Iron Mike

Copyright (c) 2015 by Patricia Rose

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Any reference to real events, businesses, or organizations is intended to give the fiction a sense of realism and authenticity.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording or otherwise—without prior permission in writing from the author, with the exception of a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

A House of the Blue Dolphin production.

This ebook is for personal enjoyment only.

Editing and Cover Design by Heather Anne Osborne

Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-1517286095

Paperback
ISBN-10: 1517286093

Copyright (c) 2015 by the American Library Association

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015914932

CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

Printed September, 2015

I dedicate this book to two people in my life who have always, always loved me and supported me in anything I’ve ever tried to do. First, to the spice in my life, Ellen and Kevin - I wouldn’t know what to do without either of you! Secondly, to the most beautiful Rose I have ever seen, my wonderful mother, Rose Garati Olson.

The month leading up to the first printing of this book has been a challenging one. Several people who mean everything in the world to me have lost loved ones this month. First, Ellen lost her father, Earl Samuel (“Sam”) Elliott, a Christian gentleman with that American Southern courtesy and kindness you just don’t find anymore in today’s world. I know you’ve found your rest in heaven, Mr. Elliott.

Second, Sarah lost her father, Jim Harned, a man with a wicked sense of humor who was always very kind to me, and who warmly welcomed my husband and me into his home. You made a beautiful daughter, Mr. Harned. I know you're so proud.

Finally, Lynette, Bonni, and Pam are losing their mother, Joan Gurney, one of the most loving, generous-hearted people I have ever known, to end-stage cancer. Ma welcomed me into the family, adopting me immediately after I lost my own mother, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do. I love you, Ma.

I love and miss you all!

Scientist-Farmer

Present Day

Scientist-Farmer wasn’t a good pilot, which annoyed him more than he would have ever admitted. It simply wasn’t his calling. Curiosity was, and the land, crops, and animals; hence, the reason he was Scientist-Farmer, not Pilot-Mechanic or Pilot-Aerialist. The thought brought him no comfort as he struggled to keep the craft on an even course. By his nature, everything he chose to do, he did well, and that would include flying. But the atmosphere on this barbaric little rock was so thin! He checked a calibration, glancing away from the drive console for only an instant.

In that instant, the craft dipped, diving precariously low in the virtually non-existent atmosphere, almost crashing into one of the tiny tunnels the savage, dominant species of this world created for travel. The tunnels were carved out of the earth itself, an egregious and offensive waste of the rich loam, pure and unpolluted soil, so dear in the galaxies. Scientist-Farmer corrected the calibration immediately, but not before he felt the animal’s cry of fear … and pain. Guilt overwhelmed him. He was not a cruel being. He had never been cruel. It was just the aircraft – like all of the Consortium’s vehicles – moved very, very fast. He was already far away from the creature he injured, but still, he could not leave it.

With a sigh of resignation, Scientist-Farmer turned the craft around to seek the animal he had harmed. He would heal it, if he could – that was the calling of the farmer. If he couldn’t heal it, he would euthanize it. That was the calling of the scientist.

January 1.

Shepherdsville, Kentucky

Kari

Karissinna Kasoniak shifted in the tangle of sheets, her long legs stretching toward the bottom of the bed. Her left arm reached out automatically, feeling for Malik. He wasn’t there, the fucker. Kari opened her eyes with a squint, daylight rushing in way too fast. Her stomach heaved, and she fell out of the bed, scrambling quickly into the bathroom before her stomach lost its contents. She was throwing up alcohol bile when Malik stepped in, looking down at her with an amused, not-sympathetic-enough expression. She glowered at him, knowing her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, making her pale skin even whiter by comparison.

“Told ya you should’ve eaten something before that tequila,” Malik said cheerfully, reaching for his razor.

“Fuck you,” she mumbled in response, holding her long brown hair away from her face, keeping it out of the muck while her stomach twisted itself inside out.

“Advil, sugar, and water,” Malik said, his deep voice more than a little smug. “Lots of water.”

