that Tyler had heard otherwise, and he waited again for him to pick up the lead.
Instead Tyler said, âAnthony told you that?â
Father John shrugged. It didnât matter where the information came from.
âThat mustâve been it, then,â the young man said.
At that moment one of the musicians clanged a cowbell on the porch steps. Small groups began moving in the direction of the buffet table, then the entire crowd started rolling toward it, like tumbleweeds across the plains. âNice to talk to ya, Father,â Tyler called as he started toward the house, a sense of relief about him.
âJohn, jump in here.â Father Brad was at the far end of the table waving a large paper plate. Other guests motioned Father John forward. Picking up a plate from a side table, he joined his assistant.
âNever expected to see a party like this out here in the middle of Wyoming:â Father Brad grinned as he speared chunks of pork onto his plate. Father John followed his assistant down the table, absentmindedly helping himself to a small slice of meat, some potato salad, an ear of corn, and a bunch of red grapes. He was thinking about what Tyler hadnât said. The young man didnât believe Anthony and Harvey had argued over the ranch, and neither did he.
Father John slipped a brownie onto the edge of his plate between the slice of pork and the potato salad. He never got used to the way Westerners piled food together, but the brownie looked too good to pass up.
His mind was wandering down the relentless path of logic, and gradually the conclusion came into view. Last night had been a shouting match between Anthony and Harvey. Loud and emotional. Over what? Land? Father John had never completely bought that. What then? A girl? The same girl Anthony had spent the night with? The girl he didnât want involved? It was beginning to make sense. Anthonyâs cock-and-bull story about arguing with Harvey over land and his refusal to name his alibi were related.
But that raised other questions. Why had they argued over the girl? Was it because Harvey hadnât approved of her? Who was she? Why didnât she come forward and confirm Anthonyâs alibi? Still lost in his thoughts, Father John almost ran into the host.
âGot a place for you jebbies over here where the beerâs nice and cold,â Ned said, leading the way to a round table directly below the front porch. The musicians were strumming another Willie Nelson tune, and guitars wailed in the warm evening air. Open bottles of beer surrounded the candlelaria on the table. Father Brad was already seated between Dorothy and Melissa. Mayor Frisco, a beefy, red-faced man, made a show of seating his daughter and his wife before claiming the chair between them.
âFather OâMalley from the reservation, right?â Jasper Owens sat down next to Father John and stuck out his hand. He was barrel-chested with a fringe of black hair that wrapped horseshoe-like around a bald head. The candlelaria cast yellow stripes of light across his face. His smile revealed a mouthful of teeth as white and straight as tombstones. A young man, dark-haired and muscular, took the chair next to Melissa, and Jasper introduced him as his assistant, Luke. Luke gave a little half nod around the table.
Father Johnâs path seldom crossed that of Jasper Owens. He knew the oilman mostly by reputation. Jasper Owensâs oil company was headquartered in Pennsylvania, a family firm, and heâd been sent west to look out for the familyâs interests. A couple of years ago, heâd made a bid for Wyomingâs sole seat in the U.S. Congress where, had he been successful, Father John was sure, Jasper Owens would have continued looking out for his familyâs interests. He was not someone Father John would have picked for a dinner companion, but neither was Ned Cooley, and here he was stuck between them. He tried to shrug off the growing wish to
Instead Tyler said, âAnthony told you that?â
Father John shrugged. It didnât matter where the information came from.
âThat mustâve been it, then,â the young man said.
At that moment one of the musicians clanged a cowbell on the porch steps. Small groups began moving in the direction of the buffet table, then the entire crowd started rolling toward it, like tumbleweeds across the plains. âNice to talk to ya, Father,â Tyler called as he started toward the house, a sense of relief about him.
âJohn, jump in here.â Father Brad was at the far end of the table waving a large paper plate. Other guests motioned Father John forward. Picking up a plate from a side table, he joined his assistant.
âNever expected to see a party like this out here in the middle of Wyoming:â Father Brad grinned as he speared chunks of pork onto his plate. Father John followed his assistant down the table, absentmindedly helping himself to a small slice of meat, some potato salad, an ear of corn, and a bunch of red grapes. He was thinking about what Tyler hadnât said. The young man didnât believe Anthony and Harvey had argued over the ranch, and neither did he.
Father John slipped a brownie onto the edge of his plate between the slice of pork and the potato salad. He never got used to the way Westerners piled food together, but the brownie looked too good to pass up.
His mind was wandering down the relentless path of logic, and gradually the conclusion came into view. Last night had been a shouting match between Anthony and Harvey. Loud and emotional. Over what? Land? Father John had never completely bought that. What then? A girl? The same girl Anthony had spent the night with? The girl he didnât want involved? It was beginning to make sense. Anthonyâs cock-and-bull story about arguing with Harvey over land and his refusal to name his alibi were related.
But that raised other questions. Why had they argued over the girl? Was it because Harvey hadnât approved of her? Who was she? Why didnât she come forward and confirm Anthonyâs alibi? Still lost in his thoughts, Father John almost ran into the host.
âGot a place for you jebbies over here where the beerâs nice and cold,â Ned said, leading the way to a round table directly below the front porch. The musicians were strumming another Willie Nelson tune, and guitars wailed in the warm evening air. Open bottles of beer surrounded the candlelaria on the table. Father Brad was already seated between Dorothy and Melissa. Mayor Frisco, a beefy, red-faced man, made a show of seating his daughter and his wife before claiming the chair between them.
âFather OâMalley from the reservation, right?â Jasper Owens sat down next to Father John and stuck out his hand. He was barrel-chested with a fringe of black hair that wrapped horseshoe-like around a bald head. The candlelaria cast yellow stripes of light across his face. His smile revealed a mouthful of teeth as white and straight as tombstones. A young man, dark-haired and muscular, took the chair next to Melissa, and Jasper introduced him as his assistant, Luke. Luke gave a little half nod around the table.
Father Johnâs path seldom crossed that of Jasper Owens. He knew the oilman mostly by reputation. Jasper Owensâs oil company was headquartered in Pennsylvania, a family firm, and heâd been sent west to look out for the familyâs interests. A couple of years ago, heâd made a bid for Wyomingâs sole seat in the U.S. Congress where, had he been successful, Father John was sure, Jasper Owens would have continued looking out for his familyâs interests. He was not someone Father John would have picked for a dinner companion, but neither was Ned Cooley, and here he was stuck between them. He tried to shrug off the growing wish to
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