Prologue
In the arid summer heat on prairie rangeland, a dead body
doesn't so much rot as it becomes petrified. The blazing sun
and dry wind burn the most resilient flesh into dried meat.
What the sun hadn't cooked the animals had feasted on. A
sunken hollow where the stomach had been. Shriveled flaps of
skin resembling jerky hung from the jaw and cheekbones. The
eye sockets were empty holes. The final indignity? The
crotch of the athletic shorts were ripped away to reach the
soft meat of the sex organs.
Poor son of a bitch had been emasculated before he'd had a
chance to become a man.
A hot breeze swirled chalky dust motes and scents of decay.
Black Air Jordan athletic shoes saved the boy's toes the
fate of his fingers: gnawed off clean down to the bone.
Reddish-black hair floated loose around his skull, bits of
leaves and insects trapped in the dulled strands. Without
lips to hide behind, the crooked teeth stuck out like
yellowed piano keys. The body hadn't been exposed long
enough to bleach the bones white, but it'd been out here
long enough to disintegrate into just another forgotten
animal carcass.
Dust to dust.
Pine-tree-dotted hills and valleys of grayish gumbo made up
the barren landscape. Heat mirages shimmered in the distance
-- a cruel illusion. There'd been no standing water in these
parts for years.
The spinal column listed to the left. Like the kid's neck
had been snapped.
Despite the sun beating down, a chill rippled through the air.
So how had Albert Yellow Boy ended up in the middle of
nowhere? What were the odds a couple of busy ranch hands
would stumble over his body in this remote section of fallow
grazing land?
Slim.
Had that been the intention?
More voices buzzed like angry gnats. Whispering. Arguing.
Accusing.
Eerily loud caws echoed from the canyon. Bickering ceased,
returning focus to tending the rituals of the dead.Copyright
© 2010 by Lori Armstrong
One
One week later
Listening to bawling cows headed for the slaughterhouse is a
shitty way to start a day.
I slammed the front window shut and crawled back between the
cool cotton sheets. When my father's phantom voice nagged me
for sleeping in, I jerked the quilt over my head.
Go away, Dad. I'm too damn old to feel guilty about not
getting up at the crack of dawn to do chores.
It took me a while to get back to sleep. When I did drift
off, the scorching summer afternoon from thirty years past
came rushing back, dreamlike, except it hadn't been a dream:
"Momma had a baby and its head popped off." I sited my
target and pulled the trigger.
Crack.
An immediate pain-filled screech morphed into prairie
silence.
My heart thumped. I held the Remington tight even after
the recoil pad bit into my shoulder. Heard the hollow click
as the spent brass cartridge ejected out the side and
chinked on the rocky ground.
Bluish smoke eddied around me. Gravel dug into my
forearms. Powdery gray dirt coated my sunburned skin even as
gnats buzzed around my ears and inside my nose.
I didn't care.
Exhilarated, I eyed the headless body through the scope
and surveyed the bloody chunks of meat spread across the
soil in the ultimate buzzard's buffet.
"Got ya dead-on, ya dirty bastard," I whispered to the
decimated prairie dog, my tone reminiscent of Eastwood
in The Outlaw Josey Wales.
Dad chuckled, shifting his position on the slope. "Your
mom'd have a conniption fit if she heard you talkin' like
that."
"Then it's a good thing she's not here."
"Yeah." He squinted at me, finding something on my face
that made the laughter bleed out of his eyes. "Real good
thing."
A clement breeze stirred the smell of sage, skunkweed,
and hot dirt. Scents I'd forevermore associate with death.
He eased back on his haunches and stood, wincing. The
lack of circulation in his legs was getting worse, though he
tried to be a tough guy and hide it from me. I let him. When
he held out his big hand to help me up, I let him do that,
too.
"Come on, sport. Let's see what damage you done. You
ain't a bad shot -- "
"For a girl," I supplied.
He spit a stream of tobacco juice next to my ropers. Just
like my hero, Josey. He looked me dead in the eye. "Anyone
who ever says that to you, Mercy Gunderson, is a fool."
I woke with a start. At least the combat flashbacks had
tapered off, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a
decent night's sleep. Maybe I should fill that prescription
for Ambien next time I was at the VA.
After I'd finished my yoga practice, I wandered outside. The
thermometer read 87 degrees. In the shade. I snagged a
Crystalyx feed cap off the hook by the door and detoured to
the activity by the barn.
The semitruck was backed up to the loading gate. Flies
buzzed everywhere. Familiar, pungent smells of dirt and
manure hung in the dry air. Most people gagged at the odors,
but I'd gotten used to them again, the scents of home. I
hoisted myself atop the fence and watched the action unfold.
Our two hired men, TJ and Luke, were on horseback, herding
the animals. The ranch foreman, Jake, culled the ones he
wanted and sent the others out of the penning area with a
slap on the flank.
