Bryce Gunnison rolled into Fort Stockton from the west in a 1970 Jeep Wagoneer Custom Special with all the subtlety of a spring hailstorm crossing the Davis Mountains. The Jeep didn’t so much arrive as announce itself. It came rumbling down Interstate 10 beneath a cloud of West Texas dust, its replacement Buick 350 V8 settling into that deep, effortless burble only an engine with enough displacement to frighten environmentalists could produce. The faded gold paint glowed beneath the morning sun with the kind of honest patina that couldn’t be bought in a restoration shop, no matter how many cable TV restoration shows insisted otherwise. Time had polished it the same way it had polished old ranchers and courthouse steps. The hood carried a crack earned somewhere far more interesting than a grocery store parking lot. The roof had surrendered portions of its paint to decades of Wyoming winters. Rust freckles dotted the body with absolutely no concern for modern beauty standards.
The Jeep looked magnificent. Majestic, even.
Yellowstone National Park graphics stretched proudly across its ample flanks, while a custom wooden roof rack carried enough expedition equipment to suggest its owner had either spent the previous week rescuing lost hikers or invading a small European nation. Auxiliary lights crowned the roof beside a spare tire, coiled recovery rope, shovel, fuel cans, storage box, and enough assorted gear to make every man in Fort Stockton mentally reorganize his own garage before the Wagoneer even reached Dickinson Boulevard. A ladder climbed the driver’s side rear corner. White-letter BFGoodrich All-Terrain tires sat beneath lifted suspension with the quiet confidence of boots that had actually walked somewhere. Chrome bumpers caught the desert sunlight while the mechanical tailgate window hinted at an era when things were expected to be repaired instead of replaced and chrome was still the preferred language of greatness.
Hairless B29 spotted it first.
He had been sitting in his usual booth at the Grounds for Divorce, nursing his second cup of Folgers while pretending to read yesterday’s Odessa American for the fourth consecutive time. The newspaper immediately lost the competition for his attention.
“Well,” he muttered, pressing his nose closer to the glass. “Somebody finally drove into town with enough truck to justify buying all those accessories.”
Lucinda didn’t bother looking up.
“Hairless.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You haven’t even seen who’s driving.”
“I don’t have to.”
She glanced toward the window.
Three seconds later she realized she probably should have stayed busy wiping coffee mugs.
Bryce Gunnison unfolded himself from behind the steering wheel with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to climbing mountains before breakfast. He stood somewhere north of six-foot-four, broad across the shoulders in the way that comes from years of swinging Pulaskis, hauling climbing ropes, dragging elk quarters, and generally solving problems that most people would simply report to somebody else. Sunlight had permanently bronzed his face. His beard looked less groomed than negotiated. Long hair disappeared beneath a battered ranger hat that had likely witnessed more thunderstorms than the Weather Channel. Around his neck hung a leather thong supporting four polished brown bear claws, each one nearly the size of a man’s thumb.
He wasn’t handsome in the polished magazine sense.
He looked carved.
Like somebody had whittled him out of lodgepole pine using a chainsaw.
Lucinda discovered that coffee could, in fact, overflow a mug without her noticing.
Delgado looked up from the grill.
“What burned?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been pouring coffee onto the counter for ten seconds.”
She glanced down.
“Well…”
Delgado followed her eyes toward the front door just as Bryce stepped inside.
The bell jingled.
Every conversation in the café simply… paused.
Not stopped.
Paused.
Like somebody had lightly rested a finger on the turntable of life.
Bryce removed his hat.
“Morning.”
There was nothing theatrical about his voice. It carried the calm certainty of somebody who’d spent years telling frightened campers that yes, they were lost, but no, they weren’t going to die today.
Lucinda smiled before realizing she’d smiled.
“Welcome to the Grounds for Divorce.”
Bryce looked around the café, inhaled deeply, and grinned.
“I’ve smelled this place since about two miles back.”
