by C. J. Box
“Call me,” the governor said.
JOE’S HEAD WAS still spinning from the meeting as he wheeled the Ford into the turn-in at Saddlestring Elementary. Lucy was standing outside with her books clutched to her chest in the midst of a gaggle of fourth-grade girls who were talking to one another with great arm-waving exuberance. When all the girls turned their faces to him and watched him pull up to the curb, he knew something was up. Lucy waved good-bye to her friends—Lucy was a popular girl—and climbed in. As always, Lucy looked as fresh and attractive as she had at breakfast.
“Sheridan’s in big trouble,” Lucy said. “She got a detention, so we’ll have to wait for her.”
“What do you mean, big trouble?” Joe asked sharply. He wished Lucy hadn’t told him her news with such obvious glee. He continued to drive the four blocks to the high school, where Sheridan had just started the month before.
“Some boy said something at lunch and Sherry decked him,” Lucy said. “Knocked him right down to the floor, is what I heard.”
“That doesn’t sound like Sheridan,” Joe said.
“It would if you knew her better.” Lucy smiled. “She’s a hot-head when it comes to her family.”
Joe pulled over to the curb and turned to Lucy, realizing he had misread his youngest daughter. She was proud of her sister, not happy with the fact that she was in trouble. “What exactly are you telling me?”
“Everybody’s talking about it,” Lucy said. “Some boy made a crack about you in the lunchroom, and Sheridan decked him.”
“About me?”
Lucy nodded. “He said something about you not being the game warden anymore, that you got fired.”
“Who was the boy?”
“Jason Kiner.”
That stung. Jason was Phil Kiner’s son. Kiner was the game warden who had been assigned Joe’s district by Randy Pope. Joe had always liked Phil, but was disturbed that Kiner never called him for background or advice since assuming the post and moving his family into Joe’s old house near Wolf Mountain. Joe assumed Pope had told Phil to steer clear of the former inhabitant.
“And Sheridan hit him?”
Lucy nodded eagerly, watching him closely for his reaction.
Joe took a deep breath and shook his head sadly, thinking it was what he should do as a father when he really wanted to say, Good for Sheridan.
JOE AND LUCY waited a half-hour in front of the high school for Sheridan to be released. Lucy worked on homework assigned by her teacher, Mrs. Hanson, and Joe thought about how he would present the opportunity the governor had given him to Marybeth. He had mixed feelings about it, even though Rulon had been right that Joe’s first reaction had been to yell Yes! The “Yellowstone Zone of Death” file was facedown on the bench seat between them.
“Mrs. Hanson says Americans use up most of the world’s energy,” Lucy said. “She says we’re selfish and we need to learn how to conserve so we can help save our planet.”
“Oh?” Joe said. Lucy loved her teacher, a bright-eyed young woman just two years out of college. Joe and Marybeth had met Mrs. Hanson during back-to-school night and had been duly impressed and practically bowled over by her obvious enthusiasm for her job and her passion for teaching. Since Lucy’s third-grade teacher had been a weary, bitter twenty-four-year warhorse in the system who was counting the days until her retirement, Mrs. Hanson was a breath of fresh mountain air. Over the past month, Lucy had participated in a canned-food drive for the disadvantaged in the county and on the reservation, and a candy sale with profits dedicated to Amazon rain forest restoration. Lucy couldn’t wait to go to school in the morning, and seemed to start most sentences with, “Mrs. Hanson says . . .”
“Mrs. Hanson says we should stop driving gas-guzzling cars and turn the heat down in our houses.”
“Gas-guzzling cars like this?” Joe asked, patting the dashboard.
“Yes. Mrs. Hanson drives one of those good cars.”
“Do you mean a hybrid?”
“Yes. And Mr. and Mrs. Hanson recycle everything. They have boxes for glass, paper, and metal. Mrs. Hanson says they take the boxes to the recycling center every weekend.”
“We have a recycling center?” Joe asked.
“It’s in Bozeman or Billings.”
Joe frowned. “Billings is a hundred and twenty miles away.”
“So?”
