The Cardinal Divide Read Online Free Page A

that it wasn’t all for rot and ruin. Allowing his gaze to troll the sea of churning humanity before him, he found solace in the fact that he still had most of his hair, and his face, never a candidate for an Oil of Olay commercial, was yet ruggedly good looking, though by no means handsome. Years and years of Alberta sun and wind, a lifetime of riding the range herding his family’s cattle, weeks in the mountains skiing and climbing,and months in the backcountry paddling wild rivers, had etched Blackwater’s face into a maze of lines. Even after three years on the wet coast, when months passed without the sun showing its rosy face, Blackwater still wore the appearance of a tan, though it was more from wear and tear than basking.
    Then there was the boxing. Nothing puts years on a man’s face like being hit, again and again, with a leather glove, every day and night for nearly two decades.
    He finished his sweep of the room, elbows resting on the bar, one leg cocked back and jammed against the boot-worn wood. The room was getting busier, the decibel level rising with the frenzied excitement of young people on a Friday night. Blackwater spotted a solid dozen women who fit his description of beautiful, but nearly each one was guarded by a man ten years younger than he was, and perceptibly more good looking. He would be content to let his fantasies play out from afar.
    Cole Blackwater’s third reason for making a careful assessment of this bar was to see if any of his cronies had taken up residence to hoist a few without him. Gregarious by nature, Black-water loved any chance to swap a week’s worth of political gossip with his acquaintances. Also, he hated the thought of being left out. Of being left behind. He feared nothing more than missing something. Some decision might be made without him. Some plan hatched in his absence. He had spent his professional life scrambling to be in on all the big opportunities. Cole Blackwater knew that those opportunities were often conceived over a beer-stained tablecloth, or across a cocktail table littered with tumblers and highball glasses.
    Where had those years of scrambling got him? Drinking alone on a Friday night after laying off his only employee, not knowing where the next paycheque would come from. Then he thought of Peggy McSorlie and, out of habit, checked his watch. Desperation will make a man do funny things, thought Cole Blackwater.
    He saw nobody he knew in the bar, which saddened him more than his unfulfilled search for potential adversaries or conquests. He was lonely. He reached to plunk his pint glass on the bar behind him without taking his eyes from the room.
    â€œAnother?” asked the boy bartender.
    â€œPlease,” he answered over the din.
    He took stock of himself: he was paranoid, lonely, and fighting so far below his weight class it embarrassed him.
    â€œBottoms up,” said the bartender, and Cole fished another five from the garbage in his pockets to pay for the beer.
    The note with Peggy McSorlie’s phone number fell out and landed on the floor. He reached to pick it up. He looked at his watch again. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock.
    He tipped the beaded pint glass toward his lips and drank half of the ale before returning it to the coaster. He blew out through pursed lips and felt the beer settle into his belly. That’s better, he mused, the pints doing their work to loosen his limbs and calm his frenzied thoughts. Cole settled into a familiar funk, assessing what he considered to be the ruined landscape of his life. Maybe his critics were right: he was a failure as a consultant. Maybe it was time for a change. Take a job. Stop trying to save the world single-handedly. He let his gaze fall on one of the TV s in the corner of the bar, and became absorbed by his next pint and the silent hockey game on the Sports Network, and let half an hour pass this way.
    A heavy hand on Cole’s shoulder startled him, and