I’d nodded and felt the weight of it pulling down on my shirt.
He stepped toward me. I shook his hand. “Captain.”
“Son. How’re you doing?”
“Fine, sir.”
He measured me under the moon. “You’re thinner.”
He looked older. More tired. “I ’spect. A few pounds maybe.”
“How long’s it been?”
I shrugged.
He squeezed my arms. “Little over a year?”
We both knew. “A little.”
He smiled and nodded. The ice had been broken. He let go. “Heard you’ve been traveling.”
I turned my hat in my hands. “I’ve seen some country.”
“Dumps says you been burning through tires like, well—”
“Been keeping them warm.”
He sucked through his teeth, then spat out a piece of his cigar. “You are a rare breed, Cowboy.”
“I believe you’ve told me that before, sir.”
The years had aged him. More wrinkles. Hair whiter. More silver. Still magnificent. Broad-shouldered. Taller than most men. Still commanded a presence. Still polished his boots and wore double-starched shirts. His Wranglers were ironed, the creases showing down the front. But he was now sixty-two—no, sixty-three. None of us really knew. Had he softened, or was it just me? Time has a way of knocking the edges off. Pain does, too. He lifted his chin. “How’s the leg?”
“Don’t feel it much.”
A fake smile. “You lie.”
His lips grew tight while his eyes walked up me, then split: half frown, half smirk. He did that when he didn’t want you to know what he was thinking. Only problem was, we could all read him like a book. He walked to the front of his Ford and leaned against it, took off his hat and lay it on the hood. His belly had grown. Sort of pushed out over his belt. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’ve got me out here this time of night.”
“I need to go hunt a man and I need your permission to do it.”
“That’s not all you need.”
I kicked at the dirt with my toe, then looked at him. “Yes, sir.”
“Who is he?”
I told him.
He scratched his chin, thinking. That meant he was going to let me do what I wanted but that he’d worry about it until I got back. “I’m going to call his boss, let him know what’s about to happen.”
“If you’d wait ’til after lunch, it’d let me know whether this is going to be easy or…”
“Or…?”
I laughed. “Or not.”
He dug in his shirt pocket. “A while back, you walked in my office and laid this on my desk. Said something about me finding another chest to pin it on.” He blew on it and then polished it on his shirtsleeve. “I been keeping it till… till you wanted it back.”
“I just need it this one time.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what about the next time?”
“There won’t be a next time.” I stared at the house. Brodie’s room.
He stuck his finger in my chest. “No heroics. You get in, get out, get the evidence to his boss. Let them take it from there.”
“That’s my plan.”
I had a long drive in front of me and if I left right now, I could get an hour or two’s worth of sleep at a rest area before I ended up at his place.
He pulled a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and peeled off the plastic. “Something you need to know. There’s talk that your buddy José Juan Chuarez is going to be released on a technicality.”
“I heard.”
“Seems he’s hired some pretty good lawyers. Paid them a lot of money. Thought you’d want to know.”
I nodded.
He looked around me. “You’re kind of isolated out here. If he starts giving orders, you might find you need help.”
I tapped my cell phone. “Don’t worry. Still got you on speed dial.”
He shook his head once. “By the time I got here, it’d be too late. Even the smoke would have cleared.”
I laughed. “I doubt it. He shows up, there’ll be a good bit of smoke.”
He smiled. Nodded. Pushed the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “I got a question I been meaning to ask you.” He ran his fingers through his graying hair. He took his time. A breeze washed over us. “Do you blame you?”
“Blame me, sir?”
“Do you blame yourself for”—he eyed the Bar S—“what’s happened to you?”
My voice softened. “The night my dad was killed, we’d spent the day together. Dreaming. He told me he was retiring that next week. Going into the cattle business with me. Just him and me. He realized he’d given his life to Texas and not Mom and me. Didn’t want to live a life of regrets.” I stared at Captain. “I was going down the same track. Gonna be just like him. Took me a while to see that. So, in answer to your question, yes, I blame me.” I shook my head once. “Every day.”
