Page 1 of Holding On to a Hero
Chapter One
Will
Dawn glowed at the horizon as I parked my truck on the shoulder of Pattinson Road about a hundred yards from my destination. The open window brought in the cool, humid Hill Country air and I closed my eyes to take a deep breath. A few birds were already awake, their chirping calls mixing with Bonnie Tyler’s impassioned vocals on the radio.
My brain was still a little scrambled from the nightmare I’d been caught up in when my alarm went off, so I tried to steady my breathing and focus on beingpresent. It wasn’t a new nightmare, but it always left me feeling off kilter. Some days the mindfulness exercises helped.
Apparently today was not one of those days. I gave up after about a minute. Lisa, my therapist, would not be pleased, but hey, I tried.
Grabbing my coffee, I turned off the truck and stepped out. My back twinged a little so I put the coffee on the hood and spent a few minutes doing some stretches to loosen up my muscles. These days it took so much longer to get where I needed to be. I snorted as I had a sudden flashback to being a child, waiting impatiently for my grandmother to go through her ritual of checking all around for her belongings before she would sloooooowly get out of the car.
“Sorry, Grandma,” I muttered as I finally grabbed my camera bag, long lens, camp stool and tripod out of the back seat. Loaded down, I started the trek along the road. The south side of Pattinson Road was a boundary for one of the tracts of the Balcones Canyonlands Preserve. Several weeks ago I’d driven around to see how accessible some of the tracts were. Great wildlife photos were worth hacking your way through the underbrush for, but I didn’t always strive for greatness. Not only could I drive right up to this tract, but I’d lucked across a pond that was home to a beaver family.
Beavers aren’t exactly rare in Texas, but most of them live much further north. This family had both parents and two juvenile kits. The beaver photos, particularly of the youngsters, had proven very popular on my social media account and I’d even sold one through a stock photo site.
The only fly in my beaver ointment – okay, that wasnota good metaphor – was on the north side of the road, almost directly across from the beaver pond. My blood pressure went up every time I thought about him. I mean, I could completely understand why an ex-movie star would get upset at having a camera-toting guy show up on his doorstep. But I will forever maintain he should have listened to my question about the beavers before waving his shotgun in my face.
I hadn’t seen Shotgun Willie since that day, fortunately. There had been some other guy in the distance once, maybe a ranch hand or something since he’d been leading a horse around. But I tried not to stare at the house or the ranch, and I planned to just keep to the south side of the road from now on and mind my own beaver business.
I hoofed it as quietly as I could down the road. My combat-style boots didn’t make much noise, but the gear tended to clank a bit. It was going to be a gorgeous day. A few yards from my destination I stopped to put the lens on the camera, check the batteries and make sure the memory card was empty.
Moments later I entered the clearing around the beavers’ pond. I moved carefully into the grass but stayed close to the trees. I was no ninja or even a Boy Scout, so the tall grass and fallen leaves crackled loudly as I waded through. I always ended up holding my breath during this part of my journey, as if the sound of my exhales was going to be louder than the vegetation rustling beneath my feet.
My favorite spot was about a third of the way around the clearing and provided an excellent view of the front of the beavers’ den. It didn’t look like they were out and about at the moment, which gave me time to set up my tripod and camp stool. I’d also seen a pair of red-tailed hawks in this area, so I kept my eyes moving from the top of the den to the trees. Photos of hawks were very popular too. Though I always crossed my fingers in hope that the hawks would never be in the same frame as the beaver kits, if you know what I mean. I liked to photograph the beauty in nature, not the gory parts of it.
Considerately, the beavers waited until I’d finished my coffee before emerging from their den. Beavers are mostly nocturnal but this family, thankfully, were usually visible in the morning as well. Some other photographer could sit around in the creepy woods at night. I was all about the daylight.
The kits would stay with their parents for about two years. I estimated the adults to be around fifty pounds or so, and the kits were comparatively pretty small, so they were probably only five or six months old. Next spring I hoped there would be another set of kits. Baby beavers were the cutest, and I could probably sell those photos to a zoo or something.
I did sell the occasional photo, but most of them just ended up on Instagram. The insurance settlement meant I really didn’t have to work for a living, which was a blessing given the variation in my physical limitations on a day-to-day basis. But I’d go mad without something to occupy my time, so I’d settled on wildlife photography as my reason to get up every day.
I’d been toying with the idea of creating an Instagram account just for the beavers, but having to develop a narrative for them was just too much work for me right now. Not to mention that I’d have to come out here more often, and I really didn’t want to make the gun-toting ex-actor any more nervous about what I was doing across the road from his house.
Though I really wasn’t sure whathewas doing here either. Sure, Austin attracted celebrities to settle down in the area. But this ranch was several miles from the nearest grocery store, a complete 180 from Hollywood living. Maybe he’d always wanted to live in the country or something.
The ranch house looked like it was a few decades old, but it was freshly painted and behind it there were some new barn-type buildings going up. There were always a few horses out, so he could be planning on breeding them. Today an SUV and a large pickup were pulled up in front of the house. I’d seen both vehicles before, so maybe Wyatt Earp didn’t live alone. Good thing he’d broken up with that actress he’d been dating before he retired. I’d bet she wouldn’t be pleased with this isolated lifestyle.
I managed to stop speculating about celebrity gossip and concentrate on photography for the next hour. The beavers were fairly cooperative today and I got some decent shots, though nothing outstanding. Eventually I gave up and slowly picked my way back along the edge of the clearing toward the road.
Okay, I did sincerely try not to look at the ranch house or the property. But the gorgeous horses in a pasture to the west of the house were just begging to be photographed. The morning sun made their coats gleam against the dewy green grass, and I just knew it would make a spectacular photo.
I dropped the tripod and camp stool on the side of the road and lifted my camera to look at them through the long lens. Yep, I’d been right. The long-range shot was going to be amazing. I also took a beautiful close-up of the chestnut’s face when she lifted her head. She looked proud and satisfied with life. Too bad her owner was so grumpy. I briefly considered approaching the house to offer the guy a copy of the photo, but I decided I probably wouldn’t get halfway up the driveway. His loss.
A noise made me swing the camera toward the house. Through the lens I saw a close-up of my nemesis and another man….Well, well, well, what do you know?
Right there in broad daylight was an ex-Hollywood action star wearing only pajama pants and kissing aman. It suddenly became clear to me why a famous actor would move to the Texas boonies. Texas might be a mostly red state, but it would certainly be easier to have a same-sex relationship here rather than in front of all those paparazzi cameras in Los Angeles.
Suddenly I realizedIwas acting like a paparazzo right then, and I quickly dropped the camera away from my face. Pointing a camera at those two right now was definitely going to get me shot. I‘d never out anyone, but Bonnie and Clyde over there didn’t know that.
Shit.I was exposed on the side of the road. I had no way to get to the truck without them seeing me. I took a step back toward the woods but I was too late. They’d stopped kissing and noticed me.
Both Doc Holliday and his gentleman caller – his tall and muscle-bound gentleman caller, mind you – were looking at me. It was too far away to see their expressions without the camera lens, but body language said they were pissed. I decided to get the hell out of Dodge.
I picked up my gear and started walking swiftly up the road to my truck, cursing my back with each step. Running was a no-go for me these days, and by the sound of the engine starting up I was looking at getting shot or beat up in the very near future.
Shit!Tires crunched on gravel.Shit, shit, shit. I didn’t look back, but I guessed it was the big guy who was coming for me. I gauged the distance to my truck. No way was I going to make it in time.
I stopped where I was and turned toward the pickup roaring toward me.Focus and breathe.I hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was time to act like it.
