Dry Ridge to Redemption: Rocket Roberts, #2

1

Escape

They could have built the shack five years or fifty years earlier. Much past its first birthday on a small island in the middle of the Okefenokee Swamp, no building looked or felt new. The construction of the unregulated land was standard. It was little more than raw vertical boards over a two-by-four stud frame. Boards nailed between the studs provided shelves to put necessary items in a nod to utility and domestication. The white metal kitchen cabinets, in a silent war with rust, helped. The counters of Formica glued to plywood were already rippling from moisture, mold, and where an errant hot pan shouldn’t have been put—again.

The rough-woven army surplus blankets thrown over the failings of a couch or chair best described the rest of the furniture found on a curb with a sign reading free. The beds weren’t much more. The government didn’t care for spending any attention or money on a remote safe house in a poor state.

Rose set the plate and bowl of food down on the table. Her right hand stealthily turned the phone over, and the short text reappeared. She read it and turned it back face down before one of the special agents caught her snooping. For three days, the man had been getting texts he said were from his pregnant wife. This text confirmed Rose’s suspicions about the imminent danger to her and her daughter.

The FBI special agent and owner of the phone came out of the bathroom. He looked at the bowl of beef stew and turned back into the bathroom, closing the door.

The blond agent in the kitchen heard the snick of the lock and swore. He turned and leaned purposefully against the counter, his hands spread on the sides of his guts. Rose walked to the coffee pot and poured another mug. As she turned to stir some sugar in, she added a few drops of eyewash. She had learned the trick many years before from an older prostitute.

She had told Rose, When you don’t want to have sex with your trick, get him shitting his brains out, and he won’t have time to think of anything else.

Rose turned as she innocently stirred the added milk. She looked at the special agent. Here. The cream will help settle your stomach. I don’t think those eggs this morning were fresh. Even Sydney’s stomach has been giving her trouble. And she has one of those cast-iron teenager constitutions.

The man took the mug and gulped at the coffee.

Rose pulled at her thick jet-black hair flowing from the wide Navajo hair brooch. Her face still held the exotic look of either Japanese or Mexican, depending on how she dressed. Her almond-shaped eyes were full, but the coloring of ultra-dark brown blended with the pupil had always been framed with thick, long lashes. Even on dates as a call girl, she had never needed to wear false eyelashes.

The movement through the sparse forest outside the window behind the special agent caught her eye. Down closer to the water, her daughter had her light blue book bag and Rose’s purse. She disappeared behind the water tank to wait for Rose.

Rose looked back at the thin door to the bathroom. She reached out to the wall and grabbed a roll of toilet paper stacked on the shelf. Pulling her face in a look of disgust and impatience, she turned to the special agent assigned to protect her. I can’t wait for him. I’m going to go find a bush. If you do the same… She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. You go that way. I’m going down there where the bushes are thicker.

The man groaned as he rubbed his gut. Good idea.

She tossed him the roll and grabbed one more. The special agent opened the back door with a rush. Rose took the opportunity to grab the cell phone from the table and slip it in her back pocket.

As she walked down through the sparse tossing of trees toward the water tank close to the beach, she watched the lanky special agent moving further out the back. Now it was just a waiting game. But she also knew from the text it wouldn’t be much longer.

Approaching her younger self, the alternative plan formed in her head. The boat coming with men sent to kill her needed taking care of as well. A short boat chase of only a couple of miles was not an escape. They needed a head start of at least several hours.

Behind the water tank was a stack of firewood. It was more of a prop to make the homestead look lived-in than something people would use for heat near the Florida border. She looked around among the wood and tarpaulin.

What are you looking for, Mom? The teen stood with her bookbag hanging limply at her leg. Her thick head of straight black hair hung in a ponytail to her waist. The silver clasp was a smaller version of her mother’s sizable squash-blossom brooch. In a ruffian’s hat on her long-sleeve T-shirt, the toothy bulldog mascot was inconsistent with the wide-eyed young face.

Rose stood. She held out the ax and the splitting maul. Her smile was larger than the two instruments of backaches would usually arouse. Just what we’re going to need.

