Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

“Suit yourself. But I can tell you right now, Peggy’s not going to let you sit up there during the holidays. She’ll come after you with a gun, tie you on the back of a horse.”

They finished their drinks and got back in the truck. Thirteen bumpy, dusty miles later they pulled into the Mills’ driveway. Shelly and Jory were in the front corral. Shelly was throwing a saddle on Dash. The horse was doing his distinctive little shuffle dance like a prize fighter in his corner before the first-round bell. Jory was cinching up the docile mare with the appropriately soothing name of Cocoa.

“Hey, Neal!” Shelly hollered. “Want to ride?”

It was a joke between them. Shelly had been trying to get Neal on a horse since his first morning in Nevada. Sometimes she would ride Dash up to his cabin, trailing Cocoa or the equally tame Dolly, and try to get him to go for a trail ride. Neal thought that riding on the spine of a horse along the spine of a ridge was a double jeopardy he wasn’t eager to pursue in the name of recreation.

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” Neal answered.

Shelly laughed and flashed him a brilliant smile. Then she stuck her foot into the stirrup and swung up onto the horse.

“What’s the matter? Afraid to ride?”

Neal was tempted to tell her that he had ridden the IRT number two train, otherwise known as the Beast, thank you very much. He was also tempted to make some smart crack about teenage girls and horses. But he thought better of both remarks. Shelly was a great kid who just wanted to share the fun.

Yeah, right.

“Hi, Neal,” said Jory.

That was a long-winded anecdote for Jory.

“How’s it going?” Neal asked.

“just going riding,” Jory answered as he got into the saddle.

Shelly gave Dash a sharp kick in the flanks and the horse tore out of the corral like it was a dog food factory. Jory snapped his reins and Cocoa trotted after them.

Steve watched them ride off. “Now at Berkeley that’s what we’d have called life imitating art. I’m afraid that boy’s going to be eating her dust for as long as he stays on her trail.”

“Is she leaving him behind?”

“Oh, I think so. I think they might make it through their senior year, but when she gets to college and sees what all is out there… and lately Jory doesn’t see much beyond his dad’s ranch. I tell you, I hope Shelly calls us from college one summer to try to convince us we should let her spend the summer riding a bike around Europe, or looking at naked statues in Italy or something. We’ll put up a little struggle just to make it more fun for her, but I do hope that’s what happens.”

“She loves it here, Steve,” Neal said.

“She can always come back. You want to stay to dinner? I’m just going to throw some steaks on the grill.”

“I better not. I have stuff to get done.”

“Lot of work, being a mountain man. Well, come in and have a cup of coffee with Peggy, or you’ll get me in trouble.”

Peggy didn’t have any coffee on. She had a pitcher of sun tea, a bottle of vodka, a stack of magazines, and a firm intent to sit out on the porch with her feet on the railing while reading nothing more complicated than a photo caption.

“I figure it might be the last afternoon warm enough to do this. You can join me,” she said to Neal, “if you promise to speak in short sentences.”

“Thanks.”

“Good start,” Peggy said. She poured three glasses of tea over ice, topped two of them off with a shot of Smirnoff, and handed her husband the unloaded one.

“You’re a terrible woman,” he said.

“Hmm. Is our one and only off leading Jory Hansen on a merry chase?”

“Merry for her, anyway. Why, did you have something for her to do?”

“Well, she could toss a hand grenade into her room by way of cleaning it… but no, not really. Come on, boys, the porch awaits.”

She picked up her magazines and pushed the screen door open with her elbow.

“You two alcoholics go ahead,” Steve said. He drained his iced tea in one long gulp. “I want to check on the cattle for a minute. Are those magazines the ones that are mostly advertisements, with little perfume samples and articles about orgasms?”

“Yep,” answered Peggy.

“Well, save one for me,” Steve said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Neal followed Peggy out onto the porch. True to her word, she pulled up a deck chair, plopped the stack of magazines by her feet, and stuck her feet up on the railing.

“Tough day?” Neal asked.

“Not really. It’s just nice to have a chance to sit down and relax, this part of the afternoon. It’s my favorite time of the day.

She picked up a magazine, licked her finger, and started to flip through the pages.

“Cosmo,” she said. “Well, let’s see… how do high-powered young women executives get satisfaction? Nope, no pictures. Next story.”

Neal sat down, drank his tea, and watched the afternoon sunlight start to soften.

“So, Neal Carey,” Peggy said as she flipped through the magazine, “what’s happening at Hansen’s place?”

“I dunno.”

“Hmm.”

Neal hated her hmms. She could hmm him to death. Her hmms were her way of expressing skepticism. If Peggy Mills were a New York City police detective, every criminal in the city would break down and beg for the old rubber hose before enduring another one of those hmms.

“What does Jory say?” Neal asked.

“Jory says less than Jory usually says. Jory talks like one of those Indians in those old Jeff Chandler movies. Lotsa ughs and uhs.”

“Hmm.”

“Very funny. Well, something is going on at Hansen’s, and I figured because they’re just over the spur from you…”

“I thought you didn’t want a lot of conversation.”

Peggy looked up from her magazine and stared out at the trees across their lawn.

“Never mind me. Maybe it’s just that it’s late in the afternoon… and I’m late in the afternoon… and winter’s coming and my baby’s all grown up… and my husband has a big, weak heart…” She reached her hand out, took his, and gave it a squeeze. He squeezed it back.

“You’re just hitting your prime,” Neal said.

She squeezed his hand again and then let it go. “You’re a good guy, Neal. I know a few single women around here who’d die to meet you. You want to go with us to Phil and Margie’s tonight? Big Saturday night out? I’ll introduce you to some mountain women with shiny hair and long legs.”

“I don’t know how to dance.”

“I’m sure they’d love to teach you, honey.”

“I don’t know.” I don’t know, Peggy. The last woman who taught me ended up dead.

“Well, just come down around eight if you want to go.”

“Okay.”

Neal finished off his tea and got up. “Thanks for the drink. Tell Steve I needed to go, huh? Maybe I’ll see you tonight.”

He picked his pack up out of the truck, strapped it on, and headed back up to his cabin. He did have things to do.

If he was thinking of spending the winter here there was something he had to get resolved first.

Neal heard the bullet smack into the tree behind him as he dropped to the ground. He didn’t feel any pain, wondered if that’s what instant death was like, then checked himself to try to find the gaping hole in his body.

“You’re a dead kike,” Cal Strekker said as he came out from behind a boulder. He lowered his rifle and grinned.

“That was too goddamn close, Cal,” Neal croaked. “Live ammo.”

“You oughta be more alert,” Strekker said.

“I didn’t know the training session had even started,” Neal answered.

“We’re always in training, Carey.”

Well, you are anyway, Neal thought as he looked at Strekker. He was decked out in a tiger camouflage suit, replete with parachute pants, webbed belt, and combat boots. His face was striped with cammy paint and he wore a combat fatigue cap.