B.J. Daniels - Unforgiven

The road cut through the fertile valley, stubble fields a pale yellow, the freshly plowed acres in fallow dark with the turned soil.

“Apparently you haven’t been listening to me any more than WT has,” her brother said. “This is just land to me. I feel no need to take root in it.”

They fell silent, the only sound the roar of the engine and the spray of dirt clods and rocks kicked up by the tires. The land dropped toward the river, falling away in rolling hills that had turned golden under the bright sun of autumn.

Ahead she saw the brilliant blue of pooled water and smiled, feeling like a kid again. Over the next rise, she swung the pickup onto a rutted track that ended at the water’s edge. Summer had burned all the color out of the grass around the small lake. Only a few trees stood on the other side, their leaves rust red, many of the branches already bared off.

Destry parked the truck next to an old rowboat that lay upside down beside the water like a turtle in the sun. Getting out, together they flipped the boat over and carried it to the water before going back for the poles, tackle box and the cooler she’d packed.

“When was the last time you went fishing?” she asked as they loaded everything into the boat.

“Probably with you. As I recall I caught more fish than you, bigger ones, too.”

She laughed. “Apparently your memory hasn’t improved any more than my driving.”

Their gazes held for a long moment. Carson was the first to look away. “Hop in. If you’re determined to do this...” He pushed the rowboat off the shore and climbed in.

Destry breathed in the day, relaxing for the first time since her brother’s return. She dipped her fingers into the deep green water. It felt cold even with the October sun beating down on its surface.

“I assume you brought worms,” Carson said, reaching into the cooler. He opened the Styrofoam container and tossed her a wriggling night crawler, chuckling when she caught it without even making a face.

“You never were like other girls,” he said.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” The water rippled in the slight breeze as the boat drifted for a few moments before Carson took the oars. He rowed the boat out to the center of the reservoir, then let the tips of the oars skim the glistening surface as they drifted again.

Destry watched her red-and-white bobber float along on top of the water in the breeze. From the horizon came the loud honking of a large flock of geese. The eerie sound seemed to echo across the lake as the geese carved a dark V through the clear, cloudless blue.

Nothing signaled the change of season like the migration of the ducks and geese. She thought of all the seasons she’d seen come and go, so many of them without her brother, the lonesome call of the geese making her sad.

“I don’t want you to leave again,” she said without looking at him.

Water lapped softly at the side of the boat. The breeze lifted the loose tendrils of hair around her face. A half dozen ducks splashed in the shallows near the shore, taking flight suddenly in a spasm of wings. Beads of water hung in the air for an instant as iridescent as gleaming pearls.

“I’ll bet there aren’t any fish in this reservoir anymore,” Carson said. He was lying back on the seat, eyes closed, his pole tucked under one arm, the other arm over his face. He wore a T-shirt and an old pair of worn jeans, the legs rolled up, and a pair of equally old sneakers. The Western straw hat he’d been wearing rested on the floor of the boat.

“Doesn’t really matter if there are fish, does it?”

Carson moved the arm from his face enough to open one eye and look at her. “Only if you hope to catch something.”

“I’m happy just being here,” she said.

“You would be. Some people actually like to catch fish when they go fishing.” He went back to half dozing on the seat.

“Are you really going to marry Cherry?” Destry asked after a few minutes had passed.

“Why else would I have asked her?”

“Because at the time it seemed like a good idea?”

Her brother snickered. “It did seem like a better idea in Vegas than in Beartooth, Montana. She doesn’t exactly fit in here, does she?”

“Is she bored to tears?”

“Yep, and worried about grizzly bears coming down and eating her in the middle of the night. She can’t believe the closest big-box store is over an hour away.” Carson laughed. “I hate to think what will happen if she breaks a nail.”

The sound of her brother’s laughter filled Destry with such love for him. She leaned back, letting the warm morning and the gentle slap of the water on the side of the boat lull her. Overhead, a red hawk circled on a warm thermal.

“You haven’t asked me if I killed Ginny,” Carson said, and she felt the boat rock as he leaned up on one elbow to look at her.

She thought she could see the hawk circling overhead reflected in his gaze. “You didn’t. You couldn’t.”

He scoffed and lay back again, the arm back over his face. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we’re all capable of despicable acts when we’re backed into a corner. But thanks for believing in me, sis. It means a lot.”

* * *

NETTIE FELT SICK TO HER stomach as she stared at the shattered window, the shards of glass glittering on the floor. Who had done such a thing?

She took a step back, her heart pounding as she realized whoever had broken the window could still be somewhere in the store.

Rushing to the phone, she dialed the sheriff with trembling fingers. “I’ve been burglarized!” she screamed into the phone the moment the dispatcher put her through.

“Who is this?” Sheriff Frank Curry asked in a voice so calm it set Nettie’s already frayed nerves on edge.

She’d known Frank Curry since she was a girl. “Who the devil do you think it is?” she snapped. “My store was burglarized.” She dropped her voice. “He might still be here.”

“Lynette,” the sheriff said. He was the only person who called her by her given name. The way he said it spoke volumes about their past. In just one word, he could make her feel like that lovestruck, teenage girl again. “Perhaps you should wait for me at your house. Where’s your husband?”

She knew only too well what Frank thought of her husband. “Just get up here and don’t you dare send that worthless Deputy Billy Westfall instead.” She slammed down the phone, shaking even harder than she’d been before. She was fairly certain whoever had broken in wasn’t still here. At least not on the lower floor.

The upper level was used for storage. Moving to the second-floor door, she eased it open and peered up the dark steps. She listened, didn’t hear a sound and closed the door and bolted it.

If the burglar was up there, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. She checked her watch and, leaving the closed sign on the front door, settled in to wait. As she glanced across the street to the café again, she realized she’d never had a break-in before Kate LaFond came to town.

* * *

“WHERE’S CARSON?”

Margaret turned from the stove, eyes narrowed. “Good morning to you, too, Waylon.”

WT cursed under his breath. He hated it when she called him Waylon. She only did it because she knew it annoyed him. Or to remind him where he’d come from. As if he needed reminding.

“Don’t act as if you didn’t hear me,” he snapped.

“Why? You do.”

He didn’t know how many times he’d come close to firing her. But they both knew he’d pay hell getting anyone else to cook and clean for him—let alone put up with him.

The real reason he hadn’t sent her packing was that she knew him in a way that no one else did, not that he would ever admit it to her. Like him, she also knew the pain of poverty. Of wearing the same boots until even the cardboard you’d pasted inside couldn’t keep the rocks from making your feet bleed. She knew about hand-me-down clothes and eating wild meat because there wasn’t anything else.