Free Theft by BK Loren Page B

because of it. He didn’t so much remember riding her across this field as he felt it still happening, as if the land had absorbed and retained every memory he had of the place. Just walking across the meadow brought those days back to life again. Some things can’t be taken away.
    It was late afternoon by the time he made his way to Gnarly’s. When he arrived, the doors were unlocked, but the place was not officially open. Inside, helping himself to an early shot or two of whiskey, sat Ody, the town blacksmith and farrier, the one who had fashioned Chey and Rosalita’s shoes over the years. When Zeb entered, Ody stood up and slapped him on the back. “Impressive show yesterday, my friend.” He laughed. “It was a goddamn parade of lights winding up to your place, right.” He walked to the top-shelf whiskey, selected the Buffalo Trace, and poured two shots. “On me,” he said. Zeb took a seat at the bar and Ody joined him. “Zeb Robbins. Always good for a little home entertainment.”
    â€œThose guys had a right yesterday,” Zeb said. Ody shook his head and laughed.
    There was a red and white target hand-painted on a thick piece of plywood that made up the side of one wall of the bar. Without words, with just a glance of friendly competition, the two men stood up. Hanging from Ody’s belt was his weapon of choice, a hatchet, the one he used for hunting rabbits and other small game. He took it from his sheath, and Zeb walked to the target and unwedged one of four hatchets
already lodged in the wood of the target. “You couldn’t hit the side of a barn,” Ody laughed.
    â€œYeah. Luckily, we’re not aiming for the side of a barn.” Zeb laughed too. For the next half hour or so, the two men stood at an imaginary line and tossed the hatchets into the bull’s-eye, shredding the wood there. It surprised Ody, who thought he had the corner on hatchet hunting, was known for being able to make a clean hit on something as small and quick as a rabbit running through heavy brush. “Shit, Zeb, you gotta come into town more often,” Ody said, after a while.
    â€œYeah, it’s crossed my mind,” said Zeb.
    Out of breath, Ody sat down at the bar again. “So what’s the deal this time around? Did you break into that new health food store and reprice everything on the shelves?”
    Zeb shook his head. “I never reprice everything. Just, you know, the cheese for twenty-two dollars a pound. Shit like that.” Ody laughed and Zeb smiled along with him.
    Closer to opening time, Frank, the owner and bar tender, came in, saw Zeb sitting there, and smiled wide. He slapped Zeb on the back with pride. “Fuckin Zeb Robbins,” Frank said. “On the run again, my friend?”
    â€œSomething like that, yeah,” Zeb said.
    â€œWell, we gotchya covered,” Frank said. “Everyone around here, we look after our own. Couldn’t pry a speck of information out of anyone I’d allow in Gnarly’s. You know that.”
    â€œI know,” Zeb said.
    Ody handed Frank some cash for the whiskey they’d drunk, and Frank walked behind the bar and started getting ready for the evening. Ginger, Nick, Thad, and Bobby came in carrying their guitars and fiddles, and Zeb and Ody helped them set up on the small stage.
    â€œSpecial requests tonight?” Bobby asked.
    â€œSomething good,” Zeb said.
    â€œLike Gram Parsons,” Ody said, and the lead singer, Ginger, barely in her twenties, shook her head at the two old men and their weary tastes. It wasn’t long after that when Gnarly’s started
filling up with locals, most gathering earlier than usual tonight to hear the news about what was happening up at Zeb’s place. They wanted to get the true story straight from the man himself.
    But Zeb had nothing to say about it. As far as he was concerned, there was no news he could tell any of the folks at