pain and you give me a hard time about crap I’ve got no control over?”
Flynn turned toward the ten-person tent nestled in a natural enclave of pines. The portable kitchen and aluminum picnic tables looked familiar, but the oversize molded plastic toilet was new.
“Does that portable john have a shower? Wow. All the comforts of home,” Flynn said walking to the grouping of camp chairs circling a rock fire pit.
The night of the groundbreaking the place had been littered with tents, campers and cars, despite the near freezing temps. The fire pit had been a popular hangout into the wee hours of the morning.
The canvas camp chair Tucker occupied was the kind that reclined with a built-in footrest. His stocking foot sat elevated on a couple of pillows. Flynn nodded his approval that Tucker had followed his instructions. “Where are all your workers?”
“Probably lined up to file unemployment claims.” He scowled in a very un-Tucker way. “We hit the wall in our permitting process. Apparently, the State of Montana has some say in how this damn thing goes together. The company I hired to build the zip line claims they were blindsided by new regulations. Luckily, I took your advice and hired Austen Zabrinski to oversee the licensing, permits and insurance.”
He winced as if the word was aluminum foil connected with a filling.
“Don’t get me started on what it’s going to cost to open the damn doors once we get this place built. But, on the upside, Austen is a legal pit-bull. Ferocious. Total man-crush. I’d be in love if I didn’t like girls better.”
Flynn eased his pack to the ground and took the chair beside Tucker’s. “Glad that worked out. Mia told me her brother had been involved in state politics until some sort of scandal pulled the rug out from under him. Now, he’s using his connections to work on behalf of small businesses. Apparently his girlfriend…no, wait, fiancée, owns an alpaca ranch and just opened a new retail operation featuring local crafts made with the fleece and yarn. Even she had problems getting a permit until Austen got involved.”
He leaned over to peek at the ankle sporting a gallon-size zipper bag of ice. “Did you make this?”
“No. Thankfully, Raul, my foreman, was here when I fell. He wanted to drive me to the ER, but I told him I wanted you to look at it first.”
Tucker, who was dressed in his usual individual style—madras print Bermuda shorts over a pair of thermal long johns and an over-size black fisherman knit sweater—took a pull from his metal water bottle.
“Keeping hydrated, huh?” Flynn asked facetiously. He didn’t doubt for a minute that whatever beverage was in the bottle it included vodka.
“I’m in pain, man. Quit giving me grief. So?” He tried to sit up. “How bad is it? Is my dancing career over?”
Flynn rolled his eyes. “Such a drama queen.” He tossed the dripping, half-frozen bag in Tucker’s direction and was pleased to see his friend catch it one-handed. “How did you do this to yourself?”
“I was checking out launch site Number One when my heel sank in a pothole and I fell sideways. Seriously. I don’t have time for surgery. Am I going to need surgery?”
Flynn peeled back the bright green sock. The ankle was swollen and the skin pinkish-red from the ice pack. In two places, the pink showed definite undertones of purple. “I can’t say for sure without an X-ray, but my gut says you twisted the hell out of it.”
Flynn was used to doctoring his buddies. Everyone on their Hot Shot team went to Flynn for their aches and pains since he was a certified wilderness EMT—a certificate he was certain played a roll in getting him hired with the Crawford County Search and Rescue. “Once I stabilize it, I’ll drive you down the hill to the Doc Shop or whatever they call Urgent Care in Marietta.”
He listened to his pal’s protests and the long list of reasons why Tucker couldn’t leave the place unattended, but in
Flynn turned toward the ten-person tent nestled in a natural enclave of pines. The portable kitchen and aluminum picnic tables looked familiar, but the oversize molded plastic toilet was new.
“Does that portable john have a shower? Wow. All the comforts of home,” Flynn said walking to the grouping of camp chairs circling a rock fire pit.
The night of the groundbreaking the place had been littered with tents, campers and cars, despite the near freezing temps. The fire pit had been a popular hangout into the wee hours of the morning.
The canvas camp chair Tucker occupied was the kind that reclined with a built-in footrest. His stocking foot sat elevated on a couple of pillows. Flynn nodded his approval that Tucker had followed his instructions. “Where are all your workers?”
“Probably lined up to file unemployment claims.” He scowled in a very un-Tucker way. “We hit the wall in our permitting process. Apparently, the State of Montana has some say in how this damn thing goes together. The company I hired to build the zip line claims they were blindsided by new regulations. Luckily, I took your advice and hired Austen Zabrinski to oversee the licensing, permits and insurance.”
He winced as if the word was aluminum foil connected with a filling.
“Don’t get me started on what it’s going to cost to open the damn doors once we get this place built. But, on the upside, Austen is a legal pit-bull. Ferocious. Total man-crush. I’d be in love if I didn’t like girls better.”
Flynn eased his pack to the ground and took the chair beside Tucker’s. “Glad that worked out. Mia told me her brother had been involved in state politics until some sort of scandal pulled the rug out from under him. Now, he’s using his connections to work on behalf of small businesses. Apparently his girlfriend…no, wait, fiancée, owns an alpaca ranch and just opened a new retail operation featuring local crafts made with the fleece and yarn. Even she had problems getting a permit until Austen got involved.”
He leaned over to peek at the ankle sporting a gallon-size zipper bag of ice. “Did you make this?”
“No. Thankfully, Raul, my foreman, was here when I fell. He wanted to drive me to the ER, but I told him I wanted you to look at it first.”
Tucker, who was dressed in his usual individual style—madras print Bermuda shorts over a pair of thermal long johns and an over-size black fisherman knit sweater—took a pull from his metal water bottle.
“Keeping hydrated, huh?” Flynn asked facetiously. He didn’t doubt for a minute that whatever beverage was in the bottle it included vodka.
“I’m in pain, man. Quit giving me grief. So?” He tried to sit up. “How bad is it? Is my dancing career over?”
Flynn rolled his eyes. “Such a drama queen.” He tossed the dripping, half-frozen bag in Tucker’s direction and was pleased to see his friend catch it one-handed. “How did you do this to yourself?”
“I was checking out launch site Number One when my heel sank in a pothole and I fell sideways. Seriously. I don’t have time for surgery. Am I going to need surgery?”
Flynn peeled back the bright green sock. The ankle was swollen and the skin pinkish-red from the ice pack. In two places, the pink showed definite undertones of purple. “I can’t say for sure without an X-ray, but my gut says you twisted the hell out of it.”
Flynn was used to doctoring his buddies. Everyone on their Hot Shot team went to Flynn for their aches and pains since he was a certified wilderness EMT—a certificate he was certain played a roll in getting him hired with the Crawford County Search and Rescue. “Once I stabilize it, I’ll drive you down the hill to the Doc Shop or whatever they call Urgent Care in Marietta.”
He listened to his pal’s protests and the long list of reasons why Tucker couldn’t leave the place unattended, but in
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