Chapter 11: The Shop on Rock Creek
Red Lodge sat nestled against the foot of the Beartooth Pass, smelling of pine sap, coal smoke, and cold mountain water.
Hank’s Heavy Diesel was a sprawling corrugated-iron pole barn at the edge of town, bordered by towering stands of Douglas fir and the rushing, boulder-strewn torrent of Rock Creek. The yard was a graveyard of rusted bull-dozer blades, timber skidders, and piles of seasoned tire chains.
Hank was sixty, built like an iron stove, with graying mutton chops and eyes that had seen forty Montana winters. When the truck pulled into the yard, Hank wiped his hands on a greasy rag, stepped out of the office, and spat into the gravel.
""You're late, Jackson,"" Hank grunted.
""Ran into some headwind,"" Jax replied, stepping down from the cab.
Hank’s gaze drifted past Jax to where Cole was climbing down from the passenger side, clutching his shoebox of books. Hank’s bushy gray eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, his eyes taking in the scuffed sneakers, the messy brown hair, and the jawline that mirrored Jax’s own.
""Who's the apprentice?"" Hank asked.
""This is Cole,"" Jax said, his voice clear, steady, and carrying an unshakeable pride. ""My son.""
Hank looked at the boy for three long seconds. Then, he reached into his coverall pocket, pulled out a small, steel six-inch pocket scale, and tossed it across the three feet of space between them.
Cole caught it cleanly with two hands.
""Can you read eighths and sixteenths, boy?"" Hank barked.
""Yes, sir,"" Cole answered without hesitation.
May you like
Hank gave a short, gruff nod of approval. ""The apartment upstairs is clean. Woodbox is full. Dinner is at six in the cookhouse. Don't be late.""
He turned on his heel and walked back into the dark cavern of the repair bay, the rhythmic clink of his wrench ringing against steel like a bell welcoming them into sanctuary.