We stood in the dark. Listening to an evening in Texas. He poked at the dirt with the toe of his boot. A breeze pushed through. “Son?”
“Sir?”
His eyes shone a deep, brilliant ebony. “You want me to go with you?”
“Sir, if it goes the way I’m planning, I won’t even see the guy until after I’ve got the evidence and handed it to his captain. I’ve got her house key. I intend to let myself in, find what I’m looking for, and leave. I don’t want to mess with this guy. I wear an ‘S’ on my chest because it makes my son happy. Not ’cause I think it’s got anything to do with me.”
He laughed. “Just don’t let it go to your head. And be careful.”
It’d been almost three years since I’d worn my father’s cinco peso. A feeling I’d missed. I cranked the truck and the needle on the gas gauge pointed through the “F” at Brodie who was still smiling at me. Just above it, on the dash, sat the legal-sized manila folder that would change his world forever. The papers requiring my action lay stacked inside.
I scratched my head. One thing at a time.
I was driving to San Antonio to help a woman I’d known for less than three days, while severing ties with a woman I’d known for thirteen years. A woman who gave me a son. Who used to wait up for me. Whose crow’s-feet showed up in the corners of her eyes after we got married. Whose tomato garden now lies covered in weeds out back of the house. I know the number of freckles on her back, the length she likes her stirrups, how she likes her feet rubbed when they’re tired, and how she breathes when she’s sleeping.
I circled out of the drive and nearly ran over Sam. For the second time. She shone white in the headlights. Barefoot. I rolled down the window. She slid her hands in her pockets, walked up next to the window. “You don’t need to do this.”
“You got a better idea?”
An unconvincing shrug. “What if we just lie low? Disappear. Start over. We’re a long way from there and he’s not going to find us. You said so yourself.”
I chuckled. “If you believe that then why can’t you sleep?”
She nodded. Picked at the sand with her toe. “You still don’t have to do this.”
“I know that.”
“Why then?”
“Because bad men who have a lot to lose, like him, are rather motivated.”
“But”—and this time she looked right at me—“you don’t even know me.”
“In my line of work, that really has little bearing on whether I go or not.”
“What if—?” She shook her head. Swallowed what she’d hoped to say. “So, we’re just supposed to wait here until you get back?”
I glanced at my watch. “You could get some sleep.”
She stepped back, and nodded. “Right. I’m sure that’ll happen.”
“Listen, there are some things about my life that I regret, but, this”—I tapped my badge and let my eyes roll down the drive—“is what I do. Telling me not to go is like telling Brodie he can’t ride Mr. B. It’s all he’s ever k
nown. He don’t know nothing different. Life for him is life with Mr. B.”
She smirked. Spoke slowly, enunciating her words. “ ‘Doesn’t know anything different.’ ”
“And you understood me, didn’t you?”
She tried not to smile. “Yep.” She hung her hands on the side of the door. She’d bitten her fingernails. Her expression changed. She reached out and placed her hand on my arm. Eye contact again. More words she didn’t speak. Or maybe, the same ones. It was a plea. She left it there, stared out across the pasture, nodded, and hung her head.
I rolled up the window, slid off the clutch, and idled out the drive. The rearview showed her, standing, arms crossed. Maybe a wrinkle between her eyes. When I neared the hard road, Dumps appeared off the front porch, put his arm around her, and led her back in the house.
In my experience, it’s those words on the tip of the tongue that we most need to hear. They are the key. The thing that’s missing. But you can’t pull them out. They have to be offered. Freely. And they won’t be offered until the owner trusts you with them. And to do that means they’ve got to break through a world of hurt and pain just to get them out of their mouth.
