Joe brushed her cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers, shut off the light, and went back down to his office.
He had never enjoyed the paperwork associated with his job, but considered it necessary—unlike some of Wyoming’s other fifty-four game wardens, who complained about it constantly. He viewed the memos, reports, requests for opinion, and general correspondence as the price he paid to spend the majority of his working day out in the field in his pickup, astride one of his horses, in his boat, or on his snowmobile. Joe Pickett still loved his job with a “pinch me” kind of passion that had yet to go away. He reveled in his fifteen-hundred-square-mile district that included haunting and savage breaklands, river lowlands, timbered ridges and treeless vistas, and landscape so big and wide that there were places where he parked his truck and perched where he could see the curvature of the earth.
He even used to get pleasure from writing his weekly reports, coming up with a well-turned phrase or making an argument that could persuade higher-ups. But things had changed, and he now dreaded entering his own office.
Joe listened to his telephone messages. There was a complaint from a local rancher about a vehicle driving around on his land at night, possibly a poacher. The next message was from Special Agent Tony Portenson of the FBI, asking Joe to call him. Portenson was heading up the investigation into the murder of ex-sheriff O. R. “Bud” Barnum and another still-unknown male the year before. Both of their badly deteriorated bodies had been found in a natural spring the year before. Joe had reported the crime. The prime suspect in the murders was Nate Romanowski,the falconer whom Joe and the rest of his family had befriended years before. Nate had vanished before the bodies had been discovered, and Portenson was trying to track him down. The agent called Joe every month or so to find out if Joe had heard from Nate, which he hadn’t. Joe felt no need to tell Portenson that he and Sheridan still went to Nate’s place to feed his falcons, and that they would continue to do so until Nate returned or the birds flew away for good.
JOE YAWNED WITH exhaustion as he tapped out a terse recounting of his long day to send to Randy Pope at headquarters in Cheyenne. Pope read his reports very carefully for errors that he enjoyed pointing out.
When he completed the report, he used his slow dial-up modem to send the e-mail. As the connection was made, his in-box flooded with departmental e-mails. The volume of mail had increased fivefold since Pope took over.
Joe perused the subject lines, deciding most could wait until tomorrow morning. The only one he opened was a press release from headquarters entitled GOVERNOR RULON NAMES NEW GAME AND FISH COMMISSIONERS.
Joe read the short list. One name punched the breath out of him. The new governor had made his second mistake.
The new commissioner for Joe’s district was Arlen Scarlett.
5
JULIE SCARLETT WASN’T ON THE BUS OR AT SCHOOL for the next two days, and when Sheridan dialed her number at the ranch the call went straight to voice mail. The news of the shovel fight as well as the disappearance of Opal Scarlett swept through both the school and the community so fast that it was almost unnecessary to include it in the Saddlestring Roundup, but it appeared there nevertheless, with the photo of a startled Tommy Wayman exiting the sheriff’s department car.
On Friday afternoon, after Sheridan finished track practice and waited inside the entryway for her dad or mom to pick her up, a muddy three-quarter-ton pickup swung into the alcove. THUNDERHEAD RANCH was painted on the door of the truck, and when it opened, Julie jumped out. Sheridan could see that it was Julie’s Uncle Arlen who was driving.
Julie looked pale and tired, Sheridan thought. Her friend wore old jeans, cowboy boots, and a too-large sweatshirt. It was unusual to see her dressed down that way, and Sheridan felt sorry for her.
Sheridan was relieved when Julie’s expression changed from distraction to joy when she saw her in the doorway. Julie broke into a quick run, opened the door, and threw her arms around her friend.
“I missed you!” Julie said, beaming. “I know it’s only been, like, a couple of days, but it seems like a friggin’ month.”
Sheridan said, “I know. I’ve tried to call you because I was getting worried . . .”
Julie dismissed Sheridan’s concern with a wave. “Sorry about that. My uncles forget to tell me I’ve got messages since my grandma always did that. Hey, walk with me, Sherry. I’ve got to go pick up my missed assignments so I can get caught up this weekend.”
Sheridan turned and strode down the empty hallway with Julie.
“I’m glad school is out for the day,” Julie said, speaking softly. “This way I don’t have to face anyone and answer all of the questions right now. That’ll have to wait until Monday. So, is everybody wondering where I’ve been?”
“Sure,” Sheridan answered, knowing Julie wanted to find out she was the topic of all conversation, even though some of the kids had said cruel things about her and her family. “Me, mainly.”
“Oh, you’re sweet,” Julie said.
Sheridan stood near the door of Julie’s math classroom while Julie got her assignments from her teacher. She listened as Julie told her teacher how rough it had been the last few days with her grandmother missing, and with her uncles fighting. The teacher eagerly drank it in. If Julie was going to repeat the story to every teacher, Sheridan thought, they’d never get out of there. While she liked Julie and was relieved she seemed okay, her friend reveled in being the center of attention.
Finally, Julie finished and left, Sheridan beside her.
“I may not be able to stay,” Sheridan said. “My ride should be outside.”
Julie stopped. “Are you sure? We’ve got some catching up to do.”
“I know,” Sheridan said, thinking she would much rather do that instead of listen to Julie explain what had happened at the ranch seven more times to seven more teachers. While she had the opportunity, Sheridan asked Julie something that had been on her mind since the other day. “Remember, you were just about to tell me something in the truck before we saw the fight? Remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell me now?” Sheridan asked.
Julie laughed bitterly, and suddenly seemed much older than her fourteen years, Sheridan thought.
“It’s not really news so much anymore,” Julie said. “I was going to tell you how weird my family is. I was thinking about your mom coming to pick you up, and your sister, and your dad. It’s so friggin’, like, normal compared to what I’m used to.”
“That’s what you were going to tell me?” Sheridan asked, a little let down.
“Yeah. It’s just that I didn’t know how strange it was until pretty recently. I guess I thought everybody lived like I do—I didn’t realize how screwed up it is.”
Sheridan shook her head, not understanding.
“You need to come out and see it for yourself,” Julie said, grasping Sheridan’s arms. “You won’t believe it until I show it to you. Wait until you see the Legacy Wall.”
“What do you mean?” Sheridan asked, genuinely rattled by what Julie was saying.
“Well, you know that term ‘nuclear family’? Meaning, you know, a dad, a mom, some kids, a dog? Like your family? Well, mine’s like, a blown-up nuclear family. Like somebody dropped a bomb on us.” Julie giggled when she said “blown-up nuclear family,” which made Sheridan smile.
“I mean,” Julie continued, “I don’t even live with my dad. He lives on the other side of the ranch, on the east side, all by himself. My mom lives in a cabin on a creek, and she never talks to my dad. I mean never. I grew up in the big house thinking my grandma was my mother because she took care of me. My mom drinks, I guess. Anyway, so it’s like my grandma is my mother and my uncle Arlen is my father. Uncle Wyatt—he sometimes seems like he’s more my age or my little brother than anything. I’m very fond of my uncle Arlen and my uncle Wyatt, and they’re on our side of the ranch . . .”