Bittersweet

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “This is great, Sue Ellen. As it happens, I know Jennie. She’s expanding her herb garden at the restaurant, and I’m helping. I’ve brought the plants with me. We’re going to put them in on Friday.” I was feeling a huge relief. Maybe things weren’t as dark as I’d feared. “Have you mentioned Patsy to Leatha yet?”

  Sue Ellen shook her head. “Haven’t had a chance. I’ll tell her tomorrow. It would be good if she could come out so the three of you—you and Leatha and Patsy—can get acquainted. How long are you staying?”

  “Until Sunday, I think. McQuaid and Brian—my husband and our son—are coming tomorrow, but they have to go home on Friday morning. Caitie’s going back with them.” I smiled. “She can’t bear to be parted from her chickens for more than a day or two. She’s totally dedicated to her girls.”

  “Maybe Patsy can come over on one day this weekend, then. I’ll check with Leatha and find out when would be a good time.” Sue Ellen paused. “Your Caitie is such a little doll. Smart, too.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I wanted to start a family when Jack and I got married. But living over there at Three Gates, it just didn’t feel right. And then—” Another sigh. “Well, after that rodeo queen, I got to thinking he wasn’t the man I wanted to be a father to my kids.”

  “But someday,” I said, “after you’ve got your degree and you’re settled in the kind of work you want to do, there’ll be time. And you never know what the future might bring. When I was in my thirties, I figured I’d never have children, and now I have Brian and Caitie. So you never can tell.”

  “You’ve said a true thing, China.” She smiled, and the dimples in her cheeks flashed. “You just never know. Once I manage to get past this bad patch, there’ll be plenty of time.”

  But she wouldn’t—and there wasn’t.

  Chapter Six

  Mack went out on patrol at seven on Wednesday night, thinking that it might be a busy time, since the next day was Thanksgiving. But the only call came in at eight, an Operation Game Thief tip that somebody phoned in. A guy who lived in Concan, a village on Route 83 south of the state park, had posted a really dumb question on his Facebook page that afternoon. “I’m new around here, and I just got me a nice big buck. Anybody know where I can get an illegal deer processed in Uvalde County?”

  Mack thought about that as she drove to the address the dispatcher had found after cross-checking the local records. People did some pretty stupid things and then bragged about them on Facebook. The previous year, a guy down in South Texas had put up a photo of himself proudly holding a very large redfish, a good three feet long, with eight others of equal size on display on the back of the pickup beside him. The daily bag limit on redfish is three, with a twenty-eight-inch size limit. Other anglers saw the online photo and were understandably outraged, and the Game Thief tips poured in. When the wardens caught up with the guy a couple of days later, they charged him with nine counts of possession of oversize redfish and fishing without a saltwater license. “Greedy and disgusting,” the judge said when he sentenced him to nearly $6,000 in fines and civil restitution. Stupid, too, Mack thought—not just to take all those fish but to post them on Facebook. Like leaving a trail of crumbs to his door.

  She had no trouble finding the house in Concan. When she knocked, asked for the shooter by name, and told him she wanted to see his illegal buck, the guy was so astonished that he blurted another dumb question. “How the hell did you find out?”

  “Some of your Facebook friends don’t like the idea of taking game illegally,” she said. She charged him and photographed the animal, then confiscated it and took it back to Utopia, to a volunteer who would dress the deer and process the meat for the Uvalde Food Pantry. There were plenty of hungry people who would be glad to get it.

  And that was it for the evening, for the illegal hunters had apparently decided to stay home where it was warm. The cold front had blown in, dropping the temperature into the thirties, with gusty winds, brief spurts of hard rain, and thick clouds that obscured the moon. As Mack drove along the road, everything was dark and quiet, except for a few deer darting in front of the truck and the occasional gleam of a pair of eyes in the brush along a fence. It was an easy night across the county, too, with only a couple of convenience store robberies and a single car wreck, down south on Route 90 near the fish hatchery. Occasionally one of the deputies checked in with a 10-20 to let Dispatch know where he was, but otherwise there wasn’t much radio traffic. Everybody was taking a holiday, she thought, even the evildoers. The idea was reassuring.

