says they take the boxes to the recycling center every weekend.”
“We have a recycling center?” Joe asked.
“It’s in Bozeman or Billings.”
Joe frowned. “Billings is a hundred and twenty miles away.”
“So?”
“Driving a hundred and twenty miles to put garbage in a recyclingbin doesn’t exactly save energy,” Joe said.
“Mrs. Hanson says the only way we can save the planet is for all of us to pitch in and work together to make a better world.”
Joe had no answer to that, since he didn’t want to appear to Lucy to be in favor of actively contributing to a worse world.
“Mrs. Hanson wanted me to ask you a question.”
“Really?”
“She wants to know why, if you’re a cowboy now, you don’t ride a horse? She says horses are much better for the environmentthan trucks and ATVs.”
“Do you want me to pick you up from school on a horse?” Joe asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
Lucy started to say yes but thought better of it. “Maybe you can still come get me in a truck, but you can ride a horse around all day on the ranch to help save the planet.”
“What are you reading?” he asked, looking at her open spiralnotebook.
“We’re studying the Kyoto Protocol.”
“
Lucy looked up, exasperated with her father. “Mrs. Hanson says it’s never too early to learn about important issues. She says, ‘Think globally and act locally.’ ”
On the state highway to the Longbrake Ranch, Sheridan stared out the passenger window as if the familiar landscape held new fascination for her. Lucy continued to do her homeworkwith the notebook spread open on her lap.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Joe asked finally.
“Not really,” Sheridan said.
“We’ll need to discuss it, you know.”
Sheridan sighed an epic sigh, and without seeing it, Joe knew she performed the eye roll that was such a part of her attitude these days.
Joe glanced over at his oldest daughter, noting again to himselfhow much her profile mirrored Marybeth’s. In the past six months, Sheridan had become a woman physically, and borrowedher mother’s clothing sometimes without asking. Joe had trouble believing she could possibly be fifteen already. How had it happened? When did it happen? How did this little girl he knew so well, his best buddy while she was growing up, suddenlybecome a mysterious creature?
“Did you really knock him to the floor?” Lucy asked her sister.
After a long pause, Sheridan said, “Jason Kiner is an ass.”
Joe wished the reason for the lunchroom argument had been something besides him. He hated thinking that his daughters could be ashamed of him, ashamed of what he did, what he was now. A cowboy. A cowboy who worked for his father-in-law.
But, he thought, a cowboy with an offer.
3
Joe,Marybeth, and their daughters trekked across the hay meadow for dinner in the main ranch house with Bud and Missy Longbrake and two sullen Mexican ranch hands. As they walked across the shorn meadow the dried hay and fallen leaves crunched under their feet, the sounds sharp. The brief but intense light of the dying sun slipped behind the mountains and lit up the yellow/gold leaves of the river bottom cottonwoods, igniting the meadow with color. Despite the fact that there wasn’t a high-rise building within two hundredmiles and Sheridan had never been to New York, she referredto this magical moment each evening as “walking down Broadway.”
The light doused just as they approached the main house. The evening was still and cold, the air thin, the sky close. A milky parenthesis framing the slice of moon signaled that snow could come at any time. Joe had brought a flashlight for the walk back to their house after dinner.
Because Marybeth had arrived home later than usual, Joe had not yet had a chance to talk to her about his meeting with the governor.
Lucy told her mother about Sheridan’s detention. Marybeth nodded and squinted at her oldest daughter, who glared at Lucy for telling.
“No talk about Sheridan or the detention during dinner,” Marybeth told Lucy.
“You mean not to tell Grandmother Missy?” Lucy said.
“That’s what I mean.”
Joe agreed. He preferred internal family discussions to remaininternal, without Missy’s opinion on anything. It pleased him that Marybeth felt the same way. In fact, Joe thought he detecteda growing tension between Marybeth and her mother lately. He stifled the urge to fan the flames. Joe and Marybeth had talked about buying a house of their own in town and had met with a Realtor. In the Realtor’s office, Joe was ashamed to admit he had never owned a home before-they had always lived in state housing-and therefore had no equity. The meetingconcluded quickly after that. He had no idea how expensive it was to buy a house with no track record, and they knew they needed to save more money in order to build up a deposit and get good financing. To relieve his guilt on the drive back to the ranch, Marybeth had pointed out the comfort of the situation they were in-a home, meals, the undeniable beauty of the ranch itself. But Joe found himself too stubborn to concede all her points, although she certainly was practical. Looming over the argument, though, was the specter of Missy, Marybeth’s mother.
“I wish that stove would get here,” Sheridan said as they approachedthe ranch house. “It would be nice to eat dinner in our own house for once.”
It had been only a week since the ancient stove in the log home quit working. But Marybeth didn’t point it out because she was getting smarter about choosing her battles with Sheridan, Joe thought. In fact, it seemed as if the two were starting to come to a new understanding in regard to each other. Mysterious.
Joe opened the door for everyone.
As Marybeth passed him she raised her eyebrows, said, “I heard the governor’s plane was at the airport today.”
“We can talk about that after dinner too,” Joe said.
That stopped Marybeth for a moment and she studied his face. He stifled a grin, but she could read him like a book.
Even with the other employees and the whole Pickett familyin the dining room, the table still had plenty of empty chairs since it had once been where a dozen ranch hands ate breakfast and dinner, back when the Longbrake Ranch was in its heyday. Maria, the ranch cook and housekeeper, served steaming plattersof the simple ranch fare Bud Sr. liked best, inch-and-a-half-thick steaks, baked potatoes, green salad (lettuce and tomatoes only), white bread, apple cobbler. Bud Sr. called it “real food,” as opposed to anything that didn’t include beef. Joe tended to agree with Bud Sr. on that one. There was a time when real food was served five nights a week. Since Missy had arrived, it had been cut down to once during the week and on Sunday.
They sat down at the table in the seating arrangement that had come about since they moved to the ranch. Bud no longer sat at the head of the table. His old chair was now occupied by Missy. The only explanation for the change was a single throw-awayline by Missy earlier in the summer, saying, “I need to be closer to the kitchen door so I can help Maria serve.” But, as far as Joe could tell, Missy had never helped Maria do anything exceptprovide tips on her makeup. Not that Bud Sr. seemed to care about the power shift. That was one thing about Bud, Joe thought. He was so in love with his bride of one year that he was blind to everything else. He had conceded authority with almost giddy enthusiasm.
“Where’s Bud Jr.?” Joe asked.