“Driving a hundred and twenty miles to put garbage in a recycling bin doesn’t exactly save energy,” Joe said.
“Mrs. Hanson says the only way we can save the planet is for all of us to pitch in and work together to make a better world.”
Joe had no answer to that, since he didn’t want to appear to Lucy to be in favor of actively contributing to a worse world.
“Mrs. Hanson wanted me to ask you a question.”
“Really?”
“She wants to know why, if you’re a cowboy now, you don’t ride a horse? She says horses are much better for the environment than trucks and ATVs.”
“Do you want me to pick you up from school on a horse?” Joe asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
Lucy started to say yes but thought better of it. “Maybe you can still come get me in a truck, but you can ride a horse around all day on the ranch to help save the planet.”
“What are you reading?” he asked, looking at her open spiral notebook.
“We’re studying the Kyoto Protocol.”
“In fourth grade? Don’t they teach you math or science at that school?”
Lucy looked up, exasperated with her father. “Mrs. Hanson says it’s never too early to learn about important issues. She says, ‘Think globally and act locally.’ ”
ON THE STATE highway to the Longbrake Ranch, Sheridan stared out the passenger window as if the familiar landscape held new fascination for her. Lucy continued to do her homework with the notebook spread open on her lap.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Joe asked finally.
“Not really,” Sheridan said.
“We’ll need to discuss it, you know.”
Sheridan sighed an epic sigh, and without seeing it, Joe knew she performed the eye roll that was such a part of her attitude these days.
Joe glanced over at his oldest daughter, noting again to himself how much her profile mirrored Marybeth’s. In the past six months, Sheridan had become a woman physically, and borrowed her mother’s clothing sometimes without asking. Joe had trouble believing she could possibly be fifteen already. How had it happened? When did it happen? How did this little girl he knew so well, his best buddy while she was growing up, suddenly become a mysterious creature?
“Did you really knock him to the floor?” Lucy asked her sister.
After a long pause, Sheridan said, “Jason Kiner is an ass.”
Joe wished the reason for the lunchroom argument had been something besides him. He hated thinking that his daughters could be ashamed of him, ashamed of what he did, what he was now. A cowboy. A cowboy who worked for his father-in-law.
But, he thought, a cowboy with an offer.
3
JOE, MARYBETH, AND THEIR DAUGHTERS TREKKED across the hay meadow for dinner in the main ranch house with Bud and Missy Longbrake and two sullen Mexican ranch hands. As they walked across the shorn meadow the dried hay and fallen leaves crunched under their feet, the sounds sharp. The brief but intense light of the dying sun slipped behind the mountains and lit up the yellow/gold leaves of the river bottom cottonwoods, igniting the meadow with color. Despite the fact that there wasn’t a high-rise building within two hundred miles and Sheridan had never been to New York, she referred to this magical moment each evening as “walking down Broadway.”
The light doused just as they approached the main house. The evening was still and cold, the air thin, the sky close. A milky parenthesis framing the slice of moon signaled that snow could come at any time. Joe had brought a flashlight for the walk back to their house after dinner.
Because Marybeth had arrived home later than usu
al, Joe had not yet had a chance to talk to her about his meeting with the governor.
Lucy told her mother about Sheridan’s detention. Marybeth nodded and squinted at her oldest daughter, who glared at Lucy for telling.
“No talk about Sheridan or the detention during dinner,” Marybeth told Lucy.
“You mean not to tell Grandmother Missy?” Lucy said.
“That’s what I mean.”
Joe agreed. He preferred internal family discussions to remain internal, without Missy’s opinion on anything. It pleased him that Marybeth felt the same way. In fact, Joe thought he detected a growing tension between Marybeth and her mother lately. He stifled the urge to fan the flames. Joe and Marybeth had talked about buying a house of their own in town and had met with a Realtor. In the Realtor’s office, Joe was ashamed to admit he had never owned a home before—they had always lived in state housing—and therefore had no equity. The meeting concluded quickly after that. He had no idea how expensive it was to buy a house with no track record, and they knew they needed to save more money in order to build up a deposit and get good financing. To relieve his guilt on the drive back to the ranch, Marybeth had pointed out the comfort of the situation they were in—a home, meals, the undeniable beauty of the ranch itself. But Joe found himself too stubborn to concede all her points, although she certainly was practical. Looming over the argument, though, was the specter of Missy, Marybeth’s mother.