Hairless leaned across the aisle.
“That’s because Delgado fries everything in bacon grease.”
“I heard that.”
“It wasn’t a secret.”
Bryce walked to the counter.
“I’ve got a favor.”
Delgado folded his arms.
“I’ve heard that sentence before.”
Bryce opened an old canvas cooler and produced what appeared to be several pounds of neatly wrapped bear meat and half a dozen duck eggs.
“I was hoping you could slice some of this into breakfast steaks.”
Delgado blinked.
“You brought your own bear?”
“Brown bear.”
“You say that like it matters.”
“It does to the bear.”
Hairless started laughing so hard coffee nearly came out his nose.
Delgado stared another few seconds before shrugging.
“I’ve cooked stranger.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“No… probably not.”
While Delgado disappeared into the kitchen muttering something about health department regulations that had probably never contemplated bear fajitas, Lucinda filled Bryce’s chipped ceramic mug.
He took one sip.
Closed his eyes.
Smiled.
“The Nectar of the Gods.”
Lucinda laughed despite herself.
“You haven’t even asked what brand.”
“If it keeps hardworking people alive before sunrise, that’s all that matters.”
He raised the mug slightly toward her.
“My compliments, Mistress of the Deeper Forest.”
Delgado stopped in the kitchen doorway.
“Did he just flirt using Tolkien?”
“I think he did.”
“I don’t like him.”
“You’ve known him four minutes.”
“I’ve made my decision.”
By the time Bryce finished breakfast, word had spread through town with all the speed of unpaid gossip.
Trixie saw the Wagoneer before she saw its driver.
She immediately approved.
The faded paint had been cut, polished, and waxed until every scar looked intentional. The custom wood inside the cabin showed someone cared as much about craftsmanship as appearance. CJ bucket seats replaced the originals, and through the open window she spotted rubber floor mats, a Cobra CB radio, old-school push-button stereo, extra gauges beneath the dash, and handmade wooden door panels that looked like something built by a cabinetmaker with too much time during Wyoming winters.
Then Bryce climbed out.
Trixie quietly canceled three appointments in her head.
Not because she intended to chase him.
Because the man desperately needed conditioner.
That beard had personality.
That hair had weather.
There were split ends in places science hadn’t yet classified but required further study. Closer study. Personal inspection.
She imagined two hours, quality shampoo, deep conditioning treatment, beard oil, hot towels, eyebrow trim, hand massage, scalp massage, and perhaps just enough leave-in product to convince his hair that civilization wasn’t entirely evil.
“You,” she whispered to herself, “are one spa day away from causing international incidents.”
Inside Klip-N-Dye the atmosphere shifted almost immediately.
Nobody could explain why.
Conversations became slightly louder.
Lipstick applications became slightly more ambitious.
For reasons medical science would undoubtedly spend decades studying, menstrual cycles throughout western Pecos County quietly synchronized themselves without filing the proper paperwork.
Over at the Piggly Wiggly, Mrs. Drury met Bryce when he stopped to purchase rock salt, flour, black pepper, onions, coffee, and enough provisions to suggest he considered supermarkets merely another stop between wilderness expeditions.
She intended to ring up his purchases.
Instead she pressed Produce three times, entered eighty-seven pounds of bananas, accidentally sold him two lawn chairs, voided the transaction, sighed heavily, and finally handed him the groceries.
“Don’t… don’t worry about it.”
“I insist.”
She waved him away.
“I’ll… balance the books.”
After he left, she opened her purse, removed a twenty-dollar bill, dropped it into the register, and stared through the front windows as Bryce effortlessly lifted himself back into the Jeep.
Good Lord.
The man even climbed into vehicles professionally.
Across the parking lot at the Rusty Hammer Hardware Store, Cody and Brody had been making excellent progress on Cinnamon’s newest business venture.
Rusty’s old Airstream had become a construction site masquerading as a trailer.
