Chapter Text
“Come on, Bass. You owe me,” Miles cajoled as he made eye contact with the bartender and raised his empty glass, the universal sign of a bar patron wilting.
He’d been pestering his friend for over an hour and had yet to make any progress. Honestly, he didn’t know why Bass was resisting—both men knew that eventually Miles would come out the victor here. He just had to keep pestering until he got what he wanted. The tactic had worked, without fail for over forty years.
“Remind me again why you can’t go?” Bass asked wearily. Oh yes, he was wearing down.
Miles made a disgusted face and said, “Because I hate that kind of shit, that’s why.”
That he’d been implying Bass did like that sort of thing wasn’t overlooked, at least that’s what it seemed like when the color rose to Bass’ cheeks. Long ago, the fallen general actually had liked that sort of thing, although Miles knew he’d never admit it aloud.
With winter in full swing, the town of Red River, New Mexico had decided to celebrate their recent annexation into Texas with a few old holiday traditions. One of which had been to break out some dilapidated old tourist sleighs and offer rides for a price.
When Texas had decided that it was worth dragging the former state of New Mexico out of wasteland status, the population in the old resort town had boomed. It now was a bustling town with a population of 856 new Texas citizens—almost double its permanent pre-blackout population and the tickets for the event had sold out quickly.
Somehow Charlie had gotten swept up in the fervor and had purchased two tickets for the last ride before Christmas—the most sought after ride that would take participants through the surrounding countryside before returning to town and dropping them off for midnight mass at the town’s lone cathedral.
And, for reasons that Miles still couldn’t quite fathom, his daughter had decided that he, Miles Matheson would be her companion for the event. She hadn’t asked him before she’d gone and done it. If she had, she’d have received a resounding “Hell No!” But, she hadn’t asked him and he’d been trying to worm his way out of it ever since.
Maybe he’d have been a reluctant victim in other circumstances—if Rachel had lived, maybe the thought of holiday cheer wouldn’t have sent him into panic mode. But, circumstances being what they were, he felt he had better things to do than freeze his balls off and suffer a tedious church service. It was to be avoided at all cost—and Miles had decided that Bass would pay the piper for him. Now, if only he’d be a good little pain in the ass and agree to it.
“I’ll think about it,” Bass finally allowed with an annoyed sigh.
“Well, don’t take too long,” Miles said. “If you don’t go with her, that means the only alternative to torturing me with the holidays would be for her to go with Dove.” He added a shudder for emphasis.
“Dove? Why the hell would she wanna do that?”
Malcolm Dove had arrived in Red River shortly before Bass had. Despite the Ranger’s disdain for both Miles and Bass, he’d taken a liking to Charlie. Of all the people that could potentially pique his daughter’s interest, Dove was the last one that Miles would approved of for that role. It was sickening.
For one, the guy may have been a decent soldier, but he was a complete and utter prick. He’d been convinced that Miles and Bass really had offed Carver and had made sure to share that opinion with anyone and everyone that would listen, even well after they’d been cleared of that charge by Blanchard.
Miles could tell that the idea of Dove elbowing his way into their inner circle aggravated Bass. “Maybe I should go. If you end up with Dove as a son-in-law, you’ll never stop bitching. I’d have to move—and I’m quite comfortable where I’m at.”
“No, you’re just comfortable with all the cookies Bev sneaks you,” Miles snickered.
Bass’ landlady was the local baker. The elderly woman had decided from the start that her tenant needed a little mothering. Maybe it had been the haunted look that Bass had constantly worn when he’d slithered into town six months prior, or maybe it was the fact that he’d looked a little gaunt and underfed.
Whatever it was, after a few weeks of Bass bouncing back and forth between crashing on Miles’ couch and passing out drunk and depressed in the town stables, she’d offered him a place to stay for cheap and had started sneaking him baked goods on the sly. Personally, Miles thought that the relationship had been good for Bass.
His friend had definitely had his head stuck up his own ass when he’d tracked them down to Red River and Miles didn’t have the constitution to pull him out of it this time. He had his own inner demons to work through as it was—he and Charlie both did.
Miles had been there the day Bev Donaldson had walked up to Bass. “You’re scrawny, drunk and look like hell—what you need is a hot meal and a bed to sleep in, not another bottle of Tom Strickland’s rotgut,” she’d said.
