Cheated
Book 10: Back to the Old West
Jake
Granddad Hank deals the cards like he’s done every Saturday, and every shuffle carries a memory of all the Saturdays before. The cards are worn smooth, with edges softened by generations of hands that have held them tight. Grandad calls this version Frontier Poker, which is nothing like Texas Hold’em. When the Rawlins men play, there are no blinds and no fancy tricks. There’s just five cards, an ante, and the kind of grit a cowboy brings to the table, the way cards were played it in saloons in the old days.
On Saturdays, if we don’t have other plans, the house fills up for dinner and poker at my grandparents’ place. We’ve just finished eating, and from the other room comes the sound of laughter. Grandma Rita, my mom, and my aunts are drinking wine. My dad sits across the poker table with two of his brothers, and my cousin Eli sits on the other side with me. Granddad Hank sits at the head of the table and pushes the last card of my hand across.
I glance down at the cards in front of me but don’t reach for them right away. I keep thinking about how Marissa cheated on me, lied, and didn’t even act like she was sorry. My mind keeps replaying walking in on her with another guy, and I just can’t let those images go.
So I came over to my grandparents’ place to get my mind off Marissa. I haven’t said a word about the breakup, and nobody’s asked. In this family, we don’t have to spill our guts to be welcomed in. We just show up and take our usual seats.
I finally look at my cards. It’s a strong hand, solid enough to work with. Dad tosses in his ante and eyes me like he’s trying to read something in my face. I keep my expression neutral. Years of EMT calls taught me how to steady my hands, breath, and voice, even when everything is going to hell around me.
Eli pushes chips into the middle of the table. I follow, and the game rolls on. Cards move, bets go in, and the table fills with the usual intense focus.
I stay in and raise a modest amount, trying to keep my mind on the cards, but my thoughts keep wandering back to how much I loved Marissa, and how, even though I gave her my all, she still cheated. The warning signs were there, and I missed them because I was working so hard and trying to provide a life for her.
Grandad Hank meets my raise, barely lifting an eyebrow, and Eli stays in, too, overconfident as usual. When it comes down to the final play, it’s just the three of us. Grandad studies his cards, studies me, then folds with a grunt that means I’ve passed whatever test he set.
Eli tries to stare me down, but it doesn’t work. I’ve held pressure on a man with a gunshot wound in the back of an ambulance while being shot at through the rig, without flinching. My cousin with his weak poker face isn’t going to shake me.
He flips over a pair of sevens with a triumphant grin. I lay my cards down slowly, a pair of jacks. His frown tells me he knows he’s been outplayed again. The win is clean.
Everyone in the room groans but then laughs. Grandad slaps the table, proud of me. Dad shakes his head, smiling. “Of course you win, Jake. You never lose.”
Their noise fills the room, and I find myself smiling, not because I won, but because I’m here, surrounded by family.
After the last hand, I step onto the porch, and Eli follows with two beers in hand. We’ve been friends since we were kids–cousins, but closer than most brothers I know. He hands me a beer and then leans his shoulder against the post, giving me a look I know he’s been holding in since the second I sat down at the dinner table.
“All right,” he says, taking a drink. “Why are you here tonight? As soon as you walked in, I knew I wasn’t winning a single damn hand. I had been winning a few rounds since you’re usually out with Marissa on Saturdays.”
I sit in the rocking chair and let the beer bottle rest on my knee. “Yeah, well, we definitely didn’t have a date tonight.”
His eyebrows lift. “Did something happen?”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “She ended it.”
Eli’s eyes narrow the way they do when he’s deciding whether to say something or just let me be.
“She cheated.” There’s no reason for me to dress it up. It’s the truth, and saying it plainly doesn’t hurt any more or any less.
Eli shakes his head. “Damn, Jake. I’m sorry.”
I take a long drink. “I walked in on them. Came home from work early, and you know what? I didn’t even see it coming.”
“Hell,” he murmurs. “No wonder you showed up ready to wipe the floor with us. You needed a win.”
“I definitely needed something,” I say. “Wasn’t gonna sit in that apartment staring at the walls. Four years of my life, down the shitter.”
He nods and takes a sip of his beer. “Do you remember the quail hunting trip we took to the Rio Grande?”
It’s a sharp turn of conversation, but not unwelcome. “Of course I remember. It’s hard to forget a beautiful piece of land like that. That was one of the best quail hunts we’ve ever had.”
“I’ve been thinking about it lately,” he says. “That ridge we hunted at sunrise on Logan’s uncle’s land, and the way the dogs found so many coveys. It was unreal. The only sounds we heard all morning were gunshots and the rushing river.”
I nod, the memory easing my broken heart just a little.
He glances at me. “We should go back next weekend.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” I keep my tone even, but the idea hits like fresh air after being underwater too long.
“It would be good for us all. Come on. Next weekend. Me, you, Tate, Logan, and Ryan. No women. No schedules. No city noise. Just us, our bird dogs, a campfire, and the kind of peace you need.”
That last part sinks deep. A weekend out by the river, the timberline, cold streams, nothing but space and sky, would be the first real peace I’ve had in days.
“I could use a weekend like that,” I admit.
“I figured.” He tips his bottle toward me.
“All right,” I say, clinking my bottle with his. “Let’s do it.”
Eli grins. “Good. I’ll call the guys in the morning.”
