The Wrong Foot
A Rainey Wingate story by K.C. Riggs
Hi Folks, This is a guest story, submitted for your leisurely perusal and enjoyment. K.C. Riggs is a friend and an excellent storyteller. This story and several others in the Rainey Wingate series will be published in a forthcoming collection in the next month or so.
You can read about K.C. immediately after the story. In the meantime, enjoy …
The Wrong Foot
Chapter 1
What an arrogant son of a—she bit her tongue to stop the end of that thought. She was working. She shouldn’t even cuss in her head.
Surely he’d heard her drive up. She’d been a little worried about the pickup all day. Just because it was a government truck didn’t mean it wouldn’t leave her walking. It roared like the tail pipe had fallen off and sounded like it wasn’t hitting on all cylinders.
The chickens in the headquarters yard had fled well in front of her as she pulled in and now three old dogs came limping up, barking their heads off.
And still he stood, his back to her, bent over a metal work bench under an enormous mesquite tree.
She wasn’t turning the truck off, that was for sure. This was her last stop and not looking to be the friendliest of the day. She didn’t want to have to ask for help from—what was this one’s name? Anyway, she didn’t a jump start from someone who was clearly ignoring her presence.
She nudged the front bumper up against a pile of railroad ties, put it in neutral and took her foot off the brake. The truck didn’t move. That was a good sign. The emergency brake didn’t work—how could a government agency send out trucks without a working emergency brake? She leaned over and picked up the rock from the passenger side floorboard—her emergency brake—and the clipboard with the last interview of the day clipped on it and got out.
All three dogs came up to greet her as she wedged the rock under the front driver’s side tire. The Australian Shepherd was first, a fat, sausage-shaped thing that looked like it might shake itself off its feet wagging its stub tail. Then a tall, rangy hound mix with long ears and sad eyes, baying like he’d treed a lion. Last, and a bit standoffish was a red heeler, with one cloudy eye and one ear that looked like it had been on the losing end of a fight with a Sawzall.
The heeler hung back until it saw that the other two were getting some good scratches, then it pushed its way to the front and demanded the same.
She’d put the clipboard between her knees so she had both hands free to pet the dogs, and the clip on the pen was broken so she had it between her teeth. The heeler was making little grunts of pleasure while it got a double-handed scratch at the base of its tail. Of course she was talking to the dogs through the pen held in her teeth.
Then she saw the toes of the boots just beyond the dog.
They were old boots, work-boot, lace-up style. They weren’t so much scratched as slashed, as if they’d been in the same fight that left the heeler’s ear in tatters. The bottoms of the Levis were starting to fray and the fabric was faded to a light sky blue. She knew they were Levis without thinking. The fabric had a different weave and a denser look than those newer brands.
The boots didn’t move and no sound came from the owner.
She stopped scratching the dog—and stopped telling it what a good dog it was—straightened up, brushing the dog hair and dander and yard dust onto her new Levis.
So that’s how she met him, with a clipboard clamped between her knees, a pen between her teeth and a drift of dog hair around her and stuck to both hands, with the old truck coughing and stinking behind her.
It seemed to take a long time to see all the way up to his face. The Levis went on for a long way, then a plain brown leather belt, no fancy buckle, followed by a paper-thin, faded plaid western shirt, arms folded across the chest. By the time she reached the shoulders she was looking up slightly.
Later, on the trip back to town, she had a hard time recalling the rest of his face. But there was no forgetting those eyes. Even narrowed in a scowl at her, they were a striking turquoise blue.
She gave her right hand an extra rub on her pants and held it out.
Chapter 2
What a damned nuisance, another know-nothing, time-sucking, government bureaucrat, here to help. He made mental quotation marks around the last bit. He was sure that’s who it was, even though he hadn’t listened to the two voice mail messages left for him. He’d recognized the local Ag Department phone number. He knew the sounds of all the neighborhood pickup trucks and that wasn’t one of them.
He could also tell without turning around, by the hesitant way it pulled into the jumble of old ranch buildings. All the relatives and neighbors, even the UPS man barreled right in, expecting the chickens, dogs, horses and occasional dogie calves to have sense enough to get out of the way.
The truck had been idling for several minutes now. Evidently it wasn’t going away. He debated whether to continue ignoring it, walk away or give up and talk to them. He really didn’t want to do that. It felt like losing somehow. The rational part of his mind told him to get it over with. They weren’t going to quit until they’d filled out their required paperwork. That’s what you get for taking government money, the voice of his father said clearly in his head.
Well, now his concentration was blown for sure. He hated when his father spoke in his head. It just reminded him that he couldn’t speak to him in person any longer. He put the wrench down on the work bench, made sure all the parts of the pump he had taken apart were going to stay put on the bench and turned around with a resigned sigh.
And it was all his—oh—her fault.
