed in his reverie that he didn’t hear Ponch walk up and stand beside him.
"Ah ha!" Ponch said loudly, causing Jon to jump slightly. "Now I see how this works. You let Bobby and me do all the heavy stuff, while you get to sit around looking at pictures." The tone of Ponch’s voice was gruff, but the huge smile on his face gave away the fact that he was only teasing.
Jon said nothing and handed Ponch the picture. The smile on Ponch’s face grew tenfold. "Hey, I remember this, man. Hey, Bobby, come here," he said motioning to the younger man. "Look at this. This is what real teamwork is all about. You see there were these dudes in this auto rally that… "
Jon sat back on the sofa and listened as Ponch animatedly retold the story. He wanted to remember this day.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The Wyoming winter was long and harsh, especially for Jon who had grown accustom to the more clement weather of Southern California. There were many days, with the howling wind and the flying snow biting at his cheeks, that the only way he thought he would survive was to think about the sun warmed sand on the beaches of LA.
Thankfully, moving the far-spread cattle from the higher wooded ground to the more temperate valley areas had gone more smoothly than expected, and they were safely herded closer to home before the severe weather had set in. With that immense job out of the way, Jon had turned his attention to the more domestic task of helping Luke and Brett remodel the nearby herdsman’s cottage. His mother, feeling the need for a space of her own, had decided to turn control of the "big house" over to Christina and to move into the smaller dwelling just over the ridge. It was quaint and the perfect size for a single occupant, but after months of abandonment, it was in need of some serious repair. Jon had never been much of a handyman and his carpentry skills certainly left a lot to be desired, but he was an ace painter and cleanup man. While Brett handled the electrical/plumbing and Luke took charge of the woodwork, Jon pitched in wherever he thought he could be most helpful without getting in the way. Ray was the self appointed supervisor of the entire project and he took his job seriously – or as serious as was possible for Ray. The older man seemed to take particular delight in teasing Jon, frequently pointing out some minor infraction. But Jon didn’t mind; he took it all in stride. After all Ray was just being his normal jovial self and it helped to keep the younger man’s mind off of things he would just assume not think about – like Ponch and the CHP.
It took over three months, in and around the other ranch chores, but by April the former herdsman’s quarters had been converted from shambles to chalet. Secretively, part of Jon was envious of his mother’s retreat. Despite having his own room at the house, privacy was a luxury that he was learning to live without. Family members never gave a second thought to barging in without first knocking and that was taking some time to get used to. They had all done it each other as children, as siblings often do, but for a man who had been living by himself for several years the constant threat of interruption hung close, even if he had nothing to hide.
-*-*-*-*-*-
April 1983
Jon sat at the kitchen table unconsciously rubbing the eraser of the pencil up and down his forehead as he thought, a habit that he had picked up a long time ago.
"Do you really think we can afford that many?" he asked.
Across the table, Christina heaved a heavy sigh. "Do we have to go over this again? Jon, I’ve spelled it out for you. What more do you want?"
Jon shrugged. "An additional two hundred head just seems like a big step. We were lucky that the weather held last year. Do you really want to risk it this year?"
"Look," his sister said smugly, slamming the ledger in front of her shut. "I’ve been tending to these books for a lot longer than you. I know what I’m talking about. Now is the right time to expand."
Jon glanced toward his uncle who was seated to his right. "What do you think, Ray?"
The older man shook his head. "Seems kinda risky ta me, but then I don’t know nothin’ about them books. Your sister’s been lookin’ after things for quite a while now and she should know. If she thinks it’s time, it must be time."
Jon closed his eyes in frustration. Maybe he didn’t know anything about running a ranch, but he could put two and two together and come up with four. And that four was adding up to a hell of a lot of work. "What about the calves?" he tried with a new approach.
"What about them?" Christina demanded with narrowed eyes.
