Winterkill. P.H. Turner
I had a drink with him this evening.”
“Wow! You’re moving fast.”
“I wouldn’t call a drink at the Plains moving fast.”
“I don’t know much but the gossip around town. He’s got a nice size ranch, not far from you. Moved here from Montana I think,” Julia offered.
“He told me his wife died. Do you know anything about her?”
“All I know is he moved here after she died. Sorry I don’t know more. I don’t get out of the second grade much. Tell me about having a drink with him.”
“He talked about raising cattle … Oh god, I started talking about Piggles. You remember her, don’t you?”
“Of course, I remember Piggles. We spent a lot time on that mare. Remember how your mom wanted you in dressage?” She laughed. “All you wanted to do was gallop like a wild child. I hadn’t thought about Piggles in years.”
“He got angry talking about Sam’s herd. He blames buffalo ranchers for spreading brucellosis to cattle. You know anything about hard feelings between cattle and buffalo ranchers?”
“I know when brucellosis breaks out, people lose a lot of money. I bet everyone who is involved in the cattle business is talking about Sam’s herd. I can’t help you much. Really, if it’s not about addition and crayons, I’m out of the loop. You’re the journalist. I’m betting you’ll find out.”
She refilled our wine glasses licking the drop that hung from the rim of the bottle. She tucked her legs under her. “You leave any guy behind in San Antonio?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there. “Nobody left behind.”
She sipped her wine. “You ever think you have trouble trusting a guy enough to make a commitment?”
“Well, there’s a leap in the conversation. I guess you think I do. Failure to trust? I don’t know.” I fiddled with my glass.
Julia hesitated. “I don’t think it’s trust in the sexual sense like ‘I don’t trust you not to two-time me.’ But you do have more than a few broken relationships. Ones you’ve left.” She held up her hand to ward off my interruption. “I’m not saying you didn’t have reasons. I’m just asking about the trust thing.”
“I don’t know. Most of the time I feel like I’m marking time with a guy. He fills the basic needs of a woman, his yang to my yin, but we never develop a deeply intimate relationship. I feel like a kid licking a lollypop, hoping to get to the soft center. Only I never find the center, and after I while I don’t want the lollypop.”
“You picking the wrong sort of man?” Julia asked.
I laughed. “Mom probably thinks so.” I looked out at the moonlit night, buying time. “I wonder if Katharine Hepburn had it right. A man and woman should never marry. Just enjoy each other while living in adjoining houses. Sure minimizes the potential for the misery index.”
Julia tilted her head back and took the last drink of her wine in one gulp. “Sounds real lonely to me. You’re a striking woman. You’re whip smart, athletic...”
“Next comes the part about how you don’t want me to end up alone?”
“I do want more for you.”
I sighed. “I’m not doomed to the single life.”
“I just want you to find a good guy.” She poured the rest of the wine into our empty glasses. “So, let’s be who we are—practical girls. We always made plans nursing a beer in our favorite bar in Boulder. You’ve met Hunter Kane. I’ll even the field by telling you what I know about your neighbor, Jake Spooner. If you want, you can pretend either of them is Spencer Tracy. Or you could try a new approach. Relax. Open yourself up to possibilities.”
“Sure, tell me about Jake.”
“Jake was an assistant in the DA’s office in Denver. When his grandpa died, he took over the ranch. His grandpa was a Huddleston. Remember them? They had that funky little grocery in town with the bakery. Anyway, the ranch was rundown, probably not making a dime when Jake took it over. He’s worked on the house and bred a good herd. He’s also ranching buffalo over there.”
“I’m stuck on my suspected ‘failure to trust.’ Do I at least get points for having always dated within my species?”
Julia followed me into the kitchen, putting her wine glass down in the kitchen sink. She slung her bag on her shoulder and fished out her keys. “No. Remember that strange orthodontist you dated for a while in Boulder? I gotta go. Early day with the second graders tomorrow. Love you. Think about it.”
“Love you, too.”
Julia hadn’t changed much since our college days spent drinking beer on Pearl Street. She had always wanted to work with children, have the house with the picket fence, the husband and a family. Her plan was in place. My plan was less structured and involved fewer people. Julia’s was an interesting question that I would have to consider. Could I trust a guy? And if I couldn’t, what did I do about it? Or maybe I didn’t trust because I didn’t want to. Existentialism was such a bitch.
7
The smell of acrid dust roused me from a deep sleep. I blearily looked out my bedroom window at great clouds of dirt rolling across the backyard. Men’s voices, the sounds of animals moving and creaking leather filled the air. I slammed the window shut, hurriedly pulling on jeans and a tee. I grabbed my camera on the way out the back door.
I stood about a yard from the fence fiddling with the aperture control. I shot bracketed exposures in a rapid sequence of lumbering buffalo, shaking their massive heads. The earth shuddered with their passing. I attached the flash, squatting to shoot a rapid series of hooves. Dust sifted onto the lens from their hooves kicking up the loose dirt.
A rider broke away from the group of men. Jake pulled his horse to a stop opposite the fence from me. “A couple of strings of barbed wire won’t slow a buffalo charge, much less stop him.” He soothed the skittish black gelding. “Sawyer! Turn the flash off. You could spook the herd.” Chet ran out of the dust thumping his tail in recognition.
Chet looked friendlier than Jake. I stood up. “Sorry, I didn’t think. Got carried away.”
He eased back in the saddle. “You need to be careful near the fence line.” A ghost of smile flitted across his face. “You settled in over there?”
“Yeah, just about. Thanks.”
His smile reached his eyes. “Maybe you’d like to see the herd when we get them down in their new pasture. Until then, if you need anything, I’m one mailbox down the road from you. Come on Chet. You’ve got work to do.” He turned the horse to join his men.
I replied to his back. “Thanks. Count on it.” He lifted his hand in a silent wave, disappearing into the herd.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. “Sawyer, where are you?”
“Still at home, Clay. What’s up?”
“Sherriff’s office has an animal mutilation up at the Shadow Mountain Ranch. You know where that is?”
“No. Give me directions. I’ve got GPS in the Jeep.” I was back in the kitchen scribbling. “Got it. Tell me what you know.”
“Ray Foster called the sheriff this morning saying he found a mutilated buffalo. Sheriff’s name is Wolfe Barton. Benita will meet you out there. It’s only fifteen minutes north of your place near mile marker forty-seven”
“On my way. Call me if you get any more news.”
“Keep in touch.”
I followed the ruts of the sheriff’s truck across the Shadow Mountain pasture. Tall grass whipped my legs as I walked