I caught my reflection in the mirror. I was shaking my head. If I was a running mother trying to protect my daughter, I wouldn’t trust anyone. No matter what they wore on their chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dear God,
This place is big. Me and Brodie rode around today for an hour and he said we didn’t see hardly none of it. He said he’d take me to the river tomorrow. Maybe we could swim if Momma would let me. She said she would but it’s probably too cold. Oh, and there’s cows here, too. Lots of them. Brodie said they’re Black Baldies, but they’re not bald. They got hair. And they’re big, too. The bull, that’s the male. You know, the one with the, well, you know. He’s a Brahma and he’s twice the size of the females and his you-know-whats hang down to his knees. It looks funny. Momma says I shouldn’t talk about that stuff but how can you not? I mean, they’re hanging down to his knees. Don’t that hurt when he walks? I guess you’d know. Did you do that on purpose? Did the first Brahma do something to make you mad? He’s got a big hump on his back like a camel but Brodie says it don’t hold water.
Wait…
There’s people talking outside.
It’s Momma and Cowboy. They went for a walk. I think Momma likes Cowboy. I can hear it in her voice when she talks to him. She’s like a candle. He lit her and now parts of her are just melting down her sides.
Momma’s in the bathtub now. Cowboy’s walking around out in the hall. I asked Momma what he’s doing and she didn’t answer me.
Cowboy’s gone. He just left. I watched his taillights disappear like two bright-red eyes down the drive. Momma wouldn’t tell me where he’s going but I think I know. When he walked out of the house, he was carrying a rifle like the soldiers use. It was black and looked like the kind you see in the movies. I think he’s going to Billy’s.
I hope he gets it. And I hope he shoots Billy. Is it a sin to say that? Even if it is, I hope he does. I hope he shoots him in the you-know-whats.
Dear God,
It’s morning. Brodie’s at school. Mr. Dumps is in the barn. Momma’s on the porch sipping coffee staring down the road with her knees tucked up into her chest. And I’m in the bathroom sitting on something called a bu-day. It’s kind of like a toilet but only you don’t poop in it. If you did, you’d have to poke it through the little holes with a stick or something ’cause otherwise it’d never flush. I saw it last night and then asked Momma this morning what it was and she said it’s a thing for girls to wash their bottoms. Front and back. Women use it sometimes when they don’t want to take a shower. I asked Momma if I could use it and at first she shook her head. Then she chewed on her fingernail like she does when she’s thinking and she changed her mind and said I could. It’s weird but I like it. Momma said it probably wasn’t here when the house was first built and that Cowboy put it in here for his wife. Momma said his wife must have been a real lady ’cause ladies use these things. I figured I’d sit here a while and let that sink in.
Oh and God, Cowboy should be in San Antonio by now. Are you watching? You should be. Not that I’m telling you how to be God, but well, you should be. And you need to make sure Cowboy knows about the security system. The one that don’t make no noise but calls Billy and his friends on his cell phone. And about all the guns. And about how Billy knows how to shoot them real good. Cowboy needs to know that, ’cause Cowboy’s just a cowboy.
Well. I got to get off this thing ’cause it’s starting to feel weird. I guess it done did whatever it’s supposed to do ’cause it’s made my butt pucker. I don’t know why women don’t just take a shower ’cause your backside’s all wet anyway. You need a towel to get dried off. I won’t bother you none the rest of the day so you can help Cowboy. Okay?
If you said yes, you need to speak up… but I’ll take that as a yes.
Dear God,
I’ve left you alone almost all day and not said a word, but it’s after dinner, Cowboy’s been gone all day and we haven’t heard a thing. Momma hasn’t said much. She’s about rubbed blisters on her hands. She’s done drunk so much coffee she’s peed fifteen times. She keeps getting up off the porch, walking to the railing, staring a while at the drive, then sitting back down on the swing and fidgeting. Then she starts it all over again. Except when she puts on another pot of coffee.