"We’ve got to get the herds up into higher ground as soon as possible. The hay supply is almost gone and they’ve pretty well stripped the lower pastures. Do you really think we are going to have enough time to brand two hundred new steers, plus the yearling calves?"
Christina’s smile bordered on a sneer. "What’s the matter, City Boy? Afraid of a little hard work? Gotten soft hanging out there with all the ‘beautiful people’ in California?" she taunted, making quotation gestures with her hands.
But Jon refused to rise to the bait. "I just don’t want to see us in trouble, that’s all."
His sister snorted. "You let me worry about that. You just concentrate on your job."
-*-*-*-*-*-
By the time branding week rolled around, the ranch was as ready as it was ever going to be. Jon had spent two days riding the property perimeter, double checking fences and searching for any potential problems. For him, it had been like two days in paradise.
As a belated Christmas present, his mother had arranged for Old Gray to be shipped back to Wyoming and it had been the first time in a long time that horse and owner had been together. It felt good to be back with his companion and Old Gray had seemed to enjoy the freedom of the open spaces. So had Jon, for that matter. Finally away from the house and the day-to-day responsibilities, he felt at peace for the first time in months.
Life here was so much different than in LA. Quieter and slower paced, what had once seemed a relaxing oasis from the crazy West Coast lifestyle, now made him edgy. He realized that he was lonely and bored – his only real friend was his brother, and Brett was often too busy to get away. They had gone fishing and camping a couple of times and went drinking at the one of the local bars, but that was about the extent of it. When Brett couldn’t make it, he sometimes drank alone. In the beginning when he was feeling down, he had thought about Ponch and the rest of the gang, but instead of making him feel better, it had had the opposite effect. Drinking didn’t make him happy, but it sure helped to dull the pain.
-*-*-*-*-*-
"Shit, what did you do this time?" Brett teased, as he watched his brother clean the horse stall.
Jon paused for a moment to wipe the beads of perspiration from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, leaving a dirty streak in its wake. He leaned on the handle of the fork for support. "What?"
"You musta pissed Christina off royal if she’s got you out here mucking stalls."
Jon rolled his eyes and returned to the task of pitching the dirty straw into the small wagon. "It’s gotta be done."
"Yeah," Brett agreed. "So where’s Manuel? This is usually his job."
"He went into town to see if he could round up some more hands for tomorrow, then he was gonna take the rest of the day off."
"Ah, a little R & R, huh?" Brett said in a voice that mimicked a bad Groucho Marx impression. "That’s exactly what the doctor ordered."
Jon shook his head. "I don’t have time."
"Sure ya do! Look," he said gesturing to the barn. "This is almost done. Finish up real quick, then go get cleaned up. I’m goin’ down to see Mom while I wait. Just meet me there."
"Brett…"
"Nope," the older sibling said, raising his hand. "I’m not taking no for an answer." Before Jon could protest further, Brett disappeared out the door.
-*-*-*-*-*-
"So how ya holdin’ up?" Brett asked his passenger as he steered his pickup down the highway.
Jon frowned, uncertain of the question. "What do you mean?"
"How are you and Christina gettin’ along? Things okay?"
"Fine, I guess," Jon said with a shrug. "Why?"
Brett shook his head. "No reason. Just askin’. I know how she can be sometimes. She was pretty demanding when Dad was still alive, I can just imagine how she is now. Luke’s gotta be a saint."
"Yeah," Jon agreed.
Gravel crunched under the tires as Brett pulled into the bar’s crowded parking lot. The men got out and started for the entrance, but stopped when they heard the far off wail of a siren growing closer. In the distance, the distinctive red and blue flashing lights of a Wyoming Highway Patrol car could be seen coming from the east on Rt. 76, mostly likely on the way to the intersection of Highway 30. They watched as the car drew closer, then sped past like a bullet. Brett resumed walking toward the bar, but stopped when he noticed that his brother wasn’t following. He waited for a second, but Jon continued to stare after the car as it roared off into the night. "Hey," he called out.
