grinned, went up on tiptoes, and peered over my arm. “He’s awake.”
I tried to get a little of the color to drain from my face. “Yep.”
She looked at me, a little surprised. “And he’s not crying.” I reached over and took a sip of my tea, which was briny, dark, and good. Maybe that’s what I needed in the late afternoon, a little caffeine pick-me-up. “So, I’m getting the feeling that Sancho is a world-class mountain climber.”
“He is, or he was.” It was cozy there by the fire, and she showed no interest in moving. “Nothing happened, he just stopped climbing. The whole reason we moved here was so he could be near the mountains.”
“It’s probably hard to be a world traveler on twenty- one thousand dollars a year.”
She glanced up at me. “Twenty thousand and sixty before taxes.”
“Oh.” I’d said it for comic effect, but she still hadn’t laughed. “Marie, trust me, there’s no one more aware of the shortcomings of the county budget than me.” I took another sip. “So, if I give him a raise, do you think he’ll stay?”
Her Basque eyes were metallic and shone like hematite. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“I will, if you think it’ll do any good.”
She said nothing, and I was afraid we were going back to the silence. She set her tea on the mantel next to mine and flexed her hands as if they were lonely. “You think it’s me, right?”
I paused. “Think it’s you what?”
“Who’s holding him back or something—keeping him from climbing, doing his job, everything.”
I returned my cup to its saucer. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you’re thinking though.” Her voice carried no edge. She seemed to relax, almost relieved to have the subject broached. She took a deep breath and added, “Isn’t it?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
We listened to the wind pushing against the pocket-sized house and beating against it like the tail ends of a rope. She looked at the fireplace, the agates resting on the river stone like deep water under a fall, and I thought about what my Indian scout had said earlier, and how once again I was venturing onto thin ice.
“Whether he’s doing this for you and Antonio or not, he’s going to regret it, and I’ve learned from experience that it’s not the things we do in life that we regret so much as the things we didn’t do.” I smiled at her, trying not to sound like her father.
The silence suited her just then, and I could tell she was fond of the rhythm of the little house. She looked at the baby in my arms and then at me, and it was like I was cascading into that deep water at the base of the falls. “Sheriff, promise me you won’t let him get hurt.”
5
“What kind of a horse’s ass promise was that to make?”
He had a point.
Henry was seated on the old sheriff’s leather sofa, was petting Dog, and smiling. I studied the marred surface of the chessboard and the open squares where I could possibly hide my king long enough to forestall the inevitable. The wind was continuing to blow outside, but it felt close and warm in room 32 of the Durant Home for Assisted Living. “Well, what was I supposed to say?”
The old sheriff picked up the cut-glass tumbler of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve and examined the twenty-three-year-old bourbon, finally placing it on the prosthetic knee that had replaced the original since the forties.
“I never made a horseshit promise like that to any wife of anybody that ever worked for me, I can tell you that much.” His index finger shot out from the glass, sighting on me from across the chessboard. “You go around makin’ bullshit promises like that, you’re courtin’ disaster.”
I moved my king and glanced at Dog, asleep with his head in Henry’s lap and taking up two of the three cushions on Lucian’s sofa; it seemed that Dog and the Cheyenne Nation were the only ones who ever sat on the thing.
“Check.”
As I reset the board, Lucian refilled our glasses.
I tried to get a little of the color to drain from my face. “Yep.”
She looked at me, a little surprised. “And he’s not crying.” I reached over and took a sip of my tea, which was briny, dark, and good. Maybe that’s what I needed in the late afternoon, a little caffeine pick-me-up. “So, I’m getting the feeling that Sancho is a world-class mountain climber.”
“He is, or he was.” It was cozy there by the fire, and she showed no interest in moving. “Nothing happened, he just stopped climbing. The whole reason we moved here was so he could be near the mountains.”
“It’s probably hard to be a world traveler on twenty- one thousand dollars a year.”
She glanced up at me. “Twenty thousand and sixty before taxes.”
“Oh.” I’d said it for comic effect, but she still hadn’t laughed. “Marie, trust me, there’s no one more aware of the shortcomings of the county budget than me.” I took another sip. “So, if I give him a raise, do you think he’ll stay?”
Her Basque eyes were metallic and shone like hematite. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“I will, if you think it’ll do any good.”
She said nothing, and I was afraid we were going back to the silence. She set her tea on the mantel next to mine and flexed her hands as if they were lonely. “You think it’s me, right?”
I paused. “Think it’s you what?”
“Who’s holding him back or something—keeping him from climbing, doing his job, everything.”
I returned my cup to its saucer. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you’re thinking though.” Her voice carried no edge. She seemed to relax, almost relieved to have the subject broached. She took a deep breath and added, “Isn’t it?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
We listened to the wind pushing against the pocket-sized house and beating against it like the tail ends of a rope. She looked at the fireplace, the agates resting on the river stone like deep water under a fall, and I thought about what my Indian scout had said earlier, and how once again I was venturing onto thin ice.
“Whether he’s doing this for you and Antonio or not, he’s going to regret it, and I’ve learned from experience that it’s not the things we do in life that we regret so much as the things we didn’t do.” I smiled at her, trying not to sound like her father.
The silence suited her just then, and I could tell she was fond of the rhythm of the little house. She looked at the baby in my arms and then at me, and it was like I was cascading into that deep water at the base of the falls. “Sheriff, promise me you won’t let him get hurt.”
5
“What kind of a horse’s ass promise was that to make?”
He had a point.
Henry was seated on the old sheriff’s leather sofa, was petting Dog, and smiling. I studied the marred surface of the chessboard and the open squares where I could possibly hide my king long enough to forestall the inevitable. The wind was continuing to blow outside, but it felt close and warm in room 32 of the Durant Home for Assisted Living. “Well, what was I supposed to say?”
The old sheriff picked up the cut-glass tumbler of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve and examined the twenty-three-year-old bourbon, finally placing it on the prosthetic knee that had replaced the original since the forties.
“I never made a horseshit promise like that to any wife of anybody that ever worked for me, I can tell you that much.” His index finger shot out from the glass, sighting on me from across the chessboard. “You go around makin’ bullshit promises like that, you’re courtin’ disaster.”
I moved my king and glanced at Dog, asleep with his head in Henry’s lap and taking up two of the three cushions on Lucian’s sofa; it seemed that Dog and the Cheyenne Nation were the only ones who ever sat on the thing.
“Check.”
As I reset the board, Lucian refilled our glasses.
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