The sound of the airboat caused them to turn and then duck behind the woodpile. Rose shushed Sydney and then explained. All that texting with agent Roy and his supposed pregnant wife…?

Sydney nodded and peeked over at the approaching boat.

It was one of Alex Nyack’s guys down at Delta Camp. His name is Don Sykes, a former Marine. He runs most of the canned hunts. If he’s coming, he’s coming armed, and it’s not about being pleasant. They weren’t ever going to hide us or protect us. When the men get up toward the house, we need to sneak out the dock. While I try to get the airboat started, I need you to chop holes in the bottom of the aluminum skiff. We need to sink it. Can you do that?

Sydney nodded as they heard the engine on the airboat stop. She whispered, Just like chopping wood at scout camp.

They hunkered down further, preparing to sneak around the backside of the pile of wood.

2

Daybreak

Maa Me."

The bray echoed hollow and forlorn.

Maa Me.

Rocket pulled her eyes wide to break the dry crust of sleep. Jeez, Baby. Spoiled rotten turd.

Throwing back the blanket and sheet, she rolled on her side and swung her legs out. The large purple bruise, turning yellow and green, caught at the edge of the mattress. She bit at her lower lip.

Sitting up, she slowly rubbed at the bruise spreading from the knee to almost her hip. For the millionth time, she swore she would never train the spoiled pony of a spoiled child. But she knew she was lying. The girl had Crohn’s and Down’s and was almost blind. The pony had been abused at one time, and the parents bought it without knowing. The girl was already in love when the dangerous habit arose. It was Rocket’s job to break the habit, teach the girl how to care for her pony and ride.

Maa Me. Me. Me.

She looked to make sure at least one window was open. Damn it, Baby. I’m coming. She scratched under her left boob as she stood. She fell back onto the bed. Damn!

Now ready for the pain, she stood, found her balance, and hobbled to the bathroom.

She stood at the mirror as the toilet finished flushing. The wild hair, half-closed eye below the healing three-inch scab from running into a swinging gate, and numerous aches and pains had her grab at the institution-sized bottle of aspirin. She shook out a small handful and then looked at the mirror. Who knew forty-eight could look and feel so fucked?

She filled the glass and washed the aspirin down and gave herself a wild, wide-eyed look. Don’t judge.

Maa MEE.

Fuck.

Pulling on fresh panties, yesterday’s jeans, socks, and boots, she considered skipping the bra and T-shirt. And then she remembered the reaction from one horse on the last trail ride. She pulled out a fresh sports bra and grabbed the shirt off the top of the stack. Standing and walking in the tall brush-guard boots helped to steady her. Or at least she told herself it did.

Maa Me.

Holding the railing the entire way, she wobbled down the stairs. The front door stood open. These days, with the nicer weather, it hardly ever closed. She whistled.

A large black streak rounded the corner of the barn and met Rocket at the bottom of the stairs. She grabbed at the big floppy ears and gave the dog a full-frontal kiss. The returned tongue was wet, sloppy, and enthusiastic. How’s my Pink? Huh, sweetie? Rocket started to walk. Were you out having fun with Auntie Dot? Is she doing something fun?

Rocket could hear the bellows stoking the morning fire of the forge. Why she didn’t run an electric fan in these modern days was beyond Jolie.

Under the large extended roof on the barn, Dot had set up two complete blacksmiths shops. Between forging custom horseshoes, learning wrought-iron work from Fernando, and making swords and knives, her days were crammed.

Many days when Fernando came to visit, Rocket liked to sit on the fence watching the two working—Fernando creating art deep in the back smithy, while Dot created custom shoes for difficult hooves in the front. Watching Dot delicately work her way around the long-nosed anvil at the edge of the corral calmed Jolie’s soul. The nose was so long, the small end at the tip was perfect for creating even the miniature shoes for the thirty-inch tiny horses. She was even getting a reputation big enough to call for the brown truck to stop by.

Rocket called out as she heard the mechanical bellows pause. Hey, Dot.

Dot’s muted call of good morning was interspersed by the sound of a large hammer taking heavy hits on the anvil. Thousands of hits measured her days.

Maa Meeee.

Stop it, Baby, or you’ll suck your tongue down your throat. The cathedral-like space of the barn was dark but warm from the several horses. And one spoiled donkey.

