Jethro listened attentively, with equal measures of concern and anger on my behalf. Then he expressed sympathy and support, reaching for and holding my hand.
Now here we were, and the silence stretching between us rivaled the length of our shadows.
He broke the comfortable silence with, “Something my momma used to say, something I try to remember, is ‘Don’t go skinny-dipping with snapping turtles.’”
I glanced at his handsome profile, grinning at the saying because Hollywood was chock-full of snapping turtles, but was distracted by the strength of his jaw, neck, and shoulders. His hand in mine also felt solid. Jethro was coiled strength and power, and his strength felt genuine and wild. Or rather, wild in comparison to the civilized strength to which I was accustomed. My fellow actors, and I included myself in this category, cultivated strength in an air-conditioned gym with a personal trainer.
Jethro used his strength daily, as part of his job, sometimes alone, sometimes as part of a team. It felt real. He felt real. I loved that he was real.
His eyes flickered to mine, waking me from my musings.
“Uh, did she?” I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “She sounds like a smart woman. Did she work in Hollywood?”
He grinned, but it quickly waned. “No. Her snapping turtles were more of the biker variety.”
We walked a few more paces, and then I said and thought in unison, “She sounds like my mom. She likes to give me advice of a similar sort. But instead she would say something like, ‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ where the sow’s ear are shitty people.”
His answering smile was wry and sympathetic.
Because I no longer wished to discuss the unfairness of Hollywood and, as I was curious, I asked, “Did you always want to be a park ranger?”
“No.” Jethro shook his head, both amusement and vehemence in his denial. “Not at all. I couldn’t stand the wildlife rangers growing up. They were always spoiling my fun.” He was quiet for a moment, but it was the kind of quiet that promised more information was forthcoming. “I grew up wanting my own Iron Wraiths cut.”
“What does that mean?”
He brought us to a stop and released my hand, folding his arms over his chest and squinting at the horizon. “That means I wanted to be a biker, a member of the gang.” Then, quieter, he added, “That’s all I ever wanted.”
“What made you change your mind?”
Jethro’s gaze flickered over my face, inspecting me before he began reluctantly, “I had a close friend growing up. Ben was his name.” His eyes dropped to the reedy prairie grass reaching our knees. “We had the best time, did everything together whenever possible. He was a real good person. In fact, he was the best person. I was always getting in trouble, and he was always there to rescue me, trying to reform me.” Jethro chuckled at some memory and shook his head. “I guess I counted on him for that, always thinking the best of me when everyone else saw only bad. Does that sound strange?”
“No. Not at all. I think we all need someone who sees the best in us.” For my part, the concept of Jethro as a bad person felt completely discordant with reality, if not impossible. “Did you know him your whole life?”
“Yes. I can’t remember my life without him in it. Until he died.”
I kept my expression supportive but neutral. I knew how Ben had died because Hank had told me weeks ago, but I had the impression Jethro needed to talk about it. So I asked softly, “How did Ben die?”
“He joined the Marines, wanting to do good and make a difference before settling and starting a family. But he died in Afghanistan on his first tour. Ben was the one who wanted to be a park ranger.”
“Ben wanted to be a ranger?”
His gaze grew unfocused. “That’s right.”
“So you became one?”
His eyes cut to mine, held them. Usually Jethro had at least a whisper of a perma-smile in his expression. It was one of the things I liked most about him, how easy-going and friendly he was. But now there was nothing happy in his looks, nothing joyful or tranquil.
“I did.” He nodded once. “Because when Ben died, I couldn’t stop thinking that it should have been me.”
“Oh, Jethro. No.” I reached for his hand but he saw my intention and placed his hands on his hips, evading my touch.
“I was a real asshole. Disrespectful to my momma, arrogant, cocky. I once tried to pimp out my sister.” Jethro’s lip curled and he spat the words, visibly disgusted with himself. “Rather, my father tried to and I didn’t do anything to stop him. She was only fifteen at the time, but I thought he’d hung the moon. Luckily my brother Billy found out and put a stop to it. I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, saw him as a big man. Important because the Wraiths considered him important. But the truth was, all he had was the respect of his fucked-up brothers, the gang members. He had power in a shitty little biker gang. That’s all he had.”