“It was very kind of you not to upset the wedding plans,” Joanna said. “If I had been in your place, I don’t think I could have done it.”
Lila gave Joanna a quick, self-deprecating smile. “Don’t give me too much credit,” she said. “I think it’s really a case of denial. As long as nobody else knows about it—as long as I don’t say the actual words out loud—maybe it’s all a big mistake and it’ll just go away. But that’s not going to happen, and now that I’ve told Butch, I’m hoping I’ll be able to work up courage enough to tell the others—in good time, that is. But talking to Butch helped a lot. Thanks for sharing him with me.”
With that, Lila Winters excused herself and walked away. A few minutes later, Butch showed up at Joanna’s table. “Is everything all right?” he asked, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead. “I mean, I noticed the two of you were ...”
Looking at him, the last vestiges of Joanna’s earlier anger melted away. “We were talking,” she said, smiling. “Comparing notes, actually”
Butch looked thunderstruck. His obvious consternation made Joanna laugh. “We both think you’re a pretty good listener,” she added. “For a boy.”
“Whew,” he said, mopping his brow in relief. “So I’m still alive then?”
“So far.”
The reception included a buffet dinner followed by cake and dancing to a swing band that lasted far into the night. Joanna surprised herself by having a delightful time. Rather than rushing out early to drive back to Bisbee, she and Butch stayed until eleven, when the party finally began to wind down. When they at last went back upstairs to their room, Butch stopped short at the mound of manuscript pages scattered across the bed.
“It came,” he said.
“And I opened it,” Joanna said. “I also started reading it.”
“How far did you get?” he asked.
“The first hundred pages or so,” she said.
“And?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“It’s funny.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you write it that way?”
He came across the room to her and gathered her into his arms. “I had to,” he said. “Because, if I wrote it the way things really are, it would be too hard.”
Joanna frowned and pushed him away. “What do you mean?”
“Because the truth of the matter is, the real job scares the hell out of me. Look at yesterday. You walked into a house to tell someone her sister died, and the woman at that kitchen table was sitting there drunk and with a fully loaded weapon within easy reach. If that isn’t scary, I don’t know what is. I decided to make it funny to preserve my own mental health.”
“I don’t mean to worry you,” Joanna said, nestling against his chest and staying there.
“But you do.”
Had Joanna had this same conversation with Deputy Andrew Brady before he was shot and killed? How many nights had she lain awake in her bed at High Lonesome Ranch worrying about whether or not he would make it home safely after his shift? And how often had Eleanor done exactly the same thing when Big Hank Lathrop had been sheriff?
Once again, she was struck by the sense of history repeating itself, but with the lines mysteriously crossed and with her some-how walking both sides of the street at the same time.
While Butch went to change out of his tux, Joanna retrieved the cell phone she had deliberately left upstairs when she went down to the wedding. There were five missed calls, two from the department and three from Frank Montoya’s cell phone. When she listened to the three messages, they were all from Frank—all of them asking that she call him back regardless of what time she got in.
“What’s up?” she asked when Frank came on the line.