Bass had been mortified. He’d been lurking outside of the distiller’s market stall, waiting for him to open for the day at the time. Miles’s selective memory had him there just for moral support rather than doing the exact same thing— for the exact same reason. Well, almost. Miles had been shopping for later. Bass? That was literally the plan— all day and every day.
Normally, the Bass that Miles had known and loved/hated would have said something rude or cruel, bristling at the cut to his pride. But, instead of lashing out like the dick he was, Bass had just stood there in embarrassed silence while Bev had moved on to take care of her morning shopping.
When Strickland had eventually shown up, Bass had muttered something about having changed his mind before shuffling off in the direction of Bev’s shop. She’d given him a place to stay and a full belly in exchange for him lending an occasional hand when she needed it. She also convinced her nephew down at the rail yard to give him a job.
A hippy at heart, Bev was an interesting and offbeat woman. She still dressed in psychedelic colors and always seemed a little spacy. Miles had a suspicion that her baking career had begun with pot brownies instead of the breads, cookies and cakes she sold in her shop. For all he knew, she still made them. The more he thought of it, Bass did seem a hell of a lot happier—and had mellowed out some too. That and he always seemed to be snacking…
Speaking of…
“By the way, I smell cinnamon.”
Bass busied himself with ordering another drink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Miles narrowed his eyes at Bass. He didn’t have to say it to call bullshit on him. He knew Bass got the message loud and clear. “Sharing is caring, brother.”
Bass grumbled something under his breath about mooches, but he reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded up bread cloth. “Here.” He slid it over to him without taking his eyes off of his drink, like they were making some shady drug deal instead of dealing in baked goods.
Miles reached over and unfolded it, revealing half a dozen cookies. Score! “You’re pathetic, you know that?” Even so, he snagged one and crammed it in his mouth.
“Says the guy that’s always whining and asking for a hookup,” Bass chuckled. “I never knew you’d be such a whore for day-old cookies.”
Miles happily munched. He picked up another and dunked it in his whiskey before taking another bite. “Day old my ass. If this cookie was any fresher, it’d be raw.”
“Shut up,” Bass said, just as Charlie slid onto the stool next to Miles.
“You know, if you boys keep filling up on sweets, you’ll get fat,” she said with a smirk as she grabbed a cookie.
“Hey! Get your own!” Miles protested. He grabbed the bread cloth, folding it back up and sliding it just out of her reach. He hadn’t done all that whining just to share.
They sat in companionable silence— meaning Miles and Charlie enjoyed a quiet drink while Bass brooded in his. Sometimes Miles didn’t know why he bothered. Bass seemed okay most of the time, but he always got just a little more quiet whenever his daughter was around.
Charlie and Bass had seemed okay leading up to Bradbury. They’d worked well together in rooting out stray patriots after the war and had shared an easy banter similar to what he and Bass had always had. It was a sign of respect from Bass—if he hadn’t liked her or respected her as a fighter in her own right, he’d have rarely talked to her.
But then, he’d shown up here and had seemed uneasy around her. Charlie, for her part seemed to not notice, which led Miles to believe that she didn’t really care one way or another. And why should she? Bass was his shadow, not hers and she had her own life now.
And, an unfortunate potential addition to that life now cleared his throat behind them. “Good evening, Miss Matheson.”
The trio turned to see Malcolm Dove standing there. Miles could tell from the look of him that they guy had a crush. It was disgustingly obvious. He was practically wearing his little redneck heart on his sleeve.
Miles found the whole thing down right disgusting. Even if he wasn’t such a douche, Dove had a good ten years or so on both he and Bass. The fact that he even thought he had a shot with a woman over three decades his junior was almost laughable.
“Ranger Dove,” Charlie greeted evenly. “What brings you out and about this evening?”
While not exactly a teetotaler, Dove rarely poked his head in the local watering hole. He was sort of a snob and he refused to share a drink with civilians—or former dictators and generals for that matter. He usually spent his time with his own kind at the outpost on the outskirts of town.
“I came to talk to you, actually. I was wondering if you’d found someone to go on the ride with on Saturday?” He shot Miles a superior look as he then said, “I heard that your original choice of companion wasn’t into that sort of thing. I’d hate to see you go alone.”
