The Country Duet(8)

“You know I had a son.”

I look up at him, shocked by his words.

“Not paying you to stand there.”

I continue sorting more scrap metal for Dave while he talks about his past.

“Died when he was twenty-two years old in a boating accident. You know one of those fast ones. It was a jet boat race. Wife left me when I was in my thirties. Woke up one morning and she was gone. Lost touch with my son for several years, then had a good few years with him before he died. My brother died a few years ago. Ain’t got no one around here.”

I don’t dare stop working. Dave is serious about getting my work in and often reminds me he’s paying me a hell of a lot of money. In his book, four hundred dollars is the magic number and well above what he should be paying me for the work I do. I haven't seen a paycheck yet. None of that really matters right now, not even his cranky ass attitude. This man is all alone, dying on the farm he loves. This may be junk in my hands, but it’s his treasure.

“I’m real sorry about that, Dave.”

“Ain’t much of a people person.”

“No shit,” I reply, smiling, hoping it doesn’t piss him off.

“No shit.” He smirks. “Seems I kind of like you.”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a smartass comment. I keep focused on sorting, but can hear Dave walking around. It’s hard not to hear his bones grind against each other with each step. The sound is very unsettling.

“You paying attention, Hunter?” Dave slaps my shoulder. “Move that box there and just toss them in. It would be a lot faster.”

Our warm, fuzzy moment didn’t last long, and I didn’t miss the fact he’s called me by my name and not boy a few times now. Baby steps with this man might be the only way. He stays over my shoulder for the next couple of hours, critiquing every single one of my moves, shredding my last ounce of patience. It’s sorting shit for God sakes, we’re not building a damn space rocket.

I’m not used to having someone over my shoulder dictating each move. Dad, Grandpa, and Uncle taught me once back home and then expected I’d follow through. Mistakes weren’t an option, and their respect is all I ever craved. Hell, I was thrown on horseback at five years old and was told to keep up, and I did.

“Next week we will start working on those babies.” He points over to a line of tractors. “Got some work to do to get them back together.”

That’s an understatement if I’ve heard one.

I do perk up at the suggestion though. “Have my own metal art company back home. Love welding on the ranch.”

“Well, you won’t be welding here. I need perfection and no one knows how to use my welder.”

My tongue should be bleeding with how many times I’ve had to bite down on it today. I’m not about to get into a pissing match with him over welding.

Two men walk into the shop, startling the shit out of me. Dave’s hearing is so bad he doesn’t hear them approach. I look past them to spot a vehicle since I never heard one pull in.

“Excuse me,” one of them speaks first.

Dave still doesn’t hear them.

“Dave.” I reach over and tap his shoulder.

He looks up at the two men, then turns back to whatever he was doing.

“Dave,” I repeat, getting his attention.

“Got our truck stuck in the mud. Any way we could get some help?”

“What?” Dave hollers.

They step further into the shop. The other man tries his luck at talking.

“Our truck is stuck and needs help,” he says, louder this time.

Dave cranes his neck to me. “What the fuck they say?”

Before I have a chance to translate, one of them begins talking to me.

“You know where the motorcycle jumps are?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Buried our truck down there.”

“Shit.” I grab the back of my neck. “That’s a good three miles out.”

“Yeah, we’ve tried everything and can’t get it out.”

Dave slams the top of a table. “Get the fuck out!”

“We just need some help.”

“You’re trespassing, and it’s fucking illegal. Get the fuck out!”

The two men turn and leave, not asking another question. I remain shocked in place. The pieces slowly falling together. Dave does not care for people. But the million-dollar question still lingers…why me?

“Could’ve been a bit nicer,” I tell him.

“Bastards are trespassing, trying to steal my stuff.”

“They needed help, Dave.”

“They can fuck off.”

We walk back to the house. The urge to bend over and pick him up hits me hard. The sound his body makes is too much to take and is starting to make me nauseous.

“Dave, don’t punch me.”

“Uh?” He keeps his eyes on the dirt path, his neck not having much range of motion.

I bend over and scoop him up. I tense, waiting for his fists or at least a good assault with his nasty words. The sound of his body not creaking and cracking with each step is immediate relief. The sound is way worse than sharp nails down a chalkboard.

“Thank you, Hunter.”

Kind words coming out of Dave are enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I thought I had a tongue-lashing coming my way. Once I set him down on the porch and make sure he has his legs underneath him, I swear he growls at me before going into his house.