She lifted the lid on the steaming pot and stirred, thinking about it before turning to face him. “You know I can’t do that. I have too many responsibilities here.” It sounded final.
“Thank you, Jason,” said Willis.
Kirby turned back into the living room.
Willis stood near the tree looking at a piece of smooth, uncut bark. A fish had been painted on a piece of paper and varnished onto the naturally smooth face.
Nice.
Willis smiled at the kid. "Painted this yourself, did you?”
“Huh.” The kid’s word for yes, smiling, puffed up with pride. He handed a package to the Indian, treating him like family too.
Jesus!
“For me?” The Indian sounded surprised. “Looks like a book. How’d you know I can read?”
“We noticed how old and frayed yours was.” The kid literally beamed, watching the Indian carefully remove tape and unfold the wrapper. He opened the box to show Willis and Kirby a leather bound New English Bible, Oxford Press, a nice one with some kind of stupid embossed cross.
The kid smiled at Kirby, the kind of smile that tells someone to get stuffed, brushing past on his way into the kitchen to deliver a small package to Carolyn.
“Oh, what’s this?” She sounded surprised.
Kirby stood into the doorway.
She tore open the package and held up a nicely crafted cowboy belt with her name tooled on the back. She brushed past Kirby, rushed through the living room and up the entry steps where she disappeared.
For an awkward minute that seemed like an hour, Kirby and Willis exchanged icy stares.
Carolyn returned wearing a white silk blouse tucked into tight fitting blue jeans, her new belt and a pair of slightly scuffed cowboy boots. “Dinner’s ready.” She led them all into the kitchen.
Jesus, look at that ass.
Kirby had just found a new appreciation for horseback riding.
The others slid onto the window benches and Kirby sat in his wicker backed chair at the head of the table.
Carolyn set a dish of steaming greens on the table and smiled at Kirby, nodding toward the open oven.
Kirby stood and she handed him two pot holders. He lifted the roasting pan with a heavy seven rib roast from the oven and set it on top of the stove. She pushed him aside and stuck two large forks into the ends, using them to carry the roast from the pan to a large silver serving platter.
Her eyes smiled. “Can you do the honors?”
Kirby obediently carried to roast to the table and set it in the cleared area in front of his chair. It looked burned to a crisp, all charred black, but it smelled great.
She handed him a carving knife and one of the forks.
“Wow!” He sliced off the crusted end with ease, a razor sharp knife. Juices flowed from the pink meat inside. “Anybody like the end cut?”
Nobody did.
He let it fall off the fork onto the platter. He carved a half inch thick, medium rare slice and put it on Carolyn’s plate. The way it worked, going around the table, he and Willis wound up with two of the seven ribs.
Willis cut off and passed his rib bone to the kid. They had some kind of unspoken communication, like a father and son story in one of his children’s magazines.
Kirby had always wondered how real that kind of communication might be. He'd never had that type of relationship with his father and he'd never had kids of his own.
Not that I know about.
He smiled, remembering.
The new clock in the living room chimed five times, a crisp and clear sounding bell.
Very nice.
Mmm, delicious.
He turned to Carolyn. “I never knew you could cook, along with everything else.” He grabbed a baked potato, opened it and knifed in a slab of butter. He added sour cream and scallions, salt and pepper, mixed it up and took a bite. “Um, this is perfect.” He ate like a hungry Marine. “I look forward to some mother and kid cooking articles.” He raised a brow in her direction.
She smiled a little, more like a blush.
Outside the bay window, getting dark, a steady snow had started falling. He asked, “You guys need a ride home? It’s getting dark and it’s starting to snow.”
“You can’t give them a ride,” said the kid, throwing Kirby his most condescending sneer. “They both live above the falls.” He poked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing out the window.
Kirby couldn’t see past ten feet out there, snowing hard already. He stared into Carolyn, all business. “This is really a beautiful place. How’s the fishing in summer?”
“Awesome,” said the kid, eying Kirby’s beef rib. He’d already gnawed the rib Willis had given him to the bone. He hadn’t touched the thin slice Kirby had placed on his plate.
Jesus!
Kirby had always liked the rib bone. He reluctantly freed the meaty rib and turned it over.
“Thank you, Mr. Kirby.” The kid grabbed an approving smile from Carolyn and chomped off a chunk.
Stupid kid.
Kirby stared into Carolyn again, “This valley’s a great spot for a resort. You have plenty of room for a nice hotel. You know, skiing in winter, trout fishing in summer, maybe a little hunting in between. It’s all private property, right?”
The table grew awkwardly silent, that feeling of dread again. Even the kid stopped eating, looking at Kirby like he'd just shot his stupid dog.
Carolyn smiled shyly at Willis, not looking at Kirby. “Well, yes, Jason actually owns this ranch and everything else. The other ranchers and villagers own their properties but Jason holds the timber and mineral rights for the whole valley.”
The hick didn’t even know she was looking at him. He was staring down at his plate, having eaten almost none of it. “What do you suppose might happen to this place?”
“This house?” Kirby’s confidence grew. “It can stay as it is. Or, she could turn
