Page 4 of Burning for You
Levi Holt
The veranda floor creaks under my feet as I take in the view of Random Valley, an enviable piece of Montana, butted up close to the Flathead National Forest. The valley is vast and lush, possessing magic that is capable of drawing tears of veneration from those who behold it. Surrounded by majestic peaks from the Rockies, even the clouds are more beautiful here.
“Here we go, son.” Austin Holt hands me a tall glass of his signature ‘Holty-hearty’ lemonade—a family tradition to welcome travelers, or in my case, a temporarily returning son. He grins when I give him my oh yeah expression.
“It’s been a warm spring, huh?” I say, admiring the fiery sky, a prelude to sunset.
Dad stays silent for a while. He follows my gaze. “One of the things that makes you grateful to be alive.” With a little sigh, he switches his attention to me, nodding at my arm cast. “Healing nicely?”
“I guess so. I should be able to get rid of it in a couple of days.”
“You’re on vacation here as far as I’m concerned. If your brother tries to crack the whip on you, just ignore him.”
Good old Jesse. He’s a dread to come home to, but he’s a fixture of Random Valley whether I like it or not.
My gaze shoots at the barrier fence running along the west boundary. The ranch has changed yet again. The Holt clan pride has now shrunk to half of its original size. At least Dad didn’t sell the portion on the river side, even though it would’ve given him enough cash to retire.
“I’m gonna clean the Cessna. Coops is taking it south tomorrow,” he says and heads to the hangar.
I don’t even know who Coops is, but clearly, Dad is evading my silent query about the future of our ranch.
Halfway through my drink, I catch sight of a trespasser. We get the odd hikers who unintentionally end up in our property, or casual troublemakers, but that man is a fucking horse thief!
Abandoning Dad’s lemonade, I grab my old man’s rifle and stride toward the intruder. “Hey!” I yell. With every step, I find myself pointing the barrel higher to keep it at his head level—this guy could well be Michael Phelps’ cousin. Besides, he looks too well-dressed for a thief, especially in this part of Montana. “You’re not going anywhere with those horses!”
One of the animals, Grudge, thrashes around when he spots me. I haven’t seen my equine friend in a year, and there’s no way in hell that horse is leaving this ranch.
The man replies, “You look awkward holding that rifle with one arm, son. You’re from California?”
One arm or two arms, I could shoot the son of a bitch right in the noggin.
“It’s all in the paperwork,” he adds, showing me a bill of sale.
Highpoint Properties and Investment.
“Blue Jay! Let the man go!” Dad calls.
Dad knows him?
Before I can say ‘hell no,’ a gunshot blares from my left, followed by the bullet swishing past my shoulder. The suited man in front of me jumps back, instantly relinquishing his grip on the bill.
The paper lands on the ground. A hole, almost slap-bang in the middle of the page, reminds me that people do shoot here.
Especially my brother.
The figure of Jesse Holt approaches us fast. He points his rifle right at the intruder’s head, saying, “Get the fuck out of our land, Rupert!”
“So, you know who I am,” the man says, chuckling. “My guys told me this would be the kind of hospitality I’d get around here. Well, I’ll be back. Nice to see you, Jesse—and Blue Jay.” He winks at me.
My name is Levi, but apparently, when I was born there were a pair of blue jays singing outside of my parent’s windows. Hence the nickname. I hate the fact that a stranger has gotten familiar with it.
As if nothing had happened, the man named Rupert retreats into his truck.
I sling the rifle over my shoulder, and snatch Grudge’s and the other horse’s reins.
Jesse sneers at me. “You were looking cool, handling that rifle Sarah Connor style. How about actually using it? The trigger’s there for somethin’!”
“Good to see you, brother. I’m fine, by the way.” I glance at my dad, who is standing on the path between the house and the hangar, face as stressed as overstretched leather. He gives a small shake of his head and then trudges back into the plane garage, his man-cave.