"The hoops these companies have to go through to build the line are fucking insane. There's environmental impact statements, federal and state easements, private property easements. It's unbelievable. Inter West has as many lawyers on the payroll as it does pipe fitters. The capital outlay is unbelievable to accomplish something of this magnitude."
Joe simply nodded. The race to California by the two companies had been a fixture of state news for more than a year. He watched as Vern lowered his pen to the end of the Inter West line on the napkin.
"I met the Inter West boys when they first came to Saddlestring about two years ago. They contacted me because I knew everybody and everything." Vern chuckled and his eyes moved to Joe's face.
"The Inter West boys had been looking at the topo maps, and they saw where if they could take their pipeline through the Bighorns that they might gain six months on CanCal and be the first to California. They asked me if it was possible to do this. I told them it could be done if they had the right front guy working the landowners, the Feds, and the state land guys.
"Give the right guy a checkbook," is what I told them."
Joe reached out and spun the napkin around. The pipeline ran straight through the mountains and through the Twelve Sleep Valley.
"The right guy was me, of course," Vern said. "I negotiated with them for a real salary for the first time in my life and one percent of the stock in the company. I promised them I would deliver a route for their pipeline and by God if I didn't get it done."
Joe looked up from the napkin.
"You have?"
Vern sat back triumphantly. His eyes seemed to glow. "Private easements are done, state lands are cleared legally, and all we're waiting on is the final approval from the Forest Service on the environmental impact statement and approval at a few town meetings, and we'll be bringing the pipeline over the top," Vern said.
"Saddlestring is dying, Joe. This pipeline will bring in a bonanza for the whole county. It'll be like the oil-boom days of the early eighties once again. People around here will have good paying jobs
again."
Joe shook his head. What a gamble Vern had taken with the community and environment. "Inter West needed someone who knew these people so they came to me. They needed someone who was trusted--and clean as a whistle-pig. You're that same kind of guy, Joe."
"Are you offering me a job?"
Vern leaned forward and spoke softly.
"I'm testing the water."
"What's the job pay?"
"Three times what you're making, Joe. For the life of the project. Five to ten years, maybe more. Who knows after that." Vern slipped the flask from his hip pocket and poured some in a water glass. He offered it to Joe, who shook his head no, then sucked on it himself.
"Maybe some stock options, too."
Joe sat back in the bed. He felt hot. It was as if Vern had somehow read his thoughts while he had been in the mountains the night before.
"You've got a wife and kids, Joe. You're a nice, wholesome guy. You're a goddamned hero right now. No one could ever doubt your sincerity when you talk to them. You deserve a lot better. You're working for nothing. You have a family, and a picket fence, and a dog. You," Vern said, letting the chuckle start low in his belly, "are an endangered species. There ain't many like you, Joe."
Vern slipped his pen back in his pocket and pulled out a business card. Joe read it: Vernon S. Dunnegan Land Manager Inter West Resources.
"Call me," Vern said, standing up. "Do it soon."
***
At Joe's insistence, the doctors grudgingly released him not long after Vern Dunnegan's visit. They had strongly suggested Joe stay in the hospital and rest but Joe had no intention of following their advice. I'm fine, he said. As much as he wanted to call Marybeth and have her come pick him up, he didn't. It was late and the girls would be in bed--he didn't want to wake them. He signed off on the insurance paperwork and located his pickup in the parking garage. As he swung the truck out onto the street, one thought kept repeating over and over in his mind: eight miles on the right-hand side and we're home. As he swung off of the Bighorn Highway onto the narrow gravel strip near his house he thought: my wife and my girls, my anchors, will be inside. The discussion with Vern had left a bad taste in his mouth.
The simple acts of turning off the headlights, pulling the keys from the ignition, and crawling out of the pickup were difficult in themselves. He was worn out and almost drunk from fatigue. He rubbed his eyes as he let himself in the front gate. The only thing that had kept him going for the last few hours was the prospect of getting home. Now that he was home, it was as if he were imploding. They had kept him overnight in the hospital for observation, and Marybeth had come alone to confirm that he was all right. The double-ought buckshot had chipped his cheekbone and stopped there, and it was easily removed. He would have a scar there for the rest of his life.
The first person he saw when he stepped inside his home was his mother-in-law, Missy Vankeuren, curled up on the couch with dozens of glossy magazines splayed like a massive poker hand on the floor beneath her. She was wearing a cream cashmere sweater and black stirrup pants. Her dark hair was cut close to her face and, as usual, she didn't look her age. She was and always had been an attractive woman. When she looked up, there was no doubt she read him like a book, because he was too tired to feign a hardy welcome. In fact, in all that had happened over the last three days, he had forgotten she was coming.
"I never get a chance to read at home," was what she said by means of a greeting. "So I brought my magazines with me, and it's wonderful to have the time."
"That's great," Joe said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.
Missy lived in Phoenix now, Marybeth had told him, dating a wildly rich and influential cable television magnate who was part of the Arizona political glitterati (Missy dutifully sent Marybeth society page clippings from the Arizona Republic and Phoenix Gazette that mentioned her name). She no doubt had little time between functions to read all the back issues of Glamour, Gourmet, Southern Living, Cosmopolitan, Vanity Pair, and Conde Nast Traveler that were arranged on the door.
Marybeth arrived from the hallway and had on her perfect hostess face with the big grin.
"The girls wanted to stay up, but I finally put them to bed. They're awake right now and want a good-night kiss."
"That I'd be glad to do," Joe said. He squeezed Marybeth's hand as he walked past her and opened the door to the girls' bedroom. The light was on and they were reading. He kissed Sheridan in the top bunk and Lucy in the bottom bunk.
"What happened to your face?" Sheridan asked.
"Just an accident," Joe said, involuntarily reaching up and fingering the large bandage beneath his eye.
"That's not what I heard," Sheridan said, propping herself up on her pillow. "At school they said you got shot."
"It was an accidental shooting," Joe said.
"Will you tell us about it tomorrow?" Sheridan asked. Joe paused.
"You girls get to sleep," he said. Lucy rolled her eyes and covered herself with the sheet.
"I've been looking out this window," Sheridan told him. "I haven't seen anything. No more monsters."
"You won't," Joe assured her. "That's all over now." Lucy was faking sleep. It was something she
did to punish her father for being away. He kissed her and told her good night, but she held firm and wouldn't acknowledge it, except for a hint of a smile.
***
Joe poured himself a bourbon and water in the kitchen. He had not taken any of the painkillers the doctor had prescribed for him, saving them for tomorrow.
"It says here that fat grams aren't everything," Missy Vankeuren said from the other room. Joe assumed she was talking to Marybeth. "You still need to watch calories. Just because something is low in fat doesn't give you license to eat like a pig."