“Yes, sir. Marine Corps.” He said it with pride.
“Good to know, Son.” Charlie looked toward a table at the rear of the store, which held coffee, cookies, and other goodies offered to patrons. “Why don’t you go help yourself to some hot coffee and food over there?” He gestured in that general direction. “My wife, Pixie, made ’em. Right good they are. I usually get a stampede of ranchers comin’ in here when word gets ’round that Pixie baked some goodies.” He chuckled.
Reese wanted to run to that table, but he stood relaxed as he could be, given anxiety was tunneling through him constantly. “I’d like that, sir. Thank you . . .”
“Don’t call me sir,” Charlie said. “Americans owe ALL of you men and women who have sacrificed so much for us. Now, go help yourself to all you want. There’s plenty more where that came from. Pixie usually drives in midafternoon with a new batch of whatever has inspired her in the kitchen each day.”
Reese needed something worse than he needed food right now, so he hesitated. “Do you have any work I might do around here, Mr. Becker?”
“Call me Charlie. And no, I don’t need help, but I got a nearby rancher who is looking for a hardworking wrangler-type to hire. You seem like you’ve worked a little in your life.” Grinning, he stood and pointed to Reese’s large, calloused hands. “I’ll call over there while you grab yourself some grub.” He waved, urging Reese to go eat.
Nodding, Reese rasped out a thank-you and felt his stomach growl loudly. He hoped like hell Charlie hadn’t heard it. But judging from the man’s facial expression, he had heard. Charlie picked up the black, landline phone on the counter to make a call to the ranch.
Halting at the long table against the back wall of the store, Reese’s mouth watered. He was chilled to the bone, his combat boots wet, his socks soaked, toes numb. The coffee smelled so damned good, and with shaking hands, he poured it into an awaiting white Styrofoam cup. He took a cautious sip, the heat feeling incredible as it slid down his throat and into his shrunken, knotted gut. God, it tasted so good!
Reese kept one ear cocked toward the phone call Charlie was making. Let there be an opening for me. He worried because even though he no longer stank, his clothes were dirty and long past a washing. He knew he looked like a burned-out druggie or a homeless person, his hair long and unkempt, his black beard thick and in dire need of a trim. Reese didn’t have a pair of scissors on him to do the job. His scruffy, dark green baseball cap was frayed and old, a holdover from two years ago when he was a Marine.
Eyeing the box of colorfully frosted cupcakes, his mouth watered. He wanted to grab all of them, but his discipline and manners forced him to pick up just one. His fingers trembled again as he peeled the paper from around the pink frosted cupcake.
Reese bit into the concoction, groaning internally as the sweetness hit his tongue and coated the inside of his mouth. For a moment, he was dizzy from the sugar rush, his whole body lighting up with internal celebration as the food hit his gnawing stomach. Standing there, Reese forced himself to take slow sips of the coffee. It tasted heavenly. He heard Charlie finish the call and the man came in his direction.
“Hey, Mr. Lockhart, good news,” Charlie said. “The owner of the Bar C Ranch, Shay Crawford, still needs a wrangler. She’s coming into town in about two hours, going to be coming by here to pick up some dog food and such. Said she’d meet you at that time.”
“That’s good to hear,” Reese said. “Thank you . . .”
Charlie nodded. “I have a bathroom in the back, with a big shower.” He jabbed his index finger toward the rear corner of the store. “It’s got some shaving gear in there, as well. On your way there, pick out a pair of jeans, a work shirt, boots, and whatever else you need before she arrives.”
“I don’t have the money to pay you,” Reese said, hating to admit it. But he understood what Charlie was really saying. The woman owner of the Bar C would probably not want to hire him with the way he looked right now. The guy was trying to help him out.
Charlie gripped the arm of Reese’s damp, dark olive-green military jacket. “This way. Just consider my offer as grateful thanks from this nation of ours for your sacrifices, Mr. Lockhart. You pick up what you want to wear and anything else you need. It’s free to you. It’s the least we can do for our vets.” Charlie had a look in his eyes that told Reese he wasn’t going to budge from his position.