Jon jumped and turned toward his brother. There was a strange look of confusion on the younger man’s face, almost as if he were surprised to see another person there.
"You coming?" Brett asked with concern.
Jon shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. "Yeah," he answered softly. He started for the door, but paused for one quick glance in the direction the car had gone.
The Silver Saddle was a dive by most standards, but it was the favored joint of the locals. Situated on the outskirts of Rawlins, it was the perfect place for cowboys to kick back after a hard day on the range. Dark and smoky, with country music blaring out of the jukebox speakers, it presented itself as a stereotypical small western bar.
Jon rubbed at his eyes as soon as they were inside. Cigarette smoke had always bothered him and in heavy concentrations it took some time to get used to. Half blind, he tried to follow his brother through the crowds toward the bar. More than once, his foot slid on the peanut shell covered floor and he prayed that he wouldn’t make a spectacle of himself.
"Hey Big Bill," Brett shouted to the large man who was tending bar. "How’s things?"
"Wasn’t too bad ‘til you rolled in, Baker," Big Bill joked back. "And I see ya brought the Kid with ya tonight."
Jon smiled slightly and sat on one of the bar stools.
"What can I get’cha, Kid?"
"Beer. Whatever you’ve got on tap is fine," Jon replied.
"No. No," Brett interrupted. "Tonight’s a special night, cause tomorrow the new ones are coming in and this boy needs to unwind. Double shot of whiskey for both of us and keep’em coming."
"Comin’ up," Big Bill said as he placed two large shot glasses on the bar and filled each generously.
Brett picked up his glass and raised it in a silent toast before drinking it down in a huge gulp. He slammed the glass back down on the bar and blew out his breath. "Woo!" He turned toward his brother and pointed toward the other glass on the bar. "Your turn."
Jon eyed the glass nervously. He had never been able to hold his liquor very well, especially the hard stuff. Usually a few beers were enough to knock him on his butt. He shifted his glance toward Brett who was waiting expectantly, as was the bartender. Not wanting to embarrass himself nor his brother, Jon picked up the glass and drank. He had to swallow hard to get it down and ever harder to keep it there. The alcohol hit his system like a freight train and he could feel the warmth already spreading through his body.
"Yeah!" Brett cheered, slapping Jon heartily on the back. "Let’s go again, Bill."
As the night wore on Jon became less aware of his surroundings and with that came a certain freedom. He could think about his father without guilt or wonder about how things were in LA without sorrow. He had finally found a bit of sweet serenity in the arms of an alcohol buzz. He knew he would regret it tomorrow, but right now, tomorrow was the last thing on his mind.
"C’mon cowboy," Brett said, hauling Jon to his feet. "Time to get ya home." He helped his younger sibling into the truck, then went around to the driver’s side and got in.
"You’re not drunk, are ya?" Jon slurred. CHP training had a habit of kicking in no matter the circumstances.
"Nah," Brett chuckled. "I had sense enough to stop a couple of hours ago."
"Good," Jon replied, laying his head back on the seat. "I’d hate to have to arrest ya."
Brett shook his head with a smile. "Whatever you say, Kid."
He had never intended to let Jon get that far with the drinking, but it was good to see the guy relax. Since he had come back home, he always seemed to have that same sad look in his eyes and that really bothered Brett. That was not the little brother he knew.
He pulled the truck up to the back of the house and got out, shutting the door as quietly as possible. It was after 2am and the house was completely dark. He walked around to the passenger’s side and opened the door. Jon broke into a fit if giggles as he nearly toppled out on his head.
"Shhhh," Brett scolded. "You’re gonna wake everybody up."
"Okay, okay," Jon said seriously. "I know how to be quiet."
"Good, then do it." He turned his brother by the shoulders so that they were standing face to face, assuring that he had Jon’s attention. "Listen, I’ll help you up to the house, but you’re gonna have to get yourself in. If we both go trompin’ through there, we will wake everybody for sure. Okay?"
