Borderlands (Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series Book 6)
Page 16
As Diego walked into the stables to gather his horse and belongings, she leaned over and brushed her hand along the side of his cheek. “You doing alright?”
“Yeah, actually, never better.” He kissed the back of her hand and then patted the horse on the neck. “You’ll be in good hands—this is Sweet Face and she’ll go easy on you. She’s been with us at this ranch for a long time.”
Dev stroked the thick mane of the animal. “After this, maybe we can go visit Tombstone.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Thought youda had enough of Old West shootouts for a while.”
“When I go back home, the first thing people are going to ask is if I visited the OK Corral. Wyatt Earp is famous even in Israel. He was a standup guy who never backed down from a fight. At least that’s our perception.”
“About what I heard too. Then Tombstone it is, my dear.”
He nodded then walked away, tucking his hands in his pockets. Heading back into his bunkhouse, he stood on the screened porch and watch Diego and Dev ride off.
When they were gone, Mitch took a deep breath and reached up on the shelf above the door, removing the tattered white hat Nora had returned to him. He ran his eyes along the faded leather band that wound below the crown. The hat had come from LeBell’s Western Shop in Tucson, in a storefront that now belonged to a café. He’d picked out the size, design, and color then had the leather band embroidered with the stamped image of cottonwood leaves, like a hat his mother had worn. Nora tried to act surprised at the images even though she knew the nature of their origin. He let his fingers float along the cottonwood leaves then looked out through the porch at the gravestones in the distance. He returned the hat to its resting place then opened the front door and moved down the cracked wooden steps towards the hill below the canyon.
Downy seed heads of spent thistle were drifting across the pathway, like a dusting of snow had mysteriously dotted the desert landscape. Mitch paused outside the knee-high picket fence, its white paint only evident in tiny flecks. He unlatched the rusted gate and took a step inside, then another, until he was standing before the granite memorial. He heard the song of a canyon wren, its rotary call echoing throughout the valley. The earth beneath his boots felt softer than he could ever recall it being and a shaft of sunlight wove its way through the tapestry of leaves to dance upon the ground. He squatted down between the two headstones, eventually kneeling, then after a long while finally sitting, staying until the morning shadows had lengthened. As a canyon wren flew past him, its serenade done for the day, he slowly stood up and felt a breeze float over the back of his neck.
Looking up at the canyon walls above, he marveled at the rocky contours, the red hue seeming brighter than he had ever remembered.
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