Rancher's Hostage Rescue. Beth Cornelison

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      Pressing his hand over the throbbing wound just under his arm, Wayne sank onto the sofa and rocked his head back to stare at the ceiling. The cottage-cheese texturing overhead was the same kind he’d had on his bedroom ceiling as a kid. Unlike this one, the ceiling in his bedroom had had spider webs dangling in the corners and a water stain by the light. He’d stared at the popcorn bumps many a night listening to his parents argue...or screw. Or hearing his mother rant about nonsense when she’d get high.

      His bedroom had grown silent at night the day his mother OD’d. She’d gone out to meet up with her dealer and had never come back. No great loss there, he’d told himself stoically. With her death, he and his dad were free to do their own thing. Move around the country. Never look back.

      Only time he missed her was when his dad vented the drunken rage he used to take out on his mom on him. The beatings forced Wayne to grow up fast. He’d learned to hide on the nights his dad drank, and as he gained his own muscle, he’d learned to fight back. His dad said facing the belt had toughened him up, taught him respect. Maybe it had. Mostly the beatings added bitterness to the love-hate relationship he’d had with his old man.

      Moving slowly, Wayne raised his feet to the couch and stretched out, his gut full of sour reproach. If his dad could see how things had gotten screwed up today, he’d be laughing his ass off. Or smacking him around to teach him a lesson. He’d scorned his dad for checking out at the St. Louis hit. Today, Wayne had blown a much smaller job. Who was the real screwup?