GIDEON felt like a man crossing a creek on a wobbly log with an underfed wolf waiting on the other side. Aspen sat on the edge of the other examination table, the ever present book open in his hands. For some inexplicable reason, Gideon could not escape a strange, unnamable need to assay were he stood.
“Ain’t ya a-lookin’ for blood?”
“No,” Aspen wedged the dispassionate statement smoothly between the text he was reading.
“Why?”
“Would it do any good?”
Aspen had him there, it probably wouldn’t.
They had to get shut of each other, it was as simple as that. Yet the Rivers wouldn’t hear of it. It was like a couple of deer Gideon had seen once. They had butted heads, entangling their antlers, and each tugged and pulled and neither achieved anything. Gideon hadn’t intended for anyone to become involved— not in his life and definitely not with that ranger. Even so, he could understand where Aspen might hold some adverse opinions regarding that particular matter.
Some folks do take poorly to bein’ a-rrested.
Not that Gideon had planned for things to go that way. He hadn’t actually planned it any way, one thing had just sort of led to another.
“Why did you get rid of the gun?”
“Huh?” Gideon grunted.
Aspen closed the book over his finger. “The ranger’s gun. You harass me until you’re blue and then, when you finally find a gun, you throw it away.”
“Should've kept it,” Gideon half answered.
“And?”
And because the possibility of what could have happened had drawn itself indelibly upon his brain, and because it was Aspen doing the asking, and maybe Gideon sort of felt he owed him a little, he answered.
“Reckon I could-a shot Rydel. Only he din’t need killin’, he needed teachin’.”
“Did you learn anything?” Aspen inquired.
Gideon gave a half snort of self-recrimination. “Yeah, I should’ve shot the dirty no-good in the leg straight off.”
He meant it humorously, yet there was some truth there too. Next time, maybe he should be more hellfire and brimstone. Hitting Rydel in the leg, then dealing with Marcus, might have saved him a right thrashing. Of course, a gunshot echoing through fair Caswell Crossing would have invited men of the tin-star persuasion to inquire as to the reason for such an untoward disturbance— them and any other curious on-looker who happened to pass by. Not exactly the sort of crowd Gideon had wanted at the time.
“What’s Rydel got in his craw nohow?” he wondered. “I ain’t nothin’ to ‘im.”
This time the book was set aside. “Is it over?”
“D’ya mean am I a-fixin’ to go on the prod? Nah.”
“Are you afraid of Rydel?”
That was a bold question one man didn’t normally ask another only, when Aspen said it, it sounded more like asking for directions than calling a man a coward. Gideon supposed he should be scared. Rydel was a brute, he came with his own backup and ‘nice’ did not figure into his character. Sure sounded like someone worth taking a second look at before setting yourself between him and the candy jar.
“I ain’t afeared,” Gideon admitted. Mebbe I should be, but. . .”
“But?”
“I mayn’t’ve gone a-huntin’ Rydel, but a-backin’ up from the likes-a ‘im? I reckon not.”
“Some people might say losing once is sufficient,” Aspen pointed out. “They might say letting Rydel do as he pleases would be a wise decision.”
“Some people got dirt for brains,” Gideon scoffed. “I see’d where that leads.”
The afternoon sunlight, amber and warm, slanted in from the window and highlighted infinitesimal specks of dust that swirled in the air around Aspen’s gently swinging feet. Why was he was having to spell this out? Instinct, that was Gov. Action and reaction without the burden of thinking anything through. He waited a little longer and then gave a helpful nudge.
“When Rydel insults Miss Calder or gangs up on that boy of hers, what will you do?”
“Brace ‘im,” Gideon asserted, without hesitation.
Aspen looked at Gideon then, full and square, determined to have his ward’s complete attention.
“That’s because you’re better than Rydel. Not a better fighter— a better man. You’re tougher and stronger in ways he can’t even begin to understand.”
“You’re just a-blowin’ wind in my sails.”
“No. I’m telling you, Gov, because anyone going through life with your attitude needs to understand,” Aspen insisted, comfortably expounding. “Listen, the Tarlstons of this world come in many shapes and, to one degree or another, they’re everywhere. And they are so afraid of being vulnerable, even for a moment, that they convince themselves the only way to survive is to step on everyone and everything in their path; especially those who, by their very nature, make them feel inferior.”
“I don’t think Tarslton’s afraid-a much,” Gideon observed.
“You’d be surprised, Gov. There’ll be days when you can walk away from his type and trust that life will teach its own lessons. Sometimes, though, you’ll be the instrument of that lesson.” And here Aspen’s seriousness took a dip towards the humorous. “There are, of course, some lessons you could stand to learn yourself.”
“Like when to duck,” Gideon piped up.
The corners of Aspen’s mouth lifted. “That too.”
That too?
What else did Aspen mean? Hadn’t he stood up to Rydel? And Tarlston? If Aspen thought he was going to listen to one more go round about—
Aspen was still grinning, which meant there was something on his mind that he was not saying aloud and yet thought Gideon should be getting.
“Ar mhaith leat tae?” Connell hollered from the kitchen.
“Sure, Doc. Tea’s fine,” Gideon called back.
Aspen’s grin turned mischievous and spread clear across his face.
“Hey, Doc!” he called. Connell popped his head around the door and Aspen asked, “What’s amadan?”
Connell nodded towards Gideon. “Is he calling you that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now wait—” Gideon came to his own defense.
“Smack him,” Connell advised. “Then come get your tea.”
Aspen knuckled Gideon’s head, gave a look that clearly said ‘gotcha’, and went to help Connell.