Over dinner, a meat-and-potatoes meal, Phil dominated the conversation.
The children stayed quiet, and Doris kept her contributions to automatic slight nods of her head whenever Phil looked her way. She busied herself serving food and correcting the children's table manners, with an occasional glance and small smile in Kerney's direction. It reminded Kerney of his long-ago meal with Eugene Cox.
Kerney asked Phil a lot of questions and found that he had nothing of value to add to the investigation, but the food was decent, and Phil seemed to enjoy the company.
After dinner, with the children excused and Doris in the kitchen, Kerney was about to take his leave when Phil was called to the phone.
He returned shaking his head and chuckling.
"That was my father," he said, as he pulled out his chair and sat down.
"I told him you had stayed for supper, and he didn't like it one bit.
Said I shouldn't be letting the man who stole Cory's championship eat at my table. Why the hell didn't you tell me who you were?"
"That happened a long time ago."
"Yeah, it did, but I should have remembered. I'll tell you one thing:
Cory never saw it the way Dad did. He said you won that buckle fair and square."
"That's good to hear."
Phil stood up.
"Let me get PJ in here. He'd love to hear about how you and his uncle Cory went head to head in the state finals." He stopped at the kitchen door.
"Doris, bring us in some coffee," he ordered.
Before leaving, Kerney spent a pleasant hour talking with Phil and PJ about horses, rodeo, and Cory. He got the impression PJ was Phil's favorite.
Jennifer and Bobby never reappeared.
A deputy sheriff was parked at the trailer when he got home. The deputy asked Kerney to stop by and see the sheriff in the morning. Kerney asked why, but the deputy didn't know. He was just the messenger boy.
Kerney told the deputy he'd be there. stretched out on his back, fast asleep, Edgar Cox snored. After one final ripping snort, his breathing slowed and became tranquil. Margaret waited for a few minutes, got out of bed, gathered up her robe and slippers, and went softly into the living room.
Outside, false dawn had faded into morning and the first robin of the day sang. Bubba, the children's puppy, met her halfway to Karen's house. He sniffed Margaret's slippers, wagged his tail, and barked a greeting. She reached down and scratched his ears.
Karen sat on the top porch step of the old ranch house dressed only in a tank top, shorts, and sandals.
Margaret wrapped the robe tightly around her waist and wondered how Karen could be so warm in the morning chill.
Karen smiled, scooted to one side, and patted the porch step in an invitation for her mother to join her. They sat in silence for a moment watching the robin until it flew away.
"How do you like being back home?" Margaret asked.
"I love it," Karen replied.
"No regrets about leaving the city?"
"I don't miss Albuquerque at all."
"There was a time when I thought you'd never come back to the ranch."
Karen laughed.
"Neither did I."
"Are you absolutely sure you want to live here?"
"I am," Karen answered with an emphatic nod of her head.
"No regrets about Stan?" Margaret asked.
"God no. It wasn't a marriage. He wanted to own me. I think I knew I would eventually divorce him. It was just a question of when it would happen."
"I could never understand what made Stan believe he could hold on to you. In a conventional sense, I'm not sure any man can."
Karen's eyes danced in amusement.
"You've always known that about me, haven't you?"
"Has it changed?"
"No. I don't think marriage suits me. I'm sorry things were so tense at dinner last night." "Edgar said you had a rather heated conversation with him. You and your father are two of a kind.
That can make the sparks fly."
"I see no reason why he can't talk to me about Uncle Eugene."
"He doesn't talk to anybody about it."
Karen shook her head, rejecting the statement.
"That's not completely true. He talks to you about it. He must."
Margaret rubbed her daughter's arm affectionately.
Karen's skin was warm to the touch.
"That's different."
"This time the situation is different. If it's a legitimate inquiry into a homicide investigation, I may have to force him to talk about it."
"I'd rather you wouldn't push it. Your father has enough on his mind right now."
"Are there problems?"
Margaret remained silent. She had hoped Karen would ask the question.
"Is something wrong?" Karen prodded.
"Oh, he thinks I'm going to die. He can't stand the thought that he might outlive me."
Karen's hand covered her mother's.
"Die? What's wrong?"
"I had a mammogram last Friday. The doctor's fairly certain I have cancer. I was going to wait to tell you until the biopsy results came back."
"When will you know?"
"Tomorrow." Margaret could see tears in the corners of Karen's eyes.
She wiped them away with a fingertip.
"Don't cry."
"Why not? It makes me so damn sad and angry."
Margaret laughed gently.
"I'm going to beat it, sweetie. I plan to be around for a while. Long enough to become a very old, crotchety great-grandmother."
Karen sniffled.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Call it woman's intuition. I just feel it. I'll survive." Margaret got to her feet.
"Edgar will be up soon, wanting his breakfast. He loves you very much."
"I know."
Margaret bent down and kissed Karen on the forehead.
"And so do I."
Karen stood and hugged her mother tightly.
"Send the children down to the house when you're ready to leave for work," Margaret said.
"I can't have you watch them for me. Not now."
"Don't be silly." She kissed her daughter again.
"I'm looking forward to it. I need to spoil them a bit more."
Margaret returned home. Edgar was out of bed and in the bathroom shaving. She made fresh coffee, feeling somewhat guilty about her talk with Karen.
Everything she'd said was true, but her motives were sneaky. If disclosing her illness deflected Karen from pursuing Edgar's secret, it was worth the effort.
In the parking lot at the county courthouse, Jim Stiles lounged against the front of his truck, one foot on the bumper. He was wearing jeans, a straw cowboy hat, a white shirt, and a pair of snakeskin boots.
Kerney limped toward him. The hitch in his right leg seemed a little more pronounced. Kerney's getup Cretty much matched Jim's, except for a big rodeo buckle Kerney wore on the belt around his waist.
He stood with Jim facing the entrance to the sheriff's department, a forlorn annex to the courthouse, plastered adobe brown.
Stiles stared at Kerney's belt buckle.
"Is that the real McCoy?"
"Sure is. Somebody reminded me I won it, so I dug it out and decided to wear it."
Jim squinted to make out the date it was awarded.
"It's a damn antique."
"Watch what you say, youngster," Kerney cautioned lightly.
"Just kidding." Jim's green eyes crinkled with humor.
"I'm impressed. Hell, I'm jealous. I didn't know you were a rodeo cowboy."
"That's stretching it," Kerney replied.
"I was a ranch kid who liked to rodeo."
"Do your parents still ranch?"
"They're dead," Kerney replied.
"The Army took our ranch when White Sands Missile Range expanded.
My father got a job as a foreman at a nearby outfit."
"That sucks."
"It's old news."
"I don't think I could be so cool about it if it happened to my parents."
Kerney's laugh was tinged with bitterness.