"Gotcha," Jon said as he swayed turning back around.
The pair stumbled up the back steps and Brett held the door open for Jon. "Goodnight. See ya later."
"Yeah, see ya," Jon loudly whispered back.
Jon entered the kitchen, fumbling noisily for the light switch, but before he found it, the light over the sink blinked to life, revealing the silhouette of his oldest sister.
"What in the hell do you think you’re doing?" she barked in a harsh whisper.
Jon thought for a moment. "Looking for the light switch?"
"That’s not funny."
"You asked," Jon said with a shrug.
Christina glared, her jaw tensing with each second. "You damn well know what I mean. We have got a lot to do today and you come dragging in like it’s nothing. How stupid can you be? Do you want to ruin this ranch? Is that what you want? Because you sure act like it."
"Lighten up, Chris. You’re goin’ on like I lost the place in a poker game or something."
"It wouldn’t surprise me if you had. You don’t give a damn about this ranch. You never did!"
Jon began to sober with each accusatory word. "What the are you talking about? I’ve got as much at stake here as you!"
Christina folded her arms across her chest. "The hell you do! I’m the one with controlling interest. I’m the one who has kept this place on its feet. I’m the one who stayed here while you went off gallivanting in the jungle somewhere!"
"I wasn’t gallivanting! I didn’t leave by choice, you know!" Jon shot back, anger making his voice louder. "I was drafted for God’s sake!"
"And what about when you got back? Did you come back here like you were supposed to?"
"It’s too late to be having this conversation," he said, swiping a hand across his face.
"It’s the perfect time to be having this conversation. You and I need to get a few things straight if you are going to continue working here."
Jon rolled his eyes. "Continue working here? Like I have a choice. What are you gonna do, fire me?"
"We can make it without you, you know! We don’t need you!"
"Fine," Jon said, throwing his hand in the air. "Then I’ll leave."
Christina shook her head in amazement. "Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? It would be just like you to run out again. You know what your problem is? You’re spoiled. Spoiled and selfish – the only person you give a damn about is you! You left Dad here to manage on his own when you knew it would be hard. He needed you and you ran off. You gave him some kind of BS about wanting to be a cop and then took off and you never looked back. Well, apparently you haven’t changed, have you? You’re less of a man now than when you were twenty-one. If you had any sense of dignity you’d give up that stupid notion of playing cops and robbers and learn to take some responsibility for your family!"
"Shut up!" Jon shot back. He leaned against the wall for support.
His sister stopped and stared in disbelief. "What?"
"You heard me," Jon said, pushing himself away from the wall and heading for the stairs. "I don’t have to listen to this!"
Christina grabbed him by the arm as he staggered past. "Oh, yes you do! I expect you to be down here at 5:30 with the rest of the crew. It’s time you grew up and started being accountable for yourself!"
Jon yanked his arm from her grasp and stormed upstairs. He slammed the bedroom door shut with a resounding bang, no longer caring who he woke.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Morning came far too early as far as Jon was concerned. With less than three hours sleep and a killer hangover, he secretly hoped that a freak accident would end his misery.
He showered and dressed, then staggered down the stairs. The kitchen was a beehive on activity this morning. Temporary ranch hands, hired for the day, were seated at the long table in the room, devouring the breakfast that was being provided. The smell of bacon and eggs permeated the air, threatening to turn Jon’s stomach, so he waved off his mother’s offer of breakfast and went outside. He passed Christina on his way out, but neither exchanged a word.
A few minutes later, several trucks with cattle trailers pulled into the barnyard. With a flourish of Spanish commands, the hired gauchos came out from the kitchen and began to unload trucks, herding the new arrivals into the holding corrals. The fires were stoked and the branding irons bearing the Double Diamond logo were tossed in. Although many ranches had switched to electronic branding, Charles Baker had always preferred the old method. Apparently Christina planned to continue with the tradition.