  It was nearly midnight when Mack pulled off at one of her regular spots, a vantage point that gave her a view of a wide swath of landscape, allowing her to see the headlights of anybody who might be jacklighting or shooting from the ranch roads below. She rolled down her window a couple of inches to catch the sound of gunshots, always a clue to illegal night hunting, then tuned the truck FM radio, low, to an all-night country music station playing songs from the eighties. But the first song was Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You,” the song she and Lanny had danced to at their wedding. Bittersweet, the lyrics stung, reminding her of how much they had promised to each other, and how each of them had come up short.

  She switched the radio off, brushed away the tears, and pushed the seat back so she could stretch out her legs, forcing herself to stop thinking of Lanny. Instead, she thought back over the day—the long day. She was glad that she and Karen had been able to give the mountain lion a few more years of wilderness freedom and wondered whether he had found a good meal and a dry place to sleep. And Doc Masters. She had enjoyed meeting the old vet and hoped he would be able to put aside his worry—whatever it was—and give her the name of the rancher who was harboring the fawns with the doctored tattoos. There was obviously something illegal going on. If the situation was allowed to continue, more animals would be involved and more people—inevitably—drawn into it. In the end, there could be a lot worse trouble.

  And Derek. She was sorry for what had happened at his ranch that afternoon. The dead deer weren’t his fault, even though the bulldozing may have uncovered the anthrax spores that killed them. And she couldn’t blame him for feeling that she was pushing him. She had pushed him. That was her job. Burning the carcasses, unpleasant as it was, had to be done without delay, and she had offered to help. She had the tools and the knowledge and the skills to do what needed to be done. And if Derek had a problem with that—well, heck. That was his problem, not hers.

  Except. Except that it was her problem, too, she thought, feeling a kind of bubbling, baffling despair. Men might find her attractive, an interesting companion, even good in bed. But they had a problem with what she did for a living. You’d think she would have learned that lesson, after her marriage to Lanny had foundered on the reef of her career. It’s going to take a really special guy to love you and love what you do—because you very much are what you do, Karen had said. Did she love what she did well enough to accept the fact that her job was the only love in her life? The way things were headed, that was where she was going to end up—and that would have to be okay.

  But was it okay, for the long haul? She thought of something else Karen had said. And now you’ve got Molly and Cheyenne and your house in Utopia and the dream territory you always wanted, and you think everything’s perfect. You think you don’t need a guy in your life. And you’re wrong.

  Well, maybe. Or maybe not. Karen could be wrong. Mack sat with that until the momentary despair subsided. The world was uncertain, and a lot of people had to settle for a lot less than she had. Being able to do what you loved and earn a living doing it was a privilege to be cherished and protected. And anyway, just because you loved somebody, there was no guarantee that it would go on forever. Or if it did, that the loving would go on being right forever. What was right at one point in your life could be wrong in another. People changed, situations changed, times changed. She knew that from her marriage to L
anny. You had to take things as they came. You couldn’t count on—

  A pair of headlights bounced into Mack’s field of vision a couple of hundred feet below, and she sat up straight, reaching for the night-vision binoculars stowed in the console. Steadying her forearms on the steering wheel, she peered out into the dark. A white pickup with a light bar on top, a county insignia on the passenger door. A Uvalde County deputy sheriff. She watched it slow to a crawl, then stop, and a spotlight came on, aimed toward her, flaring off her windshield. She reached for the headlight switch, flicked it on and off twice, and put the binoculars back in the console. And waited.

  Five minutes later, the truck had climbed the hill and pulled to a stop beside her, driver’s side to driver’s side. The window went down. “How’s it going, Mack?” a deep voice asked. She recognized Ethan Conroy, the new deputy sheriff whom she and Karen had seen in Utopia earlier that day, going into the café. The hunky deputy sheriff.