Maa Me. Me. Me.

Yes, Baby. Mommy is here. Rocket opened the door to the first stall, and the donkey shot past and spun. Rocket turned to embrace the head as the donkey pushed its forehead against her entire body. Rocket’s hands scratched back along the sides of the head and jaws. The sound of the soft bray sounded like a cross between a cry and purring.

Rocket leaned forward and kissed Baby between the ears as Pink wove in and out of the four stationary legs. What would my morning be without turning you loose?

She laid her head sideways on the bony head between the ears. She remembered the phone call from an old friend running a pack station near Yosemite. The call was random but started Broken Ride Acres.

There was a seven-year-old pack donkey, kicked in the head by another. It set off a behavior they couldn’t break. The donkey refused to be in a pack-line, even if she was the lead donkey. She was kicking out stalls during the day but also hated the corral overnight. At night she was only content locked snug and safe in a stall. She was only happy during the day following the pack station’s owner around like a lovesick puppy.

Following him into the office and then kicking apart the front counter had been the last straw. It was either dog meat, the glue factory, or someone who could deal with a ruined pack donkey.

A couple of days and Rocket had figured out the broken donkey. First, the name Zelda had to go. It was too close to zero. Any donkey who could haul hundreds of pounds of supplies up the Sierra Nevada Mountains was no zero—even if a darker-gray circle surrounded the one eye. The next was figuring out where and when she was happy. Roaming free to see what was going on by day was good, but she was only secure closed in her stall at night unless they took her out for a trail ride.

Rocket was teaching the city-raised Dot to ride by taking trail rides. Most were only a day or two, but they had taken a few into the mountains separating the Santa Ynez Valley from California’s Central Valley.

Rocket enjoyed the quiet of the long rides but loved watching Dot find out about muscles her knowledge of mixed martial arts had never exposed her to. Rocket never gave up a hint she was relearning about the same muscles. She had stayed in shape during her seven years in prison, but the muscles from weightlifting weren’t the same. Turning forty-seven hadn’t helped her ego, either, but the trail rides also helped ease her Jolie-Rocket split personality. The rodeo gave name to her wilder, burning-balls-to-the-walls, tougher-than-an-angry-steer side. Even before she found her last rodeo champion mount, Thunder, she was known to launch from the chute like a rocket. Drunk in the bars, she took to a fight just as fast. The burn, heat, and explosive nature fit the name. But she had her nurturing side, as well. The side that preferred teaching little girls on even smaller ponies. Getting a grasp on controlling the beast and holding fast to the gentle was always a struggle.

Hey, Jolie? The call came from the closed-in section of the barn. It was the large room where Dot kept her grinding equipment for making knives and swords.

Rocket turned toward the open access door from the barn. Yeah, Dot?

Mike texted he was starting out.

Rocket snorted breathy into the donkey’s head. Mommy time was over. Okay. I’ll go start the bacon.

Dot stepped into the doorway. Her natural hair of twisties was standing straight up through the broken top of her grinding helmet. We’re out. I think we’re down to just elk steaks and bubble gum.

Rocket laughed at the old joke. Nope. Chewed the last bubble gum three nights ago when Punchy was home. She looked down at the large black cane corso dog. Well, Pink. Looks like you have to suffer eating some elk trimmings.

The dog’s large, floppy ears slapped as she turned and shot through the barn door before Jolie. The donkey followed. Jolie threw some hay in Baby’s trough, then made her rounds through the barn. All nine horses had come to her with a problem the previous owner no longer wanted to deal with. Head shy, flinch kicker, saddle shy, bit shy, or just turned mean for no reason, Jolie had taken them in. Only one horse in a year and a half had she ever judged to put down. A horse turning ornery because it’s filled with painful cancer can’t be changed. Painkillers and other drugs can only do so much.

As she walked past the doorway into Dot’s grinding room, Jolie stopped and frowned. Hey, Dot?

Jolie could hear the steel come away from the grinding belt. The silence was only broken by the dull hum of the powerful motor. Dot probably still had her grinding helmet down covering her face, but she could still hear. Did Mike say if he was riding or walking?