Kari glared up at him, but, even with her hangover, it was hard to stay mad. Malik had an engaging, friendly grin, and a lean body. His deep brown skin was smooth in all the right places, and hard in all the others. Kari managed a weak smile. “Yes, doctor,” she grumbled. “What’ve we got going on tonight?”

Malik smiled. “Hey, baby, I’ll take care of you, you can count on it. I know you won’t do speedballs, but I got some fine ecstasy just for you.”

Kari nodded with an appreciative smile. “Remember, I got to go early tomorrow – it’s my dad’s retirement thing.”

Malik shrugged. “You got it, babe,” he promised.

Kari grasped the toilet to help herself stand. “Well, I guess I better shower then, so we can start the par-tay.”

“And while you make yourself even more beautiful, sweet thing, I’ll get the rest of the slackers up and moving.”

Kari nodded as she stripped and stepped into the warm water. She couldn’t remember how many people crashed at Malik’s place last night, but it didn’t really matter. Most of them would stay on through the weekend but only she had shared his bed – this time, anyway.

Louisville, Kentucky

Mike

Mike Sanderlin and his father, Kevin, left the deer stand, tracking the eight-point buck through the forest. They placed each foot carefully in the snowy undergrowth to minimize the noise they made. Mike’s breath came out in frosted plumes and his ears were frozen, despite the covering flaps of the orange hunting cap. He considered untying his ponytail, but the warmth wasn’t worth having the hair in his way. His Hoyt recurve was slung over his shoulder, one hand resting on it protectively. The seven hundred dollar bow was last year’s Christmas present, and it was his prized possession; he had put in countless hours of target practice and small-game hunting, and worked hard to make the bow an extension of his own arms. He’d waited eagerly for bow-hunting season to start, anticipating it even more eagerly than rifle-hunting season. This was his first opportunity to go hunting deer with his new bow, and he and his father had been walking through the woods since dawn.

“There,” his father whispered, indicating with a nod. Mike’s eyes followed, his heart thumping in anticipation. He slowly drew the bow up and sighted. After this kill, they could only hunt antlerless deer for the rest of the season, so he was pleased that the last buck – and the first with his bow – would be a beauty.

Mike drew the arrow back, letting his breath out slowly as he did so, finding the inner calm that allowed for a perfect shot. The better the shot, the better the chance of actually felling the deer and not making the animal suffer while they tracked it down.

Mike stared for a long moment at the animal in his sights, and then he slowly, carefully, released the tension on the string, un-nocking the bow and returning the arrow to the quiver at his waist. He and his father stood together for several long minutes, watching. The buck had been joined in the clearing by a smaller, more timid doe. She stepped up to the buck, nuzzled its nose for just a moment, and then the two began grazing, the buck scraping at the snow to search for more fodder.

Kevin Sanderlin looked at his son for a long moment, clapping the boy on the shoulder. The sound, muffled as it was by layers of jacket and hunting vest, startled the two deer, and they bounded deeply into the forest.

“Time to head home, son?” he asked, the question making it clear it was Mike’s decision. This hunting trip was, after all, part of Mike's Christmas vacation from school. It was an annual tradition for the Sanderlin men, and one Mike looked forward to all year.

“Yeah, I guess it’s time.” There was a twinge of reluctance in Mike’s voice.

The father and son walked beside each other on the trail this time, still stepping silently and watching the woods around them. They didn’t speak for almost an hour as the sun neared its peak, each caught in his own thoughts. When the back porch of home was in sight, Kevin slowed, studying his son appraisingly. “That was a beautiful buck, Mike.”

Mike shrugged. He probably should have taken the shot; he’d been questioning his decision all the way home. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess I was just thinking it would be better to wait, let those two have a fawn or two, so I can hunt them in a couple years.”

His father laughed, clapping him on the shoulder again as they headed into the mud room and the warm aroma of the venison stew Mike’s mother was simmering. “You’re a good hunter, Mike. You got nothing to prove.”

Mike grinned, knowing he’d been busted. He simply hadn’t wanted to take the shot. Maybe next time.

Mike unstrung his bow carefully and began taking it down, wiping each section with a soft cloth before returning the pieces to the cherished takedown kit. By the time he was finished, his ears were warm again, and the aroma of lunch made his mouth water.