I’ll bet, Miles thought. He was convinced that the man had spies everywhere, dedicated to scoping out where he might find his “in” with Charlie. It was like the man thought that if he could just get his foot in the door, nature would take it from there.
“Actually, she’s going with me, major,” Bass said, speaking into his glass as he took a swig.
Bass loved to lord it over Dove that during the formal part of the war, Blanchard had field commissioned both he and Miles as colonels in the Rangers’ ranks for the sake of giving them commands— and they’d outranked him. It had bothered him then and Miles suspected it still drove him nuts.
Miles almost choked on his whiskey when he heard Bass’ statement. He knew he’d have eventually gotten Bass to go, but he hadn’t expected it to be announced quite so publicly and without having to eventually bribe him as well.
“She is?” Dove asked at the same time that Miles did, their voices almost harmonizing in unison.
Charlie’s surprised question practically overlapped theirs, “I am?”
“Miles and I were just discussing earlier how I wanted to go, but wasn’t able to get a ticket—he offered me his, right before Charlie showed up tonight,” Bass lied easily. “Isn’t that right, Miles?”
Miles wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such a gift, but he was sure it involved some unknown good act he’d committed or would commit in the near future. His gut told him to be suspicion of Bass’ sudden change of heart, but for the time being he was too grateful to fully question it. “Yup. Sorry, Dove. No takebacks.”
“You snooze, you lose—or whatever,” Bass added smugly.
Dove stilled and then he blinked back his surprise and confusion. He made stilted small talk with Charlie for a few minutes before finally taking the hint. Eventually, his feigned nonchalance shifted into the realm of blatant awkwardness and he walked away.
“I hate that guy,” Bass mumbled when Dove was out of earshot.
“Let it go, Bass,” Miles said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. His friend was a broken record when it came to the Ranger.
“What? He had me arrested. And he practically blew his load at my execution.”
Miles raised a finger to catch the bartender’s attention. As far as he was concerned his reasons for hating Dove were by far more viable than any Bass might have. “I swear to god, I’m gonna buy you a fanny pack to carry all your childish little grudges in—and a notepad for inventory purposes.”
“That’s it, you made the list,” Bass shot back as he slid off his bar stool. Bass picked up his jacket and shoved his arms into the sleeves. With a mocking bow to Charlie and a bark to the bartender to add his tab to Miles’, he left them both and headed out the door.
“What?” Miles flushed guiltily under Charlie’s annoyed glare.
“Why did Malcolm Dove just get cock blocked by Sebastian Monroe, of all people?” she asked. “And don’t tell me that he came in here begging for your ticket, because I know better.”
Miles shrugged. “Beats me.” He could barely contain the grin that kept threatening its way to the surface. “Okay, I might have implied that you might actually be willing to go with Texas’ finest.”
Charlie raised a brow at that. “Why would he even care?”
“Guess he just really hates that guy,” Miles offered. He couldn’t help it, he was having entirely too much fun with the whole thing. Bass having deserted what was left of his stash, Miles unfolded the bread cloth and looked down at the last cookie.
Charlie noticed that there was only one left too. Miles shot her a challenging look and then he counted to three in his head. His hand landed on the snickerdoodle a split second before hers.
“Damn,” Charlie breathed.
Cackling to himself, Miles dunked the last cookie into his glass and ate it in one delicious, soggy bite. He ignored the continued dirty looks his daughter was sending his way.
“Would it have killed you to have gone?” she snapped.
“Maybe… probably. Guess we’ll never know. If I’m lucky, it will kill Bass and then I won’t have to put up with him anymore.”
“You’re such a child.” Charlie retaliated by snatching his drink and downing it, cookie crumbs and all. She slapped the empty glass down on the bar, clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. After adding her own tab to Miles’ she offered a smirk and then left to make her own way home.
“You know they’ll both make your life miserable for this, right?” the bartender said as he tipped the bottle in his hands to replace the drink Charlie had stolen.
Miles grinned as he picked at the crumbs on the cloth before him. “Worth it,” he sang back.
“How ya figure?”
“’Cause now I’ve got that night free and there’s no chance Bass will drag me along for his annual holiday pity party—he’ll be too busy forcing it upon Charlie.
That left Miles free to avoid the both of them and ask out a certain redhead he’d had his eye on for the past few weeks. The new girl in town was a looker and Miles was pretty sure he had a shot. In his mind, he could very well be an evil genius.