Page 3 of Property of Bull
Never, in all of those R-rated monster movies that I’ve watched with my dad have I ever felt truly scared. Not until now.
“Eli, it’s been a while,” the monster says, shaking my dad’s hand and I can instantly tell Dad doesn’t like him. “I haven’t seen Ashleigh, but it looks her mini-me is here. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
When I step back, desperately wanting to run away, Dad answers for me.
“Not as outgoing as her momma, is she?” The monster’s eyes study my face, as though trying to see inside of me. Unable to meet his probing gaze I keep my eyes glued to the hint of a tattoo that ever so slightly sits above his collar.
“Maybe just more particular about who she talks to,” Granddad responds, this time covering for both Dad and me. “Thank you for pulling this all together, Edward. I see you’re training your son in the family business.”
“My boy looks just like his momma did. Thankfully he got my size.”
“And then some.” It’s when Granddad tosses out that little comment that I see the faintest hint of annoyance cross the man’s face. It’s gone in a flash, but after drawing his eyes away from me, they fall on his son, who quickly moves to stand by his side.
“Stryker, you know Mr. Tucker, of course. This is his son, Eli, and granddaughter, Margo,” the monster politely introduces everyone.
“I’m very sorry for the loss of Mrs. Tucker,” Bull responds, pausing to look at each of us in turn. “I always liked the cookies she’d bake for us in Sunday School.”
I giggle at the thought of him going to church, but a quick jab of my dad’s elbow has me covering my mouth. “She did make the best cookies,” I say, trying to excuse my laugh.
“George, now might be the right time to get up and say a few words. If you’re up to it?” the monster suggests and my granddad nods in agreement.
The rest of the day I avoid my cousins. I know I could easily stop the mocking glances they shoot my way, but I don’t want anyone to know that I was back there.
That might lead to other questions.
Chapter 1
Bull
“Son of a bitch!” I yell at the top of my lungs.
Not that it does a damn bit of good.
I lean forward, picking up the remains of my mailbox.
It’s barely December, but the snow has been hitting us steadily for a couple of weeks now and while I’d typically stay at the clubhouse in weather like this, it seemed like the perfect time to finish tiling my shower.
Last week, when I was tearing out the hideous yellow squares that my granddaddy had installed sometime in the last century, I realized that some of the drywall needed to be replaced before I could continue. Luckily, I had a few sheets of it from my last project, so with the exception of one trip to town for extra food and booze, I’ve stayed home to deal with the cabin.
I just never expected to have to rebuild the stand for the mailbox two fucking times. Well, it’ll be three by the end of the day.
Looking around, I figure my best option is to pile up the snow and crown it with the rounded shell of metal that should at least keep whatever mail there is, dry.
Hearing a vehicle chugging up the road, I turn in time to see Leavers’ old Jeep making the curve that leads up to my driveway.
“Bull,” he says, by way of greeting before his eyes drop to the battered piece of metal in my hands. “Ah, yes, it’s been a tough season for thosetestaments to the time before.”
“Is the new plow driver blind?” I growl out my question as I reach for the mail he pulls out of his stack for me.
In early August, Stu, our seasoned plow driver kicked it. The town all came together to make sure he had a proper send off at my funeral home, and we were all relieved that he wasn’t up in his crop duster when his ticker popped.
“George Tucker’s grand—” he starts but I cut him off when I remember hearing that after Old Man Tucker’s latest wife died, one of his grandkids was going to move in to help him.
“Well, he owes me a fucking mailbox.”
“If you call the township, there’s a list you can get on. They a have a little wiggle room in the budget and they either give you fifty dollars or send a crew out here to deal with it in the spring. Your choice,” he tells me, and I wonder what idiot would choose the latter option. “There’s only so much in the budget, so the money is first come first served.”
If this amount of snow keeps up until spring, there won’t be a mailbox left in the county.
