In fact, as far as humans are concerned, this part of Texas isn't good for much. There's not enough water, no oil, and despite the rumors of gold that lured Coronado into a long wild-goose chase, limestone is the only resource with any commercial value. Goats do well because they browse the abundant cedar and mesquite, and in the thirties and forties Carr County was the Angora Capital of the World. But there's not much market for angora hair these days, and goats are notoriously footloose. Fence that will hold them costs anywhere from ten to twenty-five thousand dollars a mile-which substantially raises the sticker price on your average sweater.
I grinned to myself. Back to the bottom line. But while this country might not be economically productive, it certainly is empty-which makes it perfect for a monastery. And for me, too, at this point in my life. Looking up at a hawk wheeling in the vast spaciousness of sky, I realized how cramped I'd been feeling lately. The shop was too small, the house was confining, my relationship with
McQuaid and Brian seemed always to demand something from me. Out here in this wild, undomesticated land, there was room to roam, room to be free. Out here, it didn't matter what anybody thought, what anybody expected. You could do what you liked. I stretched out in the seat and clasped my hands behind my head. Maybe that was what had brought Tom back.
Tom. Handsome, charming, wheeler-dealer Tom, who had abandoned a promising career to come back to a town the size of a shopping mall. It was an odd thing to do, now that I thought about it. If he'd planned all along to come back and take over the family bank, as he'd claimed at lunch, he'd never mentioned it to me. Maybe there was someone else involved. A woman, maybe.
Ruby must have been reading my mind. She gave me a sidelong glance. "That guy we met at lunch, that Robert Redford look-alike-an old flame, huh?''
"I suppose you might call him that," I said. "It was a long time ago."
"Some flames stay lit. He couldn't stop looking at you."
Ruby is an incurable romantic. If I didn't stop her, she'd go on like this for hours. "Don't be silly," I said. "Tom Rowan and I called it quits eight years ago. Nobody carries a torch for eight years."
She didn't answer right away. A pickup truck passed us, a guy and a girl sitting close, country style. ' 'Did you love him?" she asked finally.
"I suppose so," I said. "Neither of us knew much about loving. We were more worried about getting promoted." I looked out the window. "It's all in the past, Ruby. There's no point in talking about it."
"It doesn't look like he's worried about getting promoted now," she said, as if she hadn't heard the last part. "Does that change anything?"
"Change what?" I asked crossly. "McQuaid and I are living together, for Pete's sake. I haven't thought of Tom for years."
Ruby looked unconvinced. "Well, maybe. But…"
"But what?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said vaguely. "I guess I'm just partial to men who look like Robert Redford and sound like Paul Newman. If he was my old flame, I'd be tempted to fan the fire."
I was trying to think of a witty comeback when Maggie tapped me on the shoulder. "That's the Townsends' place," she said, pointing out the right-hand window.
"Hey, that's some house," Ruby said admiringly, and slowed so we could have a good look.
The stately white house-ostentatiously Old South, with a wraparound veranda and neo-plantation columns-was set on several acres of clipped lawn. An ornate iron fence across the front was interrupted by a massive iron gate between brick pillars. The sign beside the gate read ' 'Carl & Rena Townsend, Registered Brahmas." Beneath the words was a drawing of a massive, long-eared bull with a shoulder hump like a 747.
I grinned. "It looks like they're rich enough to eat their laying hens, as McQuaid's mother says."
"They're not only rich, they're powerful," Dominica said. ' 'Carl Townsend has been elected to the County Commissioners Court so many times that nobody bothers to run against him. His wife, Rena, manages the county political organization. Their older son, Royce, is a doctor-and a justice of the peace. The younger son is a lawyer. He was elected county judge last fall."
I was beginning to understand. In Texas, the county commissioners have control over the sheriff's office budget. When the deputy testifies in county court on criminal cases, Judge Townsend is sitting on the bench. And a good relationship with the local JP is essential to making traffic citations and other minor charges stick. The Townsends held every important office in the county. No wonder the deputy wasn't eager to question the Townsends in connection with the fires.
"They're rich, powerful, and nasty," Maggie said. "But I have to admit to being biased. They caused Mother Hilaria so much pain."
"You're not biased, you're right, Margaret Mary." Dominica was indignant. "Mother would probably still be alive if they hadn't made life so miserable for her. It wasn't the hot plate that killed her-it was frustration." She laughed shortly, "And if she'd known that Royce Town-send was going to pronounce her dead, she'd have told St. Peter to hold off until she got somebody to drive her to the next precinct."
"Royce Townsend?" Ruby asked. "Which one is he?"
"The doctor," Dominica said. "If there was another to be had, we'd have him. Or her."
"He's also a justice of the peace," I said. In Texas, the JP, an elected official, has the job of pronouncing somebody dead. In a rural district, it's convenient to have JP and doctor rolled into one, although some folks might argue that there is an occasional conflict of interest.
We had come to an intersection and Ruby, following Dominica 's instructions, turned onto a narrow gravel road. Ahead was a locked gate. Maggie got out, lifted a rock, and found the key. We drove through. On the other side, the gravel road twisted and turned through a rugged landscape colored in somber but beautiful grays and greens and browns. Patches of Indian grass, buffalo grass, and silver bluestem-remnants of the short-grass prairie that once covered these hills-were interspersed with clumps of shin-nery oak, mesquite, and cedar. After ten minutes of driving, we came to another gate, this one standing open. Beside it was a simple wooden cross, six feet high. On it was a sign. St. Theresa's Monastery.
I glanced over my shoulder at Maggie. She was taking in the landscape hungrily, as if she were starved for the sight of it. She let her breath escape in a long sigh.
"I feel like Eve being let back into the Garden," she
said as Ruby drove through the gate. "I knew I missed it. I just didn't know how much."
Dominica touched her hand. "Why don't you come back?"
"Maybe I will," Maggie said.
"No kidding?" Ruby asked, startled. I was surprised, too, but not as much as I might have been yesterday. All during the drive, I had sensed some sort of purpose in her. Perhaps this was it.
"I've considered it," Maggie said. Her voice was low. She was looking out the window. "More than once."
Ruby glanced up at her in the rearview mirror. "If you did, you'd swing the election."
"That's right," Dominica said excitedly. "It would be twenty-one to twenty. Do it, Maggie! We could elect Ga-briella and raise garlic for the rest of our lives and I could stop putting all those stupid biscuits into the computer."
Maggie frowned. "Hey, come on, now! We're talking about a vocation, not an election."
Dominica shook her head. "Believe me, honey, if this election doesn't come out right, there'll be a lot fewer voca-Look out!"
Ruby locked the brakes and jerked the wheel hard to the right, fighting for control. The Honda's rear end skidded on the wet gravel, slamming my head, hard, into the passenger-side window. The little car rocked onto two wheels and nose-dived down a steep embankment, coming to a stop inches away from a twenty-foot drop-off above white-water rapids.