Jon wasn’t exactly sure what his job was going to be, but he was certain that Christina planned to have him in the thick of it. If he knew her like he thought he did, she was going to make him pay dearly for last night’s sins.
As he was standing at the fence watching the new cattle, Luke came up to him. "You’re in charge of branding," he said with a hint of both sarcasm and sympathy. "In other words, get your gloves, cuz you’re gonna be spending the day goin’ at steers with a red hot poker in your hands."
Jon sighed and made his way to the branding fires. Branding wasn’t the worst job, but it ranked right up there. At least he wasn’t on the roping crew.
After the first steer was identified, tagged, and given its vaccinations, it was sent into the branding corral. Several experienced men lassoed its legs and brought it to the ground. With a deep bellow of protest, its hooves were lashed together. Jon picked the iron out of the fire and pressed the logo end on the steer’s backside. The animal struggled and continued to bellow, but Jon held his ground.
The smell of burning hide assaulted his senses, making his stomach do wild flip-flops. He swallowed hard to keep himself under control, but when the branding was complete, he was forced to run behind the barn. Concerned, his mother followed and she got there just as he finished with the dry heaves. She rubbed his back as he stood with his forehead on the wall of the barn, too ashamed to face her.
"Late night?" she guessed, judging by his appearance and actions.
Jon hung his head. "Yeah. I’m sorry, Mom."
Mattie Baker chuckled. "No need to apologize to me. You’re the one who’s hurting for it. Come on up to the house and I’ll give you something to calm down your upset."
The young man nodded, thankful that at least his mother was a woman of understanding and compassion.
-*-*-*-*-*-
It had been a long, exhausting day for everyone involved. Jon didn’t think he had ever been so happy as when the last steer was brought in. His mother’s hangover concoction had done the trick, but he was still so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.
After dinner, he made his way to the huge porch that spanned the front of the house. As a child, he had spent many nights sitting on this porch listening to the men talk and swap stories. Some of his fondest memories had taken place here. Tonight however, he was content to sit on the rail and just look at the night sky, completely lost in his thoughts.
The screen door opened with a squeak and shut with a gentle bang. Even without looking, Jon instinctively knew who it was. Uncle Ray came up next to him and leaned on the rail.
"Sure is a nice night," he drawled. "Must be more than a million stars out tonight."
"Yeah," Jon replied wistfully. "Living in the city you forget just how big the sky is."
"I imagine you forget a lot of things living in the city."
In the dark, Jon nodded his agreement. "It has its good points."
"I’m sure it does, but it ain’t for me. Those city folk are crazy."
Jon chuckled softly and returned his gaze to the stars.
The men were quiet for a moment, but Ray broke the silence with a question. "You’re really missin’ it, ain’tcha boy?"
Jon turned toward his uncle in surprise. "What? The city?" He shook his head. "No, I don’t miss it at all."
Ray made a harrumphing sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "Must be more evil there than I thought. I ain’t never known you to tell a lie to anyone, especially me."
The young man started to protest at the accusation, but Ray raised a hand to cut him off. "Now don’t go gettin’ your dander up. I didn’t mean that as harsh as it sounded. But you gotta admit that it weren’t exactly the truth now, was it?"
Jon dropped his head in shame. "No, I guess not." He looked up to meet his uncle’s gaze. "I think about it every now and then - my friends, my old job. I wonder what they’re up to and how they’re doing."
Ray reached into his hip pocket, removing a round can of chewing tobacco. After taking a small dip, he offered the can to Jon, who shook his head in the negative. "You know," he said. "Ranch life ain’t an easy life. Long days of eatin’ dust and smellin’ shit. It can get to a feller after a while. Not everybody’s cut out for it."
"I can handle it." Jon replied defensively.
The older man leaned over the rail and spat. "I know you can handle it. Of that I have no doubt. It’s in your blood. But the question is, do you want to?"