  “Nothing much happening,” she said. The light from his dash instruments shadowed the planes of his face. A rugged face, not movie-star handsome but lived-in, firm jaw, cleft chin, easy smile. “How about you?”

  “Same here. Quiet night, except for a speeder this side of Sabinal. Clocked him at ninety-five on that two-lane.” He turned off his ignition, leaned an elbow on the door, and brushed a shock of dark hair out of his eyes. “Say, are you really the one who collared the guy who was stealing the copper wire?”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” she said, wondering where this was going.

  He grinned. “I saw him down at the jail. He’s big as a house. You must have some moves.”

  “Just doin’ my job,” she replied lightly, but she was pleased by the unexpected compliment.

  “And I heard on the radio tonight that you cited that jerk over in Concan who bragged about his nice big illegal buck on Facebook. He give you any trouble?”

  She shook her head, grinning. “Meek as a lamb. He’d already admitted it was an illegal kill—in writing, to everybody on the Internet. Didn’t leave himself any room for denials. Dumb.”

  “Dumb,” Ethan agreed. Their two radios squawked in unison, another deputy with a 10-20 at the intersection of 187 and 90, working a minor collision. When the transmission was over, he remarked, “Was that your Toyota you were driving in Utopia today? I have one of those. Nice trucks. The long bed comes in handy when you’re hauling fence posts, brush, that kind of stuff.”

  “It’s mine,” she said. “It’s a ’95 with nearly 200,000 miles on it. It’s been good to me, but—” She shook her head with a sigh. “It’s running rough, and when it’s idling, the RPM will all of a sudden crank up. I’m afraid it’s going to need some work, but you know how it is. One of those intermittent things—easy to put off until all of a sudden it quits on you.”

  “Really? I had a similar problem with mine. Took me a while to figure it out.” He paused. “If you want, I’d be glad to take a look at it for you. I mean, I’m no mechanic, but I might be able to spot the problem. Save you a trip to the shop.”

  “Well, hey, sure,” she said, surprised and pleased. “Ask me anything about Parks and Wildlife regs and I’ll give you chapter and verse. But open the hood of a truck and I don’t have a clue. If you want to take a look, by all means, be my guest.”

  He chuckled, deep and solid, a nice sound that set off an unexpected tingle somewhere deep inside her. “I’m off tomorrow. One of the girls at the café told me you live in Utopia. That right?”

  He had asked at the café? Mack nodded, bemused, not quite sure what was happening because it was happening so fast—but liking it anyway.

  “I’m down in Sabinal,” he went on. “How about if I drive up in the morning and take a look at the truck? You hard to find?”

  “In Utopia? You’ve got to be kidding.” She laughed. “I’m on Oak, second block east of Main, between Lee and Jackson. You’ll see the state truck parked out front.”

  He frowned, tapping his finger on the steering wheel. “No, wait, sorry. I forgot. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. You’ve probably got plans.”

  “I’m having dinner with friends,” she said, “but not until late in the afternoon. If you’ve got the time in the morning, well, sure, come ahead. I’d be grateful for any advice on the truck. I’d like to keep it, but I don’t have a lot of dollars to dump into it.”

  “Understand,” he said, with emphasis. “Is nine too early? Or were you planning to sleep in?”

  “Nine’s good for me.” She paused uncertainly. Would he think she was being pushy if she suggested breakfast? Probably, but she went ahead anyway. “I’ll cook breakfast, if you don’t mind settling for pancakes and eggs.” She might not be much of a cook, but her dad had taught her to make killer pancakes, and her next-door neighbor—Mrs. Cook, the owner of the early-rising rooster—had just given her a dozen very fresh eggs. “It’s hunting season,” she added, “and I haven’t had time to stop at the store for bacon and stuff. And it’s a holiday, so the café is closed.”

