walking leisurely at loose rein with head low, flicking her ears at the flies. McCord’s posture is identical to when they were at full gallop, head tipped forward and shoulders relaxed, as if he is half-asleep.
He is wearing the high red-tooled boots and spurs, jeans, a clean white shirt, and the Stetson with the vintage cowboy crease. As the lazy clomping of horseshoes passes below me, I can see the tight copper bracelet on one strong wrist, a braided leather one on the other, and I have a clean downward angle of vision on the squarish hands with wide finger pads resting on the horn of the saddle — manly and competent hands you would entrust to complete the mission.
I stay silent until he passes. Does he know without looking that I am here — the way Dick Stone knew when I first arrived?
“There’s something about this guy,” I tell Donnato. “He’s not who he appears to be.” “What name does he use?”
“Sterling McCord.”
“We’ll check him out.”
I cannot tell if my partner of twelve years is telling the truth.
That is what I mean by paranoid.
Megan and Sara have gathered around the horseman in the shaded driveway.
“Look at that sweet thing,” Megan says, crooning over the foal. “You’re our new baby.” McCord tips his hat. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
His eyes remain hidden in the shadow of the brim, but his skin seems to have acquired a darker tan, with deeper leathery lines, and the blond sideburns have grown long and rough. It occurs to me that in his outdoor life, he, too, is a creature of transforming elements, same as the eroding granite outcrop; unlike city folks, he wouldn’t try to put the brakes on aging, and he wears it well. He’s dropped the reins and the horse dozes beneath him. I like this touch: a knife in a leather sheath buckled to his thigh.
The foal has gained weight. Its sculpted head is up and alert, the bristly mane long enough to flop over, and the small pinkish hooves strike the dirt inquisitively. But the dark violet eyes are empty as mirrors.
“Does he have a name?” Megan asks.
“Geronimo.”
“You are cute as the dickens!” she tells the foal, and actually kisses it on the nose.
“Sara,” McCord calls from the saddle, “look at your boy.” “He’s not mine.”
She is wearing skintight jeans that hit below her slack hipbones, and a gingham top somewhere between a bra and a bib.
The foal’s dark muzzle has shrunk to normal size, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, which it explores with eager lips.
“Sorry, big guy.” I laugh. “I don’t have anything for you.” “He wants to suck,” Megan explains plaintively.
McCord’s attention is still on Sara. “What do you think?” “He looks all right.”
“He
Megan: “Will he ever get his sight back?”
“Afraid not, Miss Tewksbury. The vet says it’s difficult to determine exactly the cause of the blindness, but the corneas are permanently scarred.” “Poor sweetheart.”
“He’ll do fine with the right care. You’d have to keep his environment consistent, in a corral where he always knows where’s his water and feed. But his other senses will become more accurate, and he’ll be able to get around, maybe as a companion animal to another horse.” “Like Sirocco?” Megan gazes up at McCord with the expectant look of a wife who really wants that washing machine.
“That’s what I was thinking. How long since she lost her baby?” “She had that accident on the track and came to us…maybe three months ago?” “Then she could still lactate.”
“Really? Nurse Geronimo?”
“It’s possible.”
He slides off his horse.
“So, Sara, do you like him?” he asks.
She shrugs. “He’s cute.”
“Like to keep him?”
“Keep him?”
“Look after him awhile, you and Sirocco, help him along. He needs a lot of TLC, and Dave Owens’s barn is full.” Sara blushes. Her shoulders collapse with doubt. “Me?”
“You’re the one who found him. In my book, that gives you claim.” McCord offers the rope.
Lifelong skepticism does not allow me to believe that Sterling McCord has traveled down the road this dusty summer afternoon simply to give Sara Campbell exactly what she needs, but as he patiently holds the lead out to her, whatever dark possibilities I conjure just don’t seem to hold. Whether McCord is an FBI agent on my tail or a cowboy doing a job, he is offering the girl what has been missing from her life.
Something to love.
Sara reaches out and her fingers close around the rope. The blind foal’s head comes up to her chest and his spindly legs match hers. She tentatively strokes his neck and fingers the fluff hanging off his chin.
“Let’s take him to Sirocco,” Megan says hopefully. “See if she’ll nurse.” We walk in procession toward the barn — McCord leading his horse, Sara and the herky-jerky foal, Megan and I — passing the white cat, the ducks, and the wire cage, now empty.
Someone has stolen all the rabbits.
“We’re having a party,” Megan tells McCord. “A midsummer festival. Please come. I’d like to buy you a drink for taking care of Geronimo.” “Not necessary but much appreciated. Especially if this lovely young lady’s gonna be there.” He is talking about Sara.
Sirocco is standing placidly in the pasture when Megan leads the foal inside. She unsnaps the lead rope and withdraws, latching the gate. They approach and sniff each other. Sirocco dodges away. The baby chases her, and she wheels in the dust. He follows, absolutely desperate, but she won’t let him near, making little nips and kicks. Abruptly, when she’s ready, she just stops, and after a moment, he finds the teats.
Megan, leaning on the fence, quietly thumbs the tears from her eyes.
The gun that killed Sergeant Mackee is a single-shot bolt-action sniper rifle about fifty inches long, weighing between fourteen and eighteen pounds. Not the kind of thing you can hide in a sugar bowl.
Every day, with quiet urgency, I search another part of the house. Every night, lying in bed, I perform a mental inventory of the rooms, noting anything missing or out of place. I visualize the porch. Grasses have grown tall around the rusted sink. Thick stands of lavender and wild daisies remain unbroken around the crawl space underneath the steps, and the basement windows show an untouched glaze of dust, meaning nobody’s been creeping around down there, hiding weapons. The narrow windows at ground level look in on Dick Stone’s workshop, which is always locked, and I have never rubbed the dirt away to spy inside. Stone is likely checking his own inventory every day.
The front hall is a staging area of floating possessions — jackets, umbrellas, junk mail, Slammer’s skateboard — but there is also a closet jammed with vacuum cleaner parts, tennis rackets, rain gear, and brooms, at the back of which is a latched door. Hurried inspection with a flashlight reveals the door and latch have been thickly painted over. Probably leads to a crawl space beneath the stairs.
The kitchen, to the left of the entryway, is a public space that would be hard to use for hiding contraband. The living room is a challenge. There are so many collections of tiny things, it is a perplexing game of Memory to place every piece of Depression glassware and each china cat. I have moved them just to see if Megan will move them back. She does.
In the living room, the TV is always playing, even in the daytime semi-darkness. At night, we assemble on the caved-in couch grooved with body imprints, like any other cobbled-together American family, placing our heels on the coffee table precisely in the spaces between the old wine bottles and bowls of dried-up guacamole, watching