“I wish that stove would get here,” Sheridan said as they approached the ranch house. “It would be nice to eat dinner in our own house for once.”
It had been only a week since the ancient stove in the log home quit working. But Marybeth didn’t point it out because she was getting smarter about choosing her battles with Sheridan, Joe thought. In fact, it seemed as if the two were starting to come to a new understanding in regard to each other. Mysterious.
Joe opened the door for everyone.
As Marybeth passed him she raised her eyebrows, said, “I heard the governor’s plane was at the airport today.”
“We can talk about that after dinner too,” Joe said.
That stopped Marybeth for a moment and she studied his face. He stifled a grin, but she could read him like a book.
EVEN WITH THE other employees and the whole Pickett family in the dining room, the table still had plenty of empty chairs since it had once been where a dozen ranch hands ate breakfast and dinner, back when the Longbrake Ranch was in its heyday. Maria, the ranch cook and housekeeper, served steaming platters of the simple ranch fare Bud Sr. liked best, inch-and-a-half-thick steaks, baked potatoes, green salad (lettuce and tomatoes only), white bread, apple cobbler. Bud Sr. called it “real food,” as opposed to anything that didn’t include beef. Joe tended to agree with Bud Sr. on that one. There was a time when real food was served five nights a week. Since Missy had arrived, it had been cut down to once during the week and on Sunday.
They sat down at the table in the seating arrangement that had come about since they moved to the ranch. Bud no longer sat at the head of the table. His old chair was now occupied by Missy. The only explanation for the change was a single throw-away line by Missy earlier in the summer, saying, “I need to be closer to the kitchen door so I can help Maria serve.” But, as far as Joe could tell, Missy had never helped Maria do anything except provide tips on her makeup. Not that Bud Sr. seemed to care about the power shift. That was one thing about Bud, Joe thought. He was so in love with his bride of one year that he was blind to everything else. He had conceded authority with almost giddy enthusiasm.
“Where’s Bud Jr.?” Joe asked.
“In his room,” Bud Sr. said, spearing a thick steak with his fork and sliding it onto his plate. “His back’s hurting. He says he may never walk again.”
Lucy looked up in alarm.
“Not really, darling,” Bud Sr. said. “That’s just how Bud Jr. is. Everything’s a big deal.”
“It’s called creativity,” Missy said softly.
Eduardo, Maria’s husband and one of the ranch hands at the table, described driving out to the fence line that afternoon to retrieve Bud Jr. He found him lying on his back in the cheater grass, moaning. He brought him home.
“Shamazz, eet look like he was dead,” Eduardo said in a heavy accent. Pascal, the other hand, tried to disguise a sudden bout of laughter by coughing into his hand. Pascal made no secret of his contempt for Bud Jr.
Missy seemed distracted, and had hardly looked up. Joe had to admit how attractive she was for her age, and she looked especially good tonight as she sat there and picked at the tiniest portions possible of everything on her plate. She wore a charcoal cashmere sweater and a thin rope of pearls, dark lipstick. Her hair was perfect, not a strand of gray. When she caught Joe watching her, she glared back for a second before breaking the gaze.
Joe wondered what he had caught her thinking about.
“You’re dressed up,” Marybeth said to her mother. “Are you going out?”
“I’ve got a meeting in town tonight,” Missy said dismis sively. “Just the county arts council thing.”
“My little artiste.” Bud Sr. grinned and reached over and stroked Missy’s shoulder. “Don’t you want some more steak?”
“No, thank you. You know how I feel about red meat.”
Bud shook his head. “She’s as tiny as a bird, my little artiste.”
Now Sheridan coughed in her hand. Marybeth shot her daughter a look.
“Good steak,” Joe said.
“Damned good steak.” Bud Sr. nodded. “Real food.”