Jon remained silent as he contemplated how to answer the question.
"You know," Ray chuckled. "It don’t make you any less of a man if you say no. No matter what Christina says."
The tension broken and the subject breached, Jon chuckled as well. "You heard, huh?"
"Yep." Ray spat again. "There’s a pretty fair chance half the county heard."
With that, Jon hung his head again. He had been so stupid for getting into that argument with his sister.
"You’re daddy never blamed you for leavin’, you know," Ray explained. "Oh sure, he was disappointed for a while, but he understood. He knew how goin’ to war can change a person, make’em go down a different path than they woulda otherwise gone. He was them same way, you know, after he came back from fightin’ Hitler. Before that, all he talked about was gettin’ away from this podunk place and out from under your grand pappy’s screws. He was a hard man to work for, your grand pappy was."
"But he stayed here," Jon stated with shame.
"Yep, he sure did. Met your momma and settled down to raise a family. But I think deep inside there was a part of him that still hankered to strike out on his own – to be his own man. I think he envied you for that. He was proud of you, boy."
Jon looked up surprised, yet somewhat sad. "I wish I could have heard that from him."
Ray shrugged in sympathy. "Just wasn’t in his nature. He never was a man of many words. He’d a never told you nothin’ to your face, but you shoulda heard him brag on you when he got with the fellers in town. How his boy was this big cop out in California. Every time you got some sort of award, you’d have thought he woulda busted into bits from the shear pride."
Moisture stung at Jon’s eyes, bittersweet relief to know that he had had his father’s approval. He quickly swiped at his face so that Ray won’t see the lone tear that had managed to leak out, but his uncle saw and smiled.
They stayed in companionable silence until Ray figured that Jon had himself back under control. "C’mon in now," he said slapping his nephew on the back. "Your mamma’s finally getting around to cuttin’ up that apple pie we’ve been smellin’ all day. Ya don’t wanna miss that." He tossed out his chew and headed for the door.
Jon nodded. "I’ll be there in a minute." He cleared his throat. "Uncle Ray?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
-*-*-*-*-*-
August 1983
It had been a good summer on the ranch. The weather had been mild and the occasional rains had kept the area lush and green, limiting the chance for fires. It also meant the animals on the high ground would have plenty of food and water, so no supplemental hay would be needed.
Lynn’s son, Wes, had joined the crew while on summer break, which Jon thoroughly enjoyed. He had always had a soft spot in his heart for the boy and loved tutoring him in the finer aspects of roping and riding. Wes was a natural around animals and that, combined with the knowledge he had gained at the university, made him a terrific rancher, even if he was only twenty.
-*-*-*-*-*-
It was hot; the kind of humid stickiness that could only be found in the jungles of hellholes like this one. It would only be a matter of time before the rain came down in buckets, drenching him, nearly drowning him, but offering no relief. Around him the battle raged on, deafeningly loud, screaming mortars followed by blinding flashes that threatened to hide the enemy from his view. Men were dying by the hundreds; most of them nameless faces of comrades that he knew only in passing. Their broken bodies were scattered in the mud and matted leaves; the air hung thick with the vile scent of death and decay and napalm.
His first instinct had been to run, to get away from here as fast as he could and never look back, but his training held him in place. He was here to do a job – fight a war to protect the oppressed from the oppressors. It didn’t prevent him from wishing that he were somewhere else – anywhere but here.
In the distance, above the dim, he heard a noise that was both familiar, yet somehow oddly out of place. He turned, half expecting to see the underbelly of a low flying helicopter and was shocked to see, not a huey, but a uniformed CHP officer on a motor. The officer drew closer, expertly maneuvering his bike through the tangle of vines and twisted bodies as if they were cars on the freeway and he instinctively knew who that officer was. Only one man would be crazy enough to risk his neck on a motor in a place like this – Ponch had come to his rescue.
