Chapter 12
Barry Buchannon lowered the roof on the Pangea with a soft whir from the remote, then double-checked the trailer hitch and electric brake harness. The big rig felt solid, ready for the long haul. He climbed into the cab, keyed the ignition, and pointed the nose west. Almost 2,200 miles to Nashua, Montana. He thumbed the radio to Fox Business and let the market chatter fill the cab. Nothing optimistic.
The money market funds his father had seeded with that first paper-route hundred still compounded quietly in the background. Dad had believed in generational wealth—lent Barry a hundred grand at zero interest on the condition he pay it back once he cleared two hundred. Barry had done it before twenty-three and mostly left the rest alone, taking only his father’s advice. He’d never wanted for much. The things he truly wanted—loyalty, purpose—money couldn’t buy.
He’d spotted the Pangea rusting in a wrecking yard by the docks, paid cash, shipped it to Missouri, and rebuilt it during his last six months in uniform. The matching off-road trailer had been a final indulgence before he signed his last Army form. Plan set. SF medic training plus the online courses would get him through Physician’s Assistant school at UNC in under a year. After that, the world would be open. He’d done the degree, taken the one-year contract on the Blackfeet reservation near Browning, and now faced a choice: renew or head north to the oil fields.
The Slope meant serious cold. Barry wasn’t built for it. He was heading south instead—warmer country, new chapter.
Seán floated in a deep black void, warm and weightless. Distant voices drifted past like echoes in fog. Where am I? Am I dead? He tried to call out, but had no voice. The darkness thickened and swallowed him again.
Too-bright light stabbed through his eyelids. Pain followed, raw and immediate. Come back, he begged the darkness. Don’t go.
“Sergeant Blake, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me.”
A gentle hand tapped his arm. He tried to speak—Go away, let me sleep—but only a dry rasp escaped. Beeps and hushed voices filled the room.
“Welcome back, Sergeant.” The voice was calm, kind. “You’re coming out of anesthesia. I’m Lieutenant Shafer.”
“Where… am I?” His throat felt scorched.
“Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, Germany. You were wounded.”
“My men?”
“Two wounded with you. Master Sergeant Owens… didn’t make it.” She paused, giving the news time to land. “Your team medic saved your life. He controlled the bleeding in your leg and kept you on Ringers until the medevac arrived.”
Seán jolted upright in bed, sweat slicking his forehead. His hand went automatically to the stump below his knee.
Fala’s voice, soft with concern, pulled him fully awake. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he said, exhaling. “Just old memories wearing a bad dream’s clothes.” He swung his legs over the edge, stood, and limped to the kitchen for a tall glass of cold water. The clock read too early for more sleep. He set up the percolator and added wood to the firebox.
After breakfast, Seán and Fala drove down to Jefferson to find Boyce Peters. As promised, the old man sat rocking on the store porch, coffee in hand, laughing with two locals. The others excused themselves when Seán approached.
“My glory, if it ain’t Seán Blake! Heard you got shot up pretty bad.”
Seán answered by lifting up his left pant leg. Boyce’s face fell.
“Oh Lordy… I’m mighty sorry, son.”
“I’m getting around fine,” Seán said. “That’s why I’m here, actually. While I was in the hospital I ordered a wheelchair I barely used. I do better with the peg. This one’s special—tracked, built for outdoors, electric, even has mounts for a fishing rod or rifle. Figured someone local might need it more than I do.”
Boyce rubbed his chin. “Most folks who need chairs already have ’em. But… our Guard truck driver rolled his rig last year. Paralyzed from the waist down. That sounds like it’d suit him.”
“I’d like to donate it through the VFW,” Seán said. “He’ll need help transporting it and getting in and out.”
“Emmet Hasty can rig something up. His sister was in a chair too.” Boyce’s eyes had brightened. “Where’s this rig at?”
“Still at the house. I’ll take it to a dealer first, get it gone over like new. Then I’ll bring it to the VFW.”
“You’re doing a fine thing, Seán. Stay in touch—I’ll get the ball rolling on this end.”
Back at the Bend they loaded the trackchair into the trailer and headed east toward Staunton, Virginia. The manager at Mountaineer TrackChair took personal interest once Seán explained the donation. “We’ll go over her top to bottom and call you when she’s ready.”
They stopped for lunch in Roanoke, then continued down 220 into Winston-Salem. Mid-afternoon they hit Sam’s Club for the first wave of supplies, grabbed a room at the Comfort Inn, and spent the last of the daylight at Academy Sports. Fala chose a light spinning combo and some small crankbaits. Seán stocked up on crawfish soft plastics—smallmouth candy in spring—plus hooks, cork bobbers, and fresh line.
Dinner at Firebirds was simple and satisfying: roasted garlic sirloins. They turned in early.
The next morning they hit Costco after a light breakfast of croissants, cheese, and fruit. Seán made sure they loaded plenty of Kirtland coffee in the metal cans. Fala added mocha mix. They grabbed toilet paper, paper towels, five-gallon jugs of cooking oil, peanut butter, and bulk meats. A helpful associate brought out six waxed shipping boxes; Seán packed the perishables with blocks of dry ice for the drive home. Laundry detergent, cleaning supplies, and extras went in—roughly triple his normal stock. When the trailer was full, they called it good and pointed the truck north.
Seán drove straight through, skipping lunch. At the Bend they unloaded while Fala started dinner. Afterward, Seán opened the rifle case.
First out was the Remington Nylon 66 .22 LR. No serial number—made in September 1959, before the requirement. The polymer stock showed only light scuffs; the bluing was still strong except for a little honest wear at the muzzle. He’d taken rabbits, coons, and one doe with it at spitting distance. A hollow-point modified with a Phillips screwdriver had done the rest. He dropped a little Break-Free into the receiver, worked the bolt, and returned it.
Next, the Winchester 94 .22. His favorite before the Henrys arrived. Straight-grip walnut, 20.5-inch barrel, almost no wear. A quick oiling and lever cycle, then back in the case.
The Black Aces Tactical 12-gauge stayed put in the camper where it lived.
Later, word came from the barn crew: they had the kits and were targeting the third week of March. The money from selling the old barnwood had covered the new two-story storage building and re-siding.
That evening Seán showed Fala the last jars of coins. She handled each piece with quiet fascination, asking about the hands that might have touched them over the decades. While Seán melted the remaining wax, she cleaned the coins with distilled mineral spirits and helped sort them into plastic cases.
When the last coin was tucked away, Fala asked to see the cave. They hiked up together, the late winter sun slanting through the bare trees.
