That's what I want, and that's what your mother wants."
Karen laughed.
"In that case you'd better make sure that Cody and Elizabeth learn everything you forgot to teach me, so they can help me run this place after you and Mom finally decide to slow down. Think of it as home schooling."
"Touche," Edgar replied.
"Oh, I almost forgot. You had visitors yesterday."
"Did Phil and PJ stop by?"
"No." She reached in the pocket of her shorts, took out an envelope and a business card, and put them on the table.
"A poacher killed a black bear on the mesa. A ranger wants to talk to you about it.
Charlie Perry was here too, asking the same questions."
Edgar shook his head sadly, picked up the card, looked at it, turned it over, and read the scribbled name.
"Kevin who?" he asked.
"Kerney." "Don't know him. He must be new. This card says he's working out of the Luna station. I wonder what he's doing in Charlie's neck of the woods." He put the card on the table.
"I'll talk to Charlie." He picked up the envelope.
"What's this?"
"A young Hispanic man left that for you. Very polite and well-spoken; based on his accent, I'd say he was from Mexico," Karen added.
"Nobody we know?"
Karen shook her head.
"I never saw him before.
He was with an older man."
"Were they looking for work?"
"I don't think so."
Her father tore open the envelope, read the contents quickly, and grunted to himself. The smile in his eyes faded.
"Is anything wrong?" Karen asked.
Edgar shook his head.
"No. Nothing. Some old business, that's all."
"Is it something I should know about?"
The smile on her father's face was forced.
"Don't worry. Peanut. It's not important."
She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the childhood nickname.
He stuffed the letter and envelope into a shirt pocket, pushed his chair away from the table, and stood up.
"Your mother is sleeping in," he said.
"She had a long day."
Karen didn't know that her mother might have cancer. It wasn't going to be discussed until the test results came back. Margaret had made him promise.
It would be an anxious wait before their next appointment with the doctor.
"I'm going to town to see Charlie Perry and pick up supplies," Edgar announced.
"Do you need anything?"
"No, but I'm sure Cody would love to go along with you."
"Not today. Tell him I'll take him and his sister horseback riding before dinner." He came around the table, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her gently on the cheek.
"It's good to have you back home. Peanut."
"You and Mom are going to be stuck with us for a long time. Daddy,"
Karen answered, patting his hand.
"That's just what we want to hear." He kissed her again and walked into the living room. When she heard the front door close, Karen got up and followed, watching him through the window. He got behind the wheel of his truck, took the letter from his shirt pocket, and read it again before driving away. It worried Karen. Something in that letter had upset him, and she didn't have a clue what it might be.
She returned to the kitchen, rinsed out the coffee cups, and quietly left the house. There were still tons of books to unpack.
Edgar Cox absentmindedly waved back at the folks he passed on the highway, his anxiety growing.
When he turned off at the Slash Z sign at Old Horse Springs, his heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry. He stopped in the middle of the ranch road and looked at the Mangas Mountains. It had been sixty years since he'd been back to the Slash Z. Six decades since he rode his horse to the old highway, left it at the gas station-now boarded up and abandoned-hitchhiked to Albuquerque, lied about his age, and enlisted in the Army. He shook his head in disbelief. A lifetime. A fifteen year-old kid running away as fast as that damn pony could carry him.
He knew what was waiting for him. His nephew, Phil Cox, kept him informed, even brought him snapshots from time to time, trying hard to keep some family ties going-at least on the surface. But Edgar suspected that what really interested Phil was getting first crack at the Triple H if he ever decided to sell it.
Hands sweaty, he took a deep breath, touched the gas pedal with his toe, and started down the ranch road. It felt as if he had stopped breathing when he coasted to a halt in front of the two-story ranch house. The old trees around it were gone, replaced by young willows and a row of poplars in the front yard. Painted white, with green trim, a pitched roof, and a small covered porch that served as a balcony for the second floor, the house looked the same as when he was growing up. The red brick chimney on the north side with wild ivy still clinging to it; the old wooden sash windows; the rosebushes bordering the low rock wall that surrounded the front yard; the picket fence and gate painted white to match the house-all the same.
Slowly, Edgar got out of his truck, turned, and looked across the large horse pasture where, half a mile away, the home Phil Cox had built for his family stood. A low adobe structure with a portal across the front and lots of windows, it faced the Mangas Mountains. Phil's pickup truck was parked outside. Edgar wouldn't have much time alone with his brother. Phil would come running out of sheer curiosity once he spotted Edgar's vehicle.
He walked quickly up the wheelchair ramp and entered the house without knocking. It was quiet inside. He went down the long hall past the closed front-room door and staircase. In the kitchen he found Eugene with his back turned and his arms propped up on a table. He was reading a magazine and drinking a cup of coffee.
"Is that you, Phil?" Eugene asked, without turning around.
"It's Edgar."
The man in the wheelchair froze, the muscles of his neck tightening.
"Get the fuck out of my house," he said harshly without turning around.
"Not this time," Edgar said evenly.
"Not until you read what I've brought."
"You've got nothing I want to see," Eugene replied.
"Turn around, Eugene," his brother demanded.
Eugene's hands dropped off the table, and he swung the wheelchair in Edgar's direction.
"What do you want to show me, little brother?" he asked sarcastically.
For the first time in six decades, Edgar looked at his identical twin, older by three minutes. Eugene's pasty complexion and the stubble of a day-old beard made him look ill. His watery pale blue eyes were filled with loathing. His hair flopped over his ears, white, shaggy, and uncombed. He's old, Edgar thought. We're both old. He took the letter out of his pocket and handed it over.
"Read this."
Eugene read it quickly and gave it back, his outstretched arm shaking.
"So what? Jose Padilla wants to talk to you about his dead daddy. It doesn't mean anything," he snapped.
"Don't be stupid," Edgar replied.
"He wants to know the truth."
Eugene laughed.
"The truth. That's something now, isn't it? Tell you what-you write him back and tell him anything you damn well please. There's nobody left alive except you and Jose Padilla that gives a rat's ass."
Edgar put the letter away and stared at his twin brother. The nastiness was still there. The bullet in his spine that had crippled him hadn't subdued the bully in Eugene.
"You've turned into a mean old son of a bitch," he said.
Eugene pushed the wheelchair suddenly in Edgar's direction. His laugh was as violent as the movement.
He stopped short of running into Edgar, and looked up at him.
"And you're still a weak-kneed pussy," Eugene retorted, color rising in his face.
"Jose Padilla sends you a letter and it puts you in a tailspin." "He's here," Edgar explained, "and he wants to talk to us."