But as grateful as Jon was that someone had come to take him away, he knew that Ponch was unaware of the dangers. Ponch could be reckless and rash, not always taking the time to feel out the situation. He would sometimes rush headlong into things without a thought for his personal safety. And while the idea was noble, it was exactly the kind of attitude that could get him killed if someone wasn’t there to watch his back. Jon carefully stood from his protective crouch and waved his arms to get Ponch’s attention. The officer returned the gesture and gunned his motor, pushing the engine to the limits as he sped closer.
Suddenly there was a brilliant burst of light and a percussive boom that shook the ground beneath Jon’s feet. In surrealistic backlight and slow motion, he saw Ponch’s body sail high into the air, tumbling and turning as it plummeted back to Earth…..
Jon jerked awake with a start, his former partner’s name on his lips. For a brief moment, his hands flailed as they attempted to locate his friend in the dark, but when his eyes began to adjust to the light he realized that he wasn’t in Vietnam. He was home, in Wyoming, in his own bedroom. Outside the thunder rolled.
He dragged a shaky hand across his sweaty face and let out a heavy sigh; it had been years since he had dreamed about the war. He sat quietly for a moment, listening to the roaring storm as it battered rain against the house. It was no wonder that he dreamed he was in the highland jungles outside of Pleiku – it sounded exactly the same. Where Ponch fit into the scenario wasn’t as obvious.
Figuring that sleep was going to be impossible, at least until it calmed down outside, Jon pushed back the covers and slipped into the robe that he had slung over the end of the bed. He padded quietly down the stairs and into the sitting room that lay just off the front entrance.
This had been his father’s place of retreat for as long as he could remember. Filled with leather covered furniture and old wood cabinets, and mixed with the faint odor of tobacco and bourbon, the room had a scent uniquely its own. As a boy, Jon had often sat in here reading quietly or just looking at the photographs that adorned the walls. He had felt connected here, closer to his heritage than anywhere else. In here, he knew who he was and where he had come from. Maybe Dad wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it for a little while?
Without turning on the lights, but guided by the occasional flashes of lightening, he felt his way to one of the high back chairs and settled in. He just couldn’t seem to shake himself from the dream. As ridiculous and improbable as it was, it had seemed impossibly tangible.
"Can’t sleep either, huh?"
Jon nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected voice. In the darkness he hadn’t seen Ray already sitting in the chair across from him.
"The weather, I guess," Jon stammered, hoping to cover his surprise.
The pair fell silent after the initial exchange, for which Jon was thankful. He wasn’t sure how good of a conversationalist he would be at the moment. The dream was still haunting him, and try as he might, it just didn’t seem to want to go away. The image of Ponch flying through the air was far too real. But why? Why Ponch? He held his head in his hand, massaging his temples as his mind replayed the dream over and over.
Ray watched his nephew wrestling with his demons. He may not have been the most perceptive person in the world, but he knew a troubled soul when he saw it. He’d been there himself. "Musta been a doozy of a nightmare, if you’re still frettin’ over it," he finally said when he realized Jon had no intention of bringing it up by himself.
Jon looked up. "What?"
"The dream. Pretty bad?"
The younger man smiled. Ray had always been able to read him as easily as an open book. "Yeah, I guess it was."
"Anything in particular?"
Jon hesitated. He had never been one to openly discuss personal things and this definitely fell into that category. But somehow, sitting here in the dark with the storm dwindling to a gentle pitter-patter, it seemed okay. He knew his uncle wouldn’t laugh at him; hell, maybe he could even understand.
"I dreamed I was back in Vietnam, during the war. There was a battle going on – a bad one. I was scared, but my partner from the CHP was there, riding his motor…" He stopped and shrugged; suddenly shy. "It was just a stupid dream."
