habitation—empty and forbidding. Early-morning sunlight and shadows slanted across the red and lavender rock formations, setting them in vivid relief against an azure sky. High off against a cloudless horizon, a solitary buzzard drifted effortlessly, floating in graceful, perfectly drawn circles. Just inside a barbed-wire fence a herd of sheep, their wool stained pink by the dust raised by their dainty hooves, scrabbled for bits of life-giving sustenance. Joanna drove past a meager trading post and a line of run-down makeshift clapboard sales stands where Native American tradesmen were starting to lay out their jewelry, baskets, and rugs in hopes of selling them to passing tourists.
As a lifelong desert dweller, it was difficult for Joanna to see the stark landscape through the eyes of a Chicago area transplant. What Butch saw as wonderfully weird and exotic struck her as simply humdrum.
“I keep thinking Cochise County is sparsely populated,” Joanna said with a laugh. “I suppose that compared to this, it’s a metropolis.”
Butch reached over and took her hand. “Speaking of Cochise County,” he said, “have you made up your mind about whether or not you’re going to run again?”
Joanna heaved a sigh. With the wedding and everything else going on, Joanna had kept sidestepping the issue. But now, three years into her term of office, she was going to have to decide soon.
“I can’t quite see myself going back to selling insurance for Milo Davis,” she said with a rueful laugh.
“No,” Butch agreed. “I can’t see that either.”
“But I lived with my dad when he was running for office,” Joanna continued. “It was hell. When it was time for an election campaign, we hardly ever saw him—he was either at work or out politicking. What do you think?”
“I can’t imagine seeing you less than I do now,” Butch replied, “but I also know better than to get into this. It’s totally up to you, Joey. Since I’m currently a kept man, I don’t think I should actually have a vote. If I say, ‘Go for it!’ people might think I was just interested in your paycheck. If I say, ‘Give it up,’ they’d say I was bossing you around and stifling you—not letting you live up to your full potential.”
“You’re not a kept man,” Joanna objected. “The income that comes in each month from the sale of the Roundhouse isn’t to be sneezed at. You’re serving as the general contractor on the construction of our new house and you just finished writing a book. You also cook and look after Jenny. How does that make you a kept man?”
“Maybe not in your eyes,” he said. “But I doubt the rest of the world gives me the same kind of break. Still, when it comes to running for office, I’m serious when I say I’m leaving that up to you. I’ll back you either way, but you’re going to have to decide for yourself. You like being sheriff, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Joanna admitted.
“And you’re doing a good job.”
“As far as I know, although the final decision on that score will have to be up to the voters.”
“Is there anything you’d want to do more than what you’re doing now?”
“Nothing that I can think of,” she answered.
“Well, then,” Butch said with a shrug, “as tar as I’m concerned, it really is up to you. Have you discussed it with Marianne?”
The Reverend Marianne Maculyea had been Joanna’s best friend since junior high. She was also pastor of the Tombstone Canyon United Methodist Church, where Joanna was a faithful member. Marianne and her stay-at-home husband, Jeff, were in much the same position Joanna and Butch were—with Marianne being the primary breadwinner while Jeff took care of their two small children and worked on the side refurbishing old cars. In the old days, Joanna had asked Marianne for advice on almost everything.
“With the new baby and going back to work, she hardly ever has time to talk anymore,” Joanna said.
“What about Jenny?” Butch asked. “Have you talked to her about it?”
Joanna shook her head. “Not really.”
“Maybe you should ask her opinion,” Butch persisted. “Your decision is going to have a lot bigger impact on her than it will on anyone else.”
