Page 5 of The Banker and the Blue Collar Man

They both laughed out loud, which was nice, and then they returned to their youthful in-jokes and running commentary on the passing scenery: a countryside with green grasses, and the gold stems of last year’s growth, and the blur of wooden fence posts. An explosion of birds, twisting into a funnel in the blue, blue sky.

The air tasted clean, and I imagined I could smell a trace of moisture, as though there was a creek or river nearby.

After a few miles of all that fresh air and dips and curves along a winding highway that seemed determined to go where it wanted to go, we arrived in the town of Chance. It was like a lot of towns I’d driven through, small with a central street packed with stores that meant business and only a few stoplights. Jake parked, and we got out and followed him into a store called the Mercantile.

I thought it would be a tourist trap, but no, it didn’t sell sweatshirts with the town’s name or homemade fudge. Instead, it displayed saddles on sawhorses, boots on racks, and hats on pegs. And bolo ties and Buck knives and bandannas. The floor creaked as I walked across it, and everything was comfortably untidy.

Jake led the way with long-legged strides to the back of the store, where the boots were sold. Where you could try them on and admire the diamond patterns on one and the scrollwork on another.

I followed but stood to one side, since this had very little to do with me. I was just along for the ride. With my arms crossed, I watched Jake point out brown boots and black ones, and then I looked at his feet and wondered when was the last time he’d bought himself a new pair.

Distracted by the smell of fresh popcorn and wondering where I might go to get some, I almost missed Jake gesturing me over to him.

“What’s up?” I asked, adding, “I’m not going to buy boots,” in the hope of shutting that conversation down right quick.

With a quick shake of his head, he dipped his chin, and I had to step closer to hear him. “These kids, they don’t have anything,” he said, his voice low, rumbly. He smelled like aftershave worn down by a hard day’s work, and sweat, and soap, and something sweet that drew me in. “They just told me.”

“What?” I asked, concentrating like any of this made sense to me.

“They get a list, see.” He caught my eye like he wanted me to focus, so I had to tip my head back to look up at him. “The ranch sends them a list.”

“Okay, a list.”

“But they don’t have anything on it.” I must have looked confused, because he added, “It’s a list of stuff to bring with them. Socks. T-shirts. Jeans. Briefs. Toothpaste. You see?”

“They don’t have those?” I asked, thinking of the backpacks they’d thrown on the bunk beds.

“One of ’em has a blanket that he brought from home. The other one has two sweatshirts. I don’t think they have a toothbrush between them. But Lucas just said to buy boots and hats.”

There was a line of worry between his dark brows. This guy was a rule follower, though I expected he would not follow any rules he felt were foolish. Even now he was pulling out a credit card and showing it to me like a ticket of admittance.

“I’d like to get them what they need, but I’ll need Lucas’ okay. This here’s a company credit card.”

Now I understood. “Got it.” I pulled out my phone. When Lucas answered, I explained the situation.

“They don’t have anything?” Lucas asked. There were sounds in the background, and I suspected he was distracted.

“Nope,” I said. “We’ll go ahead and get them the basics, and then we can figure out what happened on their end.”

“Good plan,” Lucas said. The appreciation in his voice was sure and solid, as it always was. “Thanks for being there.”

“No problem.”

As I headed over to where Dillon and Cameron were goofing around with the bootjack, Jake was right there at my shoulder. Maybe to make sure I didn’t mess up, or maybe for moral support.

“Hey guys,” I said, bright and friendly. “What happened to the lists the ranch sent you?” I asked, getting straight to the point. “Any reason you didn’t bring that stuff with you?”

Cameron laughed and tossed his hair out of his eyes, but the reaction seemed forced to me. I sat on the chair closest to Dillon and leaned forward to pull them into a kind of circle.

“What happened?” I asked because something had.

With another fake sound, Cameron nudged Dillon with his elbow. “I just aged out, and my foster mom laughed and said she didn’t have to pay for anything anymore.”

“My mom laughed, too,” Dillon said. “Then she ripped the list into little pieces and said I had to leave. That day.”

“We’ve been staying at the Center,” Cameron said. “Something happened to the things we brought with us.”

Along the way, as these two had made the transition from being minors to the over-eighteen crowd, they hadn’t gotten the help they needed. I was sure the Center had done what it could, and maybe neither of them had wanted to complain that someone had stolen their belongings, in case the complaint got them kicked out of the ranch program.