Today, Momma and me were being nosy and rummaging through the bottom of his closet and found this shoebox at the bottom. We opened it and found all these articles about Cowboy. About how he shot a man who was holding a kid hostage on a bridge. The bad man would hold the baby out over the water so the police couldn’t grab him. If they tried, he said he’d let go. Cowboy’s boss knew he could shoot real good at long distance ’cause Cowboy grew up shooting whistle pigs at out to six hundred yards. I don’t know what a whistle pig is but I don’t think it’s a pig that whistles. Momma says she thinks it’s something like a rat. Anyway, Cowboy had been shooting these things since he was little so he was real good at shooting small things a long way off, so his boss told him to lie down on the opposite bridge, about eight hundred yards away, and shoot the man. And that man died but that girl didn’t. ’Cause Cowboy shot him in the head when he pulled the little kid back over the bridge and then the bullet hit him and he fell down dead and Momma said the baby probably just fell on his chest where it was soft rather than the concrete so it didn’t get hurt none. The article showed Cowboy standing with the governor who gave him a honor medal. We found other stuff in that box, too. An old article about his daddy. It was yellowed and real thin. Said he was shot here in town in some bank during a robbery. He saved some lady’s life. I guess Cowboy and his daddy, they just go around saving women from bad men. ’Cause he did it for us.
After that picture of Cowboy with the governor, I got to thinking. I think Cowboy and Billy are a lot alike but they’re a lot different, too. They both got pictures with famous people where they did stuff good, but Billy puts his on the wall where everybody can see it and know all about him and think one way about him when he’s not really that way, but Cowboy, he stuffs his in the closet down in a dusty shoebox with tape on it where nobody can see it. Where nobody don’t know nothing about him. Where only nosey people who shouldn’t be looking were looking and found it. Why is that? Is that ’cause maybe sometimes people hide the good in them and others around them got to go digging to find it?
Momma read an article about an explosion and how Cowboy got blowed up and then some kid shot him with his own gun. Momma says that’s how Cowboy got that burn on his neck and it probably goes all the way down his side, too. The boys that did it were working for some drug lord from Mexico. Cowboy had hunted that man down and put him in prison. Said it was one of the biggest arrests in a long time. The article said that Cowboy retired after that for “personal reasons.” The article made it sound like Texas had lost someth
ing ’cause he was born to be a Ranger but retired at the pinnacle of his career. The captain’s secretary said he walked into his captain’s office and laid down his badge and said, “Cap’n, I can’t wear this no more.” When the Captain asked him why, Cowboy just shook his head and said, “ ’Cause it’s killing me.” Said Cowboy was crying when he did it. But that don’t really make sense, ’cause when he walked out of here last night, he was wearing it. I could see it shining in the moonlight. Does that mean he ain’t retired no more? I know I’m hitting you with a lot of questions but there’s a lot going on and I figure you can handle it. Right? You’re supposed to say yes. Maybe you said it and I didn’t hear you. If that’s the case then you need to speak up.
The end of the article said Cowboy now lives on a small farm called the Bar S that belonged to his father. That’s where we are now. That’s where I’m writing from. He lives there with his wife, their son Brodie, and an old boot maker named Dumps. Said Cowboy raises cows and runs a private shooting school for people who want to learn how to defend themselves. Momma says he teaches normal folks. I told her she should ask him to teach her and she started chewing on her lip. That means she was thinking that, too.
I thought maybe if I talked long enough that you’d get Cowboy back here safely. Like maybe it’d help burn the time away. But, it didn’t. He ain’t here. What are you doing about that?
I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but… what are you doing about that?
Oh, and one more thing. Brodie took me down to the river today and said that’s one of your arms. I told him I don’t think so. When he asked why, I told him you’d be stronger than that wimpy little river.
Dear God,
It’s midnight and Cowboy ain’t back. Momma’s worried. I asked Brodie if his dad had called and he said no. I asked him if he was scared and he said no but I think he was lying. Mr. Dumps said we don’t have anything to worry about, that Cowboy ain’t no dummy, but neither is Billy. And Billy’s mean. While Cowboy’s not. And sometimes, I think mean beats not. It just does.
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