One stubborn cow refused to move.
Jake bent down and spoke directly into the floppy ear.
The tail swished and then the cow slowly got in line.
I laughed. How cool. We had our very own cow whisperer. I
would've zapped it with a cattle prod until it bellered and
trotted up the ramp like a good little doggie.
Another obvious difference between Jake and me.
After the metal door to the chute banged shut, and the semi
rattled down the rutted driveway, the foreman ambled toward me.
Jake Red Leaf had run my father's ranch for the last
twenty-odd years. Jake wasn't a grizzled old Indian rancher,
but fairly young, around forty-five. Despite spending years
outside in the harsh elements, he'd aged well and was a
good-looking man, so it surprised me he was still single.
What didn't surprise me, or anyone else, was that Jake knew
the day-to-day operations of the Gunderson Ranch better than
I did. Better than I'd ever wanted to.
I shifted my position atop the rickety fence. The wooden
slats scraped my palms. I'd probably spend half the damn
night digging slivers out.
"Nice to see you out in the fresh air and sunshine."
"Yeah, 'cause I so don't get enough of it being stationed in
the world's biggest sandbox."
Ignoring my barb, Jake tipped back his battered Resistol and
wiped the sweat from his forehead with the heel of his hand.
His eyes caught mine. "How's Hope today?"
"Your grandma says she checked on her at seven and Hope was
still in bed."
"Was Levi around?"
"I doubt it. Why? Was he supposed to be working today?"
"Yep. Promised to help me load cattle."
Levi was my younger sister's fifteen-year-old son. As much
as I'd adored him as a baby, his wide-eyed wonder, his
drooly smiles, his gurgling coos of contentment whenever I
held him, these days he steered clear of me. If his recent
behavior was any indication, the kid was about half a step
from ending up in the juvenile court system.
Hope blamed Levi's bad behavior on Levi's daddy dying in a
trucking accident when the boy was six. I blamed Levi's bad
behavior on Levi. Other kids had lost a parent at a young
age -- Hope and myself included. Hope believed in giving
Levi free reign. My mind-set? If Jake or one of the other
ranch hands took a horse rein to him, he'd straighten up in
a helluva hurry.
However, my opinion held no weight. I'd been an absent aunt
most of Levi's life, as well as an absent sister. Add in the
fact I've never given birth? Well, I'd be better off talking
to a fence post.
"You act surprised he didn't show," I said.
"Not really. He's been runnin' with a rough crowd from the
rez lately. Chet said he saw Levi and a buncha boys in the
back of a pickup headed up toward that abandoned mine a
coupla weeks back." Jake placed a worn Tony Lama on the
bottom rung and propped his muscled forearms on the fence.
"Who were the boys?"
"Dunno. Some punks. Someone oughta talk to him about it.
Especially in light of the fact we found his buddy Albert
chewed up as coyote food in our pasture last week."
"Count me out for initiating that conversation. Hope has
never listened to me, and she's completely blind where that
kid is concerned."
"Funny. Your dad used to say the same thing. Of course,
Wyatt wore those same rose-colored glasses when it came to
his only grandson."
A black veil dropped over me as if a hail cloud covered the
sun. I released a slow breath. "Don't know if I'll ever get
used to hearing Dad referred to in the past tense. Maybe -- "
"Stop beatin' yourself up. Nothin' you coulda done."
"I can't believe I wasn't here."
"He wouldn't have known if you had been."
"That doesn't make me feel less guilty, Jake."
He cocked his head and looked up at me. "You talked to
anybody about it?"
"Like who?"
"Like one of them doctors at the VA hospital. Unci
says you been goin' there since you got back from Iraq, eh?"
Damn Sophie Red Leaf and her big mouth. Had she ever
considered maybe I didn't want everyone to know about my
health problems? Especially her grandson?
I didn't respond. Instead, I tipped my face to the heavens.
My eyes traced a long white vapor trail bisecting the vivid
blue sky. I half wished I was on that plane, gazing
wistfully at the patchwork of fields and farms from thirty
thousand feet.
"Mercy? You okay?"
"Yeah. I'll see you later." I'd rather be skinned alive than
talk about my feelings and failings, with Jake of all people.
I hopped off the fence. A cloud of ginger-colored dirt
puffed around my bare ankles as I crossed the expanse of
gravel and weeds known as the "yard" on my way to the house.
Our farmhouse was built in the 1930s, one of those "kit"
houses sold by Sears Roebuck, where everything from the roof
trusses to the oak trim was shipped out on railcars,
transferred to flatbed trucks, and then the house was
assembled onsite. Ours wasn't a typical one-level ranch
bungalow, but a big two-story Victorian/craftsman-style
hybrid...