For the first time since Marissa left, I’m actually looking forward to something again.
We roll out of Houston before sunrise, our trucks packed with gear, rifles, and enough supplies to last the weekend. My black-and-white German Shorthaired Pointer, Ace, rides in his kennel in the bed of my truck. I’ve had him since he was a pup, and he’s been on more hunting trips than I can count.
Eli rides shotgun, with Logan in back, their dogs kenneled next to mine. Tate and Ryan follow in the second truck, their dogs and gear stacked high, coolers and packs wedged in around the kennels.
Every inch of both trucks is full: rifles locked in racks, camp chairs, tarps, sleeping bags, ice chests, backpacks loaded with water and snacks, and extra ammo for good measure.
We push through Texas the first day, the flat land rolling by in endless shades of brown and gold. The trucks hum along the highways, carrying us past small towns and empty stretches of road. We only stop for fuel, a quick bite, and to stretch the dogs’ legs.
By late evening, the terrain starts to open as we near Mesilla. New Mexico’s scrub brush gives way to the wide, golden fields of the Rio Grande Valley. Dusty bushes and mesquite line the roadside, which are the perfect cover for quail. We pull off onto a flat stretch of Logan’s uncle’s land beside the river, clouds of dust rising from the road. Logan jumps out first, letting the dogs out to run and sniff the air. Eli and I start unloading rifles, backpacks, coolers, kennels, chairs, and tents. Tate and Ryan pull in behind us, moving with the same efficiency.
Ace is already circling, his nose twitching and his tail wagging. I sling my pack over my shoulder, take a deep breath, and let the tension in my chest ease. The Rio Grande glimmers in the moonlight, the brush along the banks perfect for flushing birds.
We feed and water our dogs, stake tents, stretch tarps, grab beers and snacks from our coolers, and set up our chairs.
“Man, Ace is something else,” Eli says, watching him nose around. “Remember that guided hunt up in Nebraska? Those guys wanted to buy him off you on the spot.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah. They saw him point a covey one hundred yards away, steady as a statue. Then they tried to lowball me for him.”
Logan whistles. “You nearly decked the guy, didn’t you? I saw it in your eyes.”
“Almost,” I admit. “I told him in no uncertain terms that Ace isn’t for sale.”
Ryan grins, leaning on the tailgate. “Speaking of decking a guy, remember that night at the bar in Austin?”
I shake my head. “Yes. Some idiot thought it was funny to slap Marissa on the ass.” My jaw tightens a little instinctually, but I keep my voice calm. “He didn’t know who he was dealing with. I taught him some manners, right there on the floor.”
Ryan laughs. “I knew better than to get between you and anyone dumb enough to touch your girl.”
I shrug, letting it slide. That was then. This is now. And at the moment, I don’t have a girl.
We grab sandwiches and more cold beers from the coolers and settle into the camp chairs. The conversation bounces around from inside jokes about past hunts to a challenge over who gets the last slice of salami. Laughter cuts through the quiet evening, and for a while, I almost forget about my problems.
Then, we notice the sky starting to change in the west. Dark clouds blot out the moon for a moment. Eli points upward. “That storm looks like it’s coming in fast. We should get everything squared away before it hits.”
“Yeah,” Tate agrees, already grabbing coolers and rifles. “Better move everything into tents or trucks.”
We all split up, hauling chairs, backpacks, and rifles under cover. The dogs circle and sniff the edges of the camp one last time, enjoying the cooler air before the rain hits.
I toss my backpack inside the tent, and Ace runs inside, too. He calms down immediately, curling up on the small blanket I brought him. I duck inside, and the first raindrops hit the nylon just as I zip the flap closed.
Crawling inside the tent, I unroll my sleeping bag. The canvas rattles with each clap of thunder. I lie back, listening. “Wow… that was close, huh?” I say to Ace.
The next instant, fire rips through my right leg. Muscle and bone feel like they’re being torn apart. I scream, clutching the pole as my body convulses violently. White-hot agony flashes through me. My chest hammers, limbs thrash, and then I black out.
When I wake, pain sears my right leg, and every breath I take is excruciating. I realize I’ve been struck by lightning, and somehow, I’m still alive.
Ace nudges my side, a low whine in his throat. I roll onto my hands and knees, forcing my right leg to move with me, each motion sending sharp pain shooting through it and down to my foot.
I push the tent flap aside and stumble into the moonlit clearing, dragging my leg. The camp’s gone. Our trucks, dogs, tents, and everyone else, all of them, are just gone.
I stare at the empty sand and brush, the Rio glinting in the distance, and start to wonder what the hell is happening. Maybe a tornado carried everything and everyone away while I was unconscious, but then why are Ace and I still here?
I test the leg with another drag-step; raw pain shoots up my thigh and knee. I check my gear: backpack on, rifle in the tent, and my phone is in my pocket. Ace stays tight at my side, alert and tense.
I drag myself forward, scanning the horizon. I hear cattle nearby.
“Eli!” I yell.
I listen, but there’s no reply. Then I realize I don’t hear the hum of the highway in the distance. At first, I think I just can’t hear it, but then I look, and there is no outer road at all. There’s no asphalt and nothing but sagebrush where it should be.
I squat, gripping Ace’s collar, trying to catch my breath. “What the hell, Ace? Where the fuck is everybody?”