There, in front of the Ag Department old beater pickup, a girl was bent over petting the dogs. Great. They’d sent some girl out to harass him with paperwork she probably didn’t even understand. He was surprised she even knew how to drive a stick shift. If she’d ever even ridden a horse, it was probably in some fancy English saddle, around and around in an arena. He huffed and stomped over to get it over with. But he’d show her for messing up his afternoon. He needed to get that pump repaired and the pipeline to the lower pastures flowing again.
He did notice that she’d eased the truck up against the railroad ties and saw the big rock behind the tire. But he was already annoyed enough that the importance of that didn’t sink in. He walked right up in front of her and she was so busy playing with the dogs, she didn’t even notice. He couldn’t tell too much about her all bent over like that. She had dark brown hair in a long thick braid that fell over her shoulder and almost dragged on the ground. She wore a pink button down shirt and jeans that were obviously new, the blue was so dark it almost looked black. And she was talking to the dogs like they were babies.
He folded his arms across his chest and waited. It took long enough for her to notice him. He could tell when she did. She froze, and then moved slowly, methodically, one thing at a time.
First she stopped scratching Rounder, pulling her fingers out of the thick fur, coated with red and white hair. Then she wiped both hands on her brand-new pants, without looking up or standing up. Swiped them across the front and then backs of her thighs, leaving a thick trail of dog hair stuck there.
As she started straightening up, still not looking up, he noticed that she was standing funny, her knees bent together. Was she handicapped? Crap, now he’d have to be civil. Then as she straightened further he could see that she was holding a clipboard between her knees. A real winner they’d sent this time all right.
She finally stood straight and lifted her head up to look at his face. He almost laughed out loud at the pen held between her teeth then saw the flash of her eyes, big dark brown eyes, almost black. He couldn’t read the look she gave him, but had to adjust his opinion a bit. She wasn’t dumb, he could tell that, and she wasn’t ugly.
But she was still wasting his time, he reminded himself, squeezing his arms across his chest a little tighter and glaring a little harder.
She just wiped her right hand on her pants again and held it out, her gaze never faltering.
Chapter 3
“You have dog hair on your nose,” he said, not offering his hand. As she wiped it off with the back of her hand and took the pen from her mouth he added, “And why is that damn truck still running?”
“You can hear it,” she jerked her head back toward the truck, her braid swinging back over her shoulder. “I’m afraid it won’t start if I turn it off.” She took the clipboard from between her knees and held it up. “If we can just do this interview, I can get out of here.”
“You don’t have an appointment,” he said, arms still crossed.
“That’s because you didn’t answer your phone or listen to my voicemails.”
“I’ve got more important things to do than listen to a whole bunch of—”
“Two.”
He opened his mouth.
“Only two. A week apart,” she added. “This’ll take ten minutes if we just do it.”
They stared at each other.
“Or, I can go back to the office and put your project file on the bottom of the pile. It ought to come back up to the top by next summer.”
She half turned as if to walk back to the truck. That braid hung down past her waist and was as thick as his wrist. And those were Levis she was wearing. Who was she?
But the words were out of his mouth before he knew it. “If you had any idea what my project was it might be worth my time to humor you. But you don’t look like you know a heifer from a steer, or a range improvement from Tupperware.”
She whirled back, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Then he got a sick, tight feeling in his gut when she slowly smiled and her left eyebrow arched. She barely came up to his shoulder but he had the feeling she was towering over him.
She slapped the clipboard against the side of her leg. “I don’t expect you to take my word for it. But you might ask Tom Wylie what I know.” She was back at the truck in two strides.
“Tom?” he said. “You know Tom Wylie?” He realized immediately how dumb that sounded. Around here everybody knew Tom Wylie. The question was, how did she?
By the time he could move, she had pulled the rock from behind the tire, opened the door, put the rock and clipboard on the seat and climbed into the cab. He started toward the truck but she was already backing up.
She slowed and leaned her head out the open window. “I’m sorry, we didn’t get properly introduced, Mister…” she paused, picked up the clipboard, looked at it and put it back down. “Mr. Wingate. I’m Rainey Wylie.”
The clutch caught with a jerk and she backed around him. She shifted again and rolled slowly by him toward the road. “But if you’d listened to my messages…” she shrugged and drove off.
Rio Wingate stood there staring after the smoking truck and felt something on his foot. He looked down to see Rounder sitting on his foot, looking up at him with that superior smirk that heelers have.
“Oh, shut up.”
*******
About the Author
K. C. Riggs was born in and has lived in many of the nooks and crannies of Arizona. She now lives in the beautiful wine country of southeast Arizona. She loves traveling and is working on getting the bucket list shorter than the been-there list.
She is the author of several short stories, including several other Rainey Wingate stories, two previous novels and she works in several genres: suspense, humor and magic realism to name a few. You can find her work at your favorite online retailer or ask your local library.