Inside, handcrafted Bubinga cabinets glowed beneath the shop lights while Cody carefully eased an enormous slab of dramatically veined backlit onyx swirling quartzite onto the freshly installed supports. It would eventually become the centerpiece of Cinnamon & Sugar, a mobile coffee bar and gluten-free bakery that Cinnamon insisted would follow rodeos, car shows, art festivals, county fairs, music gatherings, vintage trailer rallies, and anywhere else people might willingly pay nine dollars for artisanal espresso served from polished aluminum.
Outside, Brody guided a DeWalt rotary polisher across the Airstream’s skin until the aluminum reflected Texas sunshine with enough brilliance to make passing birds briefly question their altitude. Oncoming traffic on Dickinson Boulevard was forced to swerve just before the traffic light due to the glare that met them head-on.
Cinnamon stood nearby studying paint samples while pretending not to supervise.
Trey worked the front counter inside the Rusty Hammer, pretending he wasn’t irritated at the time being spent on the conversion. He kept a running list of inventory sacrificed for the cause that he would discuss with Rusty whenever Rusty was feeling better.
The rumble of the Wagoneer’s V8 drifted into the parking lot long before anyone saw it.
Brody shut off the polisher.
“What in the world…”
The gold Jeep rolled slowly past rows of chainsaws, deer feeders, fencing supplies, and rows of Premium Tower Alpha hunting blinds before easing into a parking space.
Bryce climbed out, glanced toward one of the display blinds, smiled to himself, and nodded.
“Used one almost exactly like that outside Yellowstone last fall.” He glanced down at the necklace nestled in the thick thatch of nutmeg-colored hair on his chest. “Got the claws to prove it.”
Trey looked up as Bryce entered.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“I’m looking for Cody Hammer.”
Trey smiled.
“Friend?”
Bryce looked toward the rear of the store.
“Something like that.”
Trey pointed toward the back door.
“Out behind the building working on the trailer.”
Meanwhile, around the corner, Cinnamon had spotted Bryce when he pulled in.
She froze.
Then very casually removed the heavy denim work shirt she’d been wearing over her tank top.
Very casually gathered her thick ginger hair into a ponytail so that her tan, freckled, and well defined shoulders would be on full display. The tank top took care of the rest on its own.
She very casually checked her reflection in the polished Airstream.
Then she very casually practiced looking like she hadn’t practiced anything at all.
She timed her entrance perfectly.
Or so she thought.
By the time she rounded the corner of the trailer, Bryce had already exited the store and made his way to the Airstream.
Cody looked up from his work on the stone countertops.
For one suspended heartbeat neither man moved.
Then Cody broke into a grin so wide it almost hurt to see.
“Bryce…”
Bryce crossed the remaining distance in three long strides.
The two men met halfway between the back of the store and the Airstream.
There was no handshake.
No slap on the shoulder.
No carefully choreographed performance of masculine restraint.
Bryce wrapped Cody in a bear hug that lifted him completely off the ground.
Cody hugged him back just as tightly.
Neither said a word.
They simply stood there, laughing quietly into each other’s shoulders after what was obviously far too many years apart.
The parking lot became perfectly still.
Brody lowered the polisher.
Trey watched from the back door.
Cinnamon stopped walking.
The vintage Wagoneer, the bear claws, the Yellowstone decals, the impossible beard, the polished patina, the lifted suspension, every ounce of carefully accumulated mountain mythology suddenly faded into the background.
Nobody in Fort Stockton had read the story correctly. They all thought Bryce Gunnison had driven a thousand miles to impress Fort Stockton with his ruggedness, his wilderness stories, and that magnificent old Wagoneer.
He had driven a thousand miles to hug Cody Hammer again.
3 responses to “HIKING THE HAPPY TRAIL”
I guess both Cinnamon and Trixie are both in for a surprise –
or a let-down?
Something’s coming
You bet your sweet ass there is..