The woman in the stretched black tank top stepped back into the doorway. Her cut muscles already glowed with sweat from wielding the heavy hammer and the hot forge. She raised the helmet from her face as her eyes danced across empty air that Jolie knew to be the text on her phone. Finally, the woman pulled the phone out of her back pocket and thumbed it open.

He just say he startin’ out. She looked up with a frown, and then her face cleared except the black freckles across her walnut face. I wouldn’t be no hurry. Until that gelding, Stonewall gets used to his new thicker horseshoes, he gonna be shy ’bout putting rider weight on his hoof.

Rocket sucked her lower lip in and squeaked her teeth. The horse was a mix of thoroughbred and Bashkir—a curly-coated dray horse. The breeder was trying to make a riding horse that was hypoallergenic. The result of his experiment was the frog in the horse’s hoof was prone to damage. Well, I hope he has enough smarts to at least lead him over here and make him walk on those new shoes. Standing around in his corral doesn’t do anyone good.

Jolie looked down the alley of the large barn at the heads out of their stalls. All fine-looking horses—and one way or another, all broken rides.

She turned toward the large open doors. I’ll go cut some meat.

In the sunshine, she looked back at the wrought iron letters over the barn doors. The sign needed a few more letters and flourishes, but in her heart, the sign had always been there. Broken Ride Acres meant just as much about the horses as the two women.

The seven years of prison had, in some ways, instilled more than it had taken away from Rocket. But the years were a constant reminder of her mother no longer here. After, it was a reminder of the worst kinds of betrayal—that of a lifelong best friend. Friendships would never come easy. Trusting others would take the same trail. But every day she had Dot and Punchy, it got easier, or at least she knew she wasn’t alone. Mike had always been a constant in her life. His renting the new house she was building for him kept him closer than ever.

Dot had given up her title and career as a mixed martial arts heavyweight champion. The last seconds of the last round of her last fight had made headlines in the sport around the world. The blow was her signature move of Dotting her opponent’s eye. Unfortunately, that night her opponent was her best friend. And what they didn’t know was she had a brain bleed. With the single blow to the head, Dot had won the title but lost her friend. Soon after, she would lose her father, who had taught her how to make knives and swords, to a random shooting in a liquor store.

Both women shrouded themselves in their friendship and the quiet nature of the ranch’s four-square miles. Or a quiet trail ride. It wasn’t lost on the men in their lives—the initials of the ranch weren’t about testosterone.

3

Galveston

The twin-engine airplane turned west in a lazy, gentle curve over the open water of Galveston Bay. Rose smelled the rank fumes rising from the sun-cooked dead water. The century of oil, diesel, and gas pollution only got flushed out every few years by a hurricane. This was not the year the toilet got flushed.

The cloying stench reminded her of the dead oil fields hidden in the southwest industrial stretches of Los Angeles. Only the coppery tang of blood and rendering around the Jimmy Dean sausage plant in East Los Angeles had repulsed her more. It was old death versus active death. The bay water was a slaughterhouse. As they flew along the bay, the lack of any boats sailing or anyone fishing confirmed the death of the water.

The white wings cast a slight shadow as they crossed the pollution choked Pelican Island. Even the low-lying creosote bushes were the color of old oil on the landscape.

The pilot, Jerry, pointed out his window. Galveston. His headphones hung on the hook between the door and front windshield. He hadn’t pulled them over his large blond curls the entire time since leaving his dock east of Mexican Beach on the Hidden Coast of Florida. Rose wondered if he ever flew anywhere that he had to talk to flight control of any kind. She knew the stack of three instead of two radios was unusual except for smugglers. The third radio was a short-band used by those standing on empty dirt roads or boats out past the three-mile mark.

His narrative of sight-seeing had sprinkled the long six-hundred-mile flight. He had pointed to the distant land they were skirting and explained. Loo-see-anna. And then minutes later had broken into a lengthy lecture of, NoLins up that-a-way. It had been entertaining in its own way.

The single-engine plane groaned as Jerry pulled up and over the Gulf Highway Bridge and then let back down on the other side. As they skimmed the southern edge of a small island, he lowered the left wing and swung back, heading southeast. The flat land on both sides was lightly dusted