“Ees good,” Eduardo said, and Pascal agreed.
Marybeth looked at Joe, her eyes saying, Get me out of here.
ON THE WAY back to their house, Joe shone his flashlight on the path and everyone followed him holding hands in a line: Joe, Marybeth, Sheridan, Lucy.
“Come along, my little ducklings,” he said.
“Come along, my little artistes,” Sheridan said. “My tiny little birds.”
Joe laughed.
“Sheridan,” Marybeth said sternly. “Don’t mock.” Then:
“Joe, you’re not helping the situation.”
“Sorry.”
The stiff grass had a sheath of beaded moisture. It would frost tonight, Joe thought.
“Look,” Sheridan said after a moment, “you don’t have to say anything about what happened today at school. I know I screwed up. I never should’ve taken the bait from that ass Jason Kiner. I’ll never do that again, not because he doesn’t deserve a good ass kicking, but because it embarrassed me and it embarrassed you. I’m better than that. Okay? Can we drop it now?”
Joe waited for Marybeth to answer. This was her department.
“Okay,” Marybeth said in a way that made it clear the discussion was over.
“She said ‘ass’ twice,” Lucy whispered, and Joe laughed again. Luckily, so did Marybeth and Sheridan, both relieved that a confrontation had been averted.
As they approached their house, Joe squeezed his wife’s hand in the dark and she squeezed back.
“I KNOW THAT look in her eye,” Marybeth said later, once the girls were in their rooms, Sheridan doing biology homework and Lucy working on another project for Mrs. Hanson.
“What look?” Joe asked from the couch. The file the governor had given him was in his lap. The woodstove was lit and ticking as it warmed, the television was off. He’d been waiting for his wife to change clothes after they returned from dinner. She hadn’t had time earlier. Even in her worn baggy sweats, Joe felt a zing when he saw her come down the hallway. He liked how she walked across the floor to him. His wife was blond, trim, attractive. Although she was the same age as Joe, when he looked at her he saw the image of the girl he had seen for the first time on the campus of the University of Wyoming, the girl he knew, that instant, he wanted to marry. It was the best decision he ever made, and he still felt that he could be exposed at any time as not being worthy of her. She brought a purpose to his life. And he was a
s crazy in love with her as Bud was with Missy.
“That determined look in her eye,” she said, “combined with the sweater and the pearls.”
Joe finally got it that Marybeth was talking about her mother.
She said, “It’s like a knight putting on his armor or an Indian painting his face. She’s getting ready to take action.”
“What action?” Joe asked, patiently waiting for Marybeth to finish with her theory so he could tell her about the offer.
“I don’t know for sure, but I’m suspicious. I think we’re looking at the opening phase of another round of trading up.”
Joe nodded. Bud Longbrake was Missy’s fourth husband. The first, Marybeth’s father, was a small-time defense attorney in Denver. The second was the owner of a real estate company. The third was a developer and state senator in Arizona who was eventually convicted of fraud. Each man had more social status than the last and a bigger bank account. Missy had each new potential husband lined up, thoroughly smitten, and locked-in before announcing her intention to divorce. As a game warden, Joe had observed predators like coyotes, eagles, and wolves for years. None of them held a candle to his mother-in-law.
“Who do you suppose is the target?” Joe asked as Marybeth joined him on the couch. The log home was sturdy, dark, and comfortable, despite its age. Generations of ranch foremen and their families had lived there before Joe and Marybeth, and they’d taken good care of it and, like so many old ranch structures, added on. There were three bedrooms. The kitchen was bright and sunny and looked out over the Twelve Sleep River, and the living room where Joe sat—the original room of the home—had elk and deer antlers on the walls and cattle brands burned into the logs. A rarely used stone fireplace dominated the north wall. A family photo covered a section of the wall where, for a reason never explained, someone had fired six bullets into a log from inside. Walking through the house in the dark was an adventure. Corners of rooms were out of square and floors weren’t level from room to room. The house had character and was filled with the benevolent legacy of past cowboys and their families. Joe loved the place, despite the circumstances of how they had come to live there.