FrostLine by Justin Scott Read Free Book Online

give up the fighting.”
    â€œHey, I didn’t start it. I was just going to talk to that rich son of a bitch running the gears on Pop.”
    â€œTreat fighting like it’s booze and you’re a drunk. Give it up.”
    â€œMaybe I should get a girlfriend? Kill her instead?”
    â€œYou could do worse than a girl who’s a friend. Just don’t sleep with the poor woman.”
    Dicky shrugged. “I got used to not getting laid inside. Maybe I’ll pretend I’m inside….” He grinned again, with little humor this time. “Life’s a bitch.”
    I had to agree.
    â€œAnd then I die.”
    We stared out the windshield for a while and finally I asked, “Have you told your dad?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    The cows started drifting toward the barn.
    â€œHere he comes.”
    Dicky opened the window, leaned into the cracked side-view mirror, and began wiping the blood off his face.

Chapter 4
    Mr. Butler—I could never call him by his first name; even in my own maturity, less than twenty years his junior, he would always be Mr. Butler—plodded out of the barn with a bale of hay on his shoulder. I couldn’t see his face from where Dicky and I sat in the truck, but anyone in Newbury would have recognized him by his long hair swinging in the sun.
    The cows closed in on him, their breath white in the cold air.
    â€œWant to give him a hand?”
    â€œNot in that mud.” Dicky held up one of his stitched cowboy boots by way of explanation.
    A huge old yellow dog plodded at Mr. Butler’s heels. DaNang, the last of three golden retrievers named for places Mr. Butler had been wounded in the war. “How the hell old is DaNang?” I asked Dicky.
    â€œOld.”
    He finished wiping his face. “Don’t tell Pop what happened.”
    â€œYou got a knot on your head.”
    He inspected it. Protruding from his bristly hair where he had butted Albert, it looked like a good start on a rhinoceros horn. “Shit.”
    â€œTell him you banged it getting out of the truck.”
    Dicky stuffed my bloody handkerchief in his pocket and started the engine. As he put it into gear he looked at me with an unspoken question.
    I said, “You can tell who you want. They won’t hear it from me.”
    â€œAppreciate it.”
    â€œDo me a favor. Last thing you and your dad need is a war with Henry King. Will you let me see what I can work out?”
    Dicky thought it over. “Just don’t bulldoze him, Ben. I won’t let nobody do that.”
    I promised I wouldn’t, and we drove into the farmyard.
    Mr. Butler opened the hay bale with a wire cutter, scattered it with a few practiced kicks as the cows closed in, and climbed through the fence. Dicky’s cleanup job didn’t fool him for a second. His face fell when he saw the knot.
    I said, “Hello, Mr. Butler,” and extended my hand. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Ben Abbott.”
    â€œI remember you. Heard you took over your dad’s business.” (True—eight years ago.)
    He took my hand in a work-calloused palm and squeezed politely, his eyes drifting to Dicky. “Whatcha looking at?” asked Dicky.
    â€œWhat happened to your head?”
    â€œHit it on your truck.”
    I could see he wanted to believe him. And he might have talked himself into it if Dicky’s nose hadn’t chosen that moment to resume bleeding. “You’re home three hours and you’re in a fight.”
    â€œI was doing it for you.”
    â€œFor me? You want to do something for me, see if you can stay out of jail long enough to sue for that false arrest. You think getting locked up again’ll help our case?”
    Dicky said, “Tell him, Ben.”
    Ordinarily, I excuse myself from family arguments. Entering in is a wonderful way of making mortal enemies of an entire clan. But Henry King had wedged me right into the middle of this