Joe and his family sat on Arlen’s side, but Joe didn’t feel completely comfortable about it. Especially after Marybeth told him about Arlen’s meeting with Meade Davis. And even more so after the cell-phone message he had received that morning from forensics at headquarters. He wished there were seats in the aisle between the two factions.
THE NEW WING, called the Scarlett Wing, was actually larger than the rest of the building it was attached to, which was how Opal had wanted it. The museum itself was like every little town museum Joe had visited throughout Wyoming and the mountain west: a decent little collection of wagon wheels, frontier clothing, arrowheads, rifles, tools, old books. The new addition had state-of-the-art interactive exhibits on the founding families of Twelve Sleep County, the historic ranches, the bloodlines that flowed through the community from the first settlers. In other words the Scarlett Wing was about the Scarlett family, and was simply a much larger version of the Legacy Wall in their own home that Sheridan had told him about.
The addition had been completed that week. An earthmover and a tractor still sat behind it. Grass turf had been so hastily rolled out to cover the dirt that the seams could be clearly seen. The manufacturer stickers on the windows had yet to be removed.
ARLEN TALKED FOR twenty-five minutes without notes, his melodious voice rising and falling, his speech filled with thunderous points and pregnant pauses. It was the speech of a politician, Joe thought, one of those stem-winders that, at the time you were hearing it, seemed to be all profundity and grace, but as soon as it was over, there was nothing to remember about it, as if the breeze had carried the memory of it away.
Despite that, Joe focused on what Arlen said about his mother:
“Opal Scarlett was more than a mother, more than the matriarch of Thunderhead Ranch. She was our link to the past, our living, breathing bridge from the twenty-first century to the pioneers who founded this land, fought for it, made it what it is today. And we celebrate her now with the opening of this museum . . .”
As Arlen spoke, Joe looked for Wyatt. Finally, he spotted the youngest brother, sitting off by himself, behind the podium. Arlen’s words had obviously touched him, because Wyatt’s face was wet with tears.
THE MAYOR INTRODUCED Hank Scarlett next.
Hank sat hunched over on the other side of the podium, leaning forward in his chair so his head was down and all that could be seen of it was the top of his cowboy hat. He was studying his notes with fervor. The paper shook in his hands. Nervous, Joe thought.
“Now would be a good time to go out to his place and see all of his poached game on display,” Joe whispered to Marybeth, “while he’s here and not there.”
“But you need a warrant,” she said.
HANK SHUFFLED TO the podium. There was something dark, mumbly, James-Dean-in-Giant about him, Joe thought. Hank followed Arlen with a crude but somehow more sincere and affecting message: “I ain’t much of a speaker, but when Mother asks you to say something you say ‘okay’ . . .”
While he spoke he read from his notes, which were wrinkled and dirty in his hands. Joe guessed he had been reading them over and over for days.
“Mother lives and breathes the ranch and this valley,” Hank said. “It’s like the Twelve Sleep River runs through her veins instead of blood . . .”
He talked less than five minutes, but his tinny, halting delivery was more riveting than Arlen’s speech. Never, in the entire time they were there, did either brother acknowledge the other, even with a nod.
When he was through, Hank folded up his notes, stuffed them into the back pocket of his Wranglers, and walked off the stage. While Arlen came down into the crowd to shake hands, Hank walked away through the parking lot toward the street. The pickup driven by Bill Monroe appeared and took him away.
Joe looked around for McLanahan and saw him in the parking lot talking heatedly with Robey Hersig.
THE CROWD MILLED around after the speeches. Groups formed to take tours of the new Scarlett Wing, others headed toward the snacks and drinks set up near the museum entrance. A few made their way to their vehicles.
Robey, his face red and his eyes in a snake-eyed squint, marched up to Joe and stabbed a finger into his chest. “What are you trying to do? Burn every damned bridge behind you?”
“Stick around,” Joe said, smiling. “I’ve got a few more to go.”
Robey turned on his boot heels and strode away from Joe toward the parking lot.
22
“JOE, I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’RE DOING THIS RIGHT,” Marybeth said. “This isn’t like you. You seem to be a little out of control.”
“You’re probably right,” Joe replied. “But it’s time to shake things up.”
She had lured him away from the crowd to a secluded place on the side of the addition. Joe felt his boot heels sink into the brand-new sod. There was real concern in her eyes.
“Joe, I see these people every day. I work for some of them. We have to live here.”
He tipped his hat back and rubbed his forehead where the sweatband fit. “I hate to give any credit to Randy Pope,” he said, “but he may be right about one thing, and that’s the tendency to go native if you stay somewhere too long.”
“I’m not following.”
“Think about what you just said. You’re starting to weigh my job and my duty against who we may offend. If that’s a problem, Marybeth, maybe we’ve overstayed our welcome here.”
Her eyes got wide, then she set her face. She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward. Joe rocked back and thought, Uh-oh.
“Listen to me, Joe Pickett,” she said. “Don’t you ever, for one second, think I would want you to compromise your principles or your oath in order for us to get along better here. I have never done that to you. If that was in my mind, I would have insisted on it years ago, before you and your stupid job put us in harm’s way again and again and AGAIN.”
Marybeth took a step forward and Joe took one back. She was now jabbing him in the chest. He wished she hadn’t said “stupid job.” But he didn’t point that out.
“Don’t you dare blame this on me,” she said. “I think your problem is your problem. You’re working for a man and an agency you don’t believe in anymore. You’re frustrated. You’re finding out that everything you based your career and your validation on might be built on a foundation of sand. It kills you that you’re thinking you’re just another government employee working for a government agency. And instead of admitting it or dealing with it, you’re lashing out. Am I right?”
Joe glared at her.
“Am I right?”
“Maybe,” he conceded. “Just a little.”
“Okay, then.”
“It kind of pisses me off that you’re so smart,” he said, chancing a smile. “I must drive you crazy sometimes.”
She punched him playfully in the chest. “It is a burden,” she said.
AS THEY WALKED back toward the parking lot and the people, Joe said, “I’m still mad, though.”
“You don’t get mad very often, so I suppose you’re allowed to every once in a while.”