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We'll do a little frog giggin', cow tippin'
How 'bout a little skinny dippin', bass fishin'
Take it easy on the 'shine
And stay away from other boys' women
That's one damn good way for a
man to get it whooped down here
These boys tough down here
Get your ass tore up down here
And be an all nighter with the hippies and the hicks
Jocks and bikers, they all came
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Had Ruger been more vested into interactions with others, he may have been able to sense the way in which this woman seemed to share in some of his own mannerisms. The constant awareness, the keen intelligence that seemed to always be in play to stay ahead of the game...and of course, the deadliness. As it was, Ruger simply played off these things, crediting her appeal to his own loneliness. For even as much as man craved solitude, it did not change the fact that humans were social creatures...and he was, after all, purely human. It had been a long time since he had shared any extended contact with another, much less a woman..so it was only natural to accept that company, of course.
His self-sufficiency had started early in life, long before the gates of easy social interactions had closed for him. Ruger had grown up in the swamplands of Arkansas, a boy born of two alcoholics that did little by way of nurturing their young charge. Ruger's father had been a Vietnam veteran, a man who had seen far too much at far too young an age, and had turned to the bottle in search of answers he would never find. His mother had dealt with bouts of depression (likely due to the rocky marriage in which she had entered), and found her solstice in the form of Cabernet. It hadn't always been bad...in fact, as a young'un Ruger had often felt himself lucky. He was free to roam that back country, trapping and hunting as often as he saw fit. It wasn't a bad life for a young boy, really. He didn't quite have the word 'neglect' in his vocabulary at the time, and it would take years for him to realize his situation for what it had been.
The abuse had started after his mom had finally drank just a little too much for her liver to handle. Cirrhosis claimed her early, and Ruger's father had been ill-equipt to handle his grief...let alone the care of his only son. Ruger took the buckle end of a belt most nights, and eventually began staying days at time out in the swamplands, if only to avoid going home. He worked hard to avoid his father when possible, and somehow managed to survive long enough to be of age to take the only way out that was offered to a young roughneck from the swamp...he joined the Army.
His success had been virtually effortless. He'd learned young how to handle a gun, and his accuracy was deadly. His superior officers had been quite impressed with his skill, and he had climbed the ranks quickly. The year he had officially been given the title of sniper was also the year that he had met his Kathryn. It hadn't taken long for him to fall for her, and it was two days before his deployment that he had dropped to his knee and asked for her to spend the rest of her life with him. She had agreed, despite the fact that he would be leaving for the duration of one full year. As it had turned out, she had been his rock through his deployment. Even when he couldn't talk to her, it was there mere image of her in his mind that had kept him going. He had wanted to survive, because she deserved to have him make it through. He had denied death as best he could, if only to spare her pain.
They had waited to set a date until the year following his homecoming, allowing him the time he needed to integrate himself back into society and get past the issues war had caused his psyche. They had decided to be married in early September, and so the wedding planning had begun. They had been a mere six months away from the date when the very definition of every nightmare he could ever must had come true.
Three years. That was all he'd had with her.
Four years had passed. And wasn't it true that time slows down for the wounded? Ruger thought so...for each month of those four years had seemed to span and eternity. He had a notion the rest of his life would feel the same way...for what purpose did he have anymore, save for seeking justice? It was a tiring existence.
He grinned as she asked for the same whiskey he was currently sipping, a brow slightly arched. "A whiskey drinkin' woman, yeah? Impressive." She hadn't exactly struck him as the fruity drink type of girl, but still...it wasn't often you could witness a woman shoot whiskey. Scotch maybe, or fine brandy...but not 'redneck nectar', as he liked to call it. He watched the bartender fill her drink and then replace the contents of his own. He would have no more than three tonight, considering his lack of nourishment as of late. Crashing his truck didn't exactly sound like his idea of a party. Nor did tangoing with the local law over intoxication charges.
"Well, where I come from, suger is a pretty apt name for the likes of you. But if Tumbleweed's your preference, well, then I aim to please." He shot her an amused look, a little flicker of humor lighting the deep blue of his gaze. He watched as she ran her finger along the rim of her glass, noting the far-away look of her eyes as she seemed to ponder something deep. He gave a shrug of his tightly muscled shoulders, inclining his head just slightly in thought. "From what I can tell, roots ain't all they're cracked up to be. Had em once, myself. Tore 'em free when I was just a young'un. Guess I ain't really looked back since. Don't miss it much." Hell, he didn't miss it at all. While the peace of the back country called to him, there was simply not enough beauty there to call him home to stay. "Though I can see how a body might want to settle down. The journey gets tiresome, after a while. Me, I guess I live in a different world than that. Never could find a common with them banker types." His smirk had resurfaced, good-natured and deceptively gentle.
"And what kinda competition might that be, Tumbleweed? You one of them cover girls on the magazine covers or somethin'?" It was an honest question, really. She did look like she'd stepped right off the cover of a fashion book, even if that wasn't the vibe she gave off. If Ruger had known her true profession, he would not have considered her a threat to his job. So long as he was the one to finish off Kathryn's killer...
He lifted his glass, inclining it slightly until the rim gently clinked against her own. "To paths well crossed on an autumn eve, yeah?" He gave her a grin...a true, and rare grin...one that took at least five years off of him and for the moment made him look the way he had before loss and rage had bore their way into his soul.
____‡_______‡___
Our side of the barbed wire
Money grows in rows
If it don't you're goin' broke
So we
We hang out by the bonfire
Just the good ol' boys having a dang good time
We crank it up down here
We get loud down her
Throwin' down in the dirty, dirty south down here
Be an all nighter with the hippies and the hicks
Jocks and bikers, they all came to kick it in the
sticks
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