Ray templed his fingers as he listened - not to what Jon was saying, but rather to what he wasn’t. Even as a youngster the boy had kept things to himself. "You know," he said slowly, choosing each word with care. "They say that when you have dreams about your past, your heart is talkin’ to ya, but your head ain’t listenin’."
"That’s pretty cryptic," Jon countered. "What does it mean?"
Ray shook his head with a smile. "Exactly what it says. I have the feeling that your heart has been tellin’ you what it wants for quite some time now, but you haven’t been payin’ it no attention. It’s time to start listenin’, son."
Jon hung his head, not sure whether or not he wanted this conversation to continue. Ray was right, in fact he had hit the nail squarely on the head. He had been spending a lot of time thinking about the patrol. Getraer had generously arranged a one-year leave of absence for him, had given him twelve months to make up his mind about who he was. But the year was almost up. In just a few days, he would have to decide between the ranch and the patrol. After that, there would be no turning back.
"I’ve been listening, Uncle Ray," he answered honestly. "I just don’t want to let anyone down."
"So you’ll risk lettin’ yourself down ‘cus of what other people might think? Your father would be disappointed to hear you say that Jonny."
Jon threw is hand in the air in defeat. "No matter what I decide, someone is going to be upset. It’s a no-win situation."
Ray nodded. "Yep, you’re probably right. So there’s really only one thing you can do."
Jon looked at him hopefully.
Ray tapped his chest. "The answer’s right here."
-*-*-*-*-*-
He stood in front of the mirror, nervously adjusting his collar, then the gun belt. The uniform felt stiff and awkward in a way that it hadn’t since his first day on the force. Moderately satisfied with what he saw in the reflection, he made his way out of the locker room and down the hall to the sergeant’s office. Getraer smiled when he saw him in the doorway.
"Still fits I see," he said, nodding toward the uniform.
"As well as it ever did, I suppose," he replied, self-consciously shifting the belt again.
Getraer opened his desk drawer and pulled out a shiny star-shaped badge. "It’s good to have you back, Jon. The place hasn’t been the same without you."
Jon took the badge from Getraer and carefully pinned it on his uniform; a tiny smile played at his lips at the pride he felt from the action. "Thanks, Sarge."
"Well, let’s see," Getraer continued. "You’ve had your physical and re-qualified on the firing range and at motor school. Seems that the only thing left is a week’s probation with a certified motor training officer… and I’ve got just the right guy in mind."
Jon grinned and nodded in agreement.
"He’s waiting for you outside."
Jon turned to go, but hesitated. There was so much he wanted to say to the man in front of him, but he had no idea where to start. A simple thank you didn’t seem to be nearly enough. "Sarge, I…"
Getraer looked up from the paperwork covering his desk and made a shooing motion. "Go on. Hit your beat," he said with mock gruffness.
Jon’s smile widened and he knew with just those few words that his sergeant understood.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Ponch turned on the seat of his motor and smiled when he heard the back door of the building open. "Lookin’ good, partner!" he greeted, giving him the thumbs up.
Jon rolled his eyes and strapped the helmet on his head. He took a moment to put on his sunglasses before climbing onto his motor and starting it up. The song of the powerful engine was music to his ears and he knew, right then, that he had come home.
He looked over to Ponch and smiled. "Let’s ride."
The sky was crystal clear and the sun shined warm as the partners zoomed down the highway. It was a perfect day in LA– like a typical summer day on the ranch.
The thought of Wyoming brought a momentary pang of sadness to Jon’s heart. It was the kind of day that his father would have loved. Pushing down the sorrow, he turned his face up toward the sun and smiled. He would just have to enjoy it for both of them.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Author’s Note:
Special thanks to Amy and Mel for their invaluable advice.
For me, writing this story has been a therapeutic labor of love. The death of a love one is always difficult, but the loss of a parent is an especially painful experience. It stirs up a series of confusing emotions from deep within; some are expressed almost immediately, while others lie dormant for months or even years. The road to healing is a long one and I am just beginning my journey.