  “Yeah, hunting season,” he said sympathetically. “Parks and Wildlife has probably had you on the road from dawn to dark, every day. But I’ve got a pound of bacon. And there might be a package of sausages in the fridge freezer. Want me to scrounge around and see what I can come up with?”

  “That sounds great,” she said, and then hastily added, “Of course, it is hunting season, and I never know what might come up.” She felt apologetic. “If I get a call and have to go out, how do I reach you?”

  “We’d better trade cards,” he said.

  “Good idea,” she replied.

  Then, as if it had been choreographed, both of them turned away to fish in their consoles and turned back to hand their business cards through the open windows. As his fingers brushed hers, she was startled to feel—yes, there it was, definitely—a tingle, a tiny jolt of electricity, almost a spark.

  If he felt it, he didn’t say. “My cell number’s on there,” he remarked. “If tomorrow doesn’t work, we’ll give it a try later. Not on the weekend, though. I’ve pulled both Saturday and Sunday shifts.” His smile was crooked, rueful. “Drove my wife crazy. Totally bananas. Always complaining that she couldn’t count on me for anything.” He added, in a lower voice, “It’s hard on the partner.”

  Mack caught her breath. She heard the past tense, but still— “It was hard on Lanny, too,” she said. “My husband.”

  He raised one dark eyebrow, his eyes on her face. “Uh-huh. It’s why Carol’s my ex.” He let the word hang there for a moment. “Yours?”

  “Ex also,” Mack said. She could feel her heart beating.

  Both radios squawked, and they paused to listen. It was a rollover on 83, south of the state park, about ten miles away. He keyed his mike, spoke briefly, then listened. “Ten-four,” he said. To Mack, he added, “Gotta roll. See you in the morning, I hope.” He flashed a smile and lifted a hand. “Nice running into you like this. Ships passing in the night, huh?”

  “Something like that,” she managed. “Be safe now, you hear?”

  “I hear,” he said. “Mañana.” His window went up and he pulled his truck around, spinning his wheels on the gravel.

  She watched as his taillights disappeared into the dark night. Her heart was beating harder now, and she felt almost breathless.

  • • •

  MACK would have bet dollars to doughnuts that she’d be called out first thing Thursday morning, or he would. But it didn’t happen. She hadn’t gotten back from patrol until 3 a.m., so she slept until eight, then jumped in the shower. When she got out, the message light on her answering machine was blinking, and she thought with resignation, This is it—one of us has to cancel. But it turned out to be Derek, apologizing for his rudeness the afternoon before and—in that bedroom voice of his—renewing the invitation to brunch with him and the girls. She played the message twice. Then she picked up the phone a
nd punched in Derek’s number. When he answered, she said briskly, “Thanks for the invitation, Derek, but I don’t think this is going to work. So let’s not. Okay?”

  When he protested, sounding like a hurt little boy, she interrupted him. “Excuse me. No time to talk—I’ve got company coming this morning. Have a nice holiday.” And she clicked off.

  For a moment, she stood with the phone in her hand, wondering if she had done the right thing. Maybe she shouldn’t have ended it so firmly. Maybe she should have told him that she was going out on call, and left the future open, to see what might develop. But what would have been the point of that? She knew in her heart that he wasn’t special enough—to use Karen’s phrase.

  Then she decided that she wasn’t going to worry about it and put the phone down. She just had time to run a quick comb through her hair and jump into chinos and a red sweater before she heard a knock on the door and went to answer it, Molly at her heels.

  It was the first time she’d seen Ethan out of uniform. He was wearing a light brown canvas work jacket, black turtleneck, worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a black Dallas Cowboys cap. At a glance, Mack decided that it wasn’t the .357 he usually wore that made him authoritative. It was just who he was, and when he came in, his strong male presence seemed to completely fill the small hallway, wall to wall, floor to ceiling.

  Molly gave her usual sharp, suspicious bark—Who are you, what are you doing in my house, and when are you going to leave? But when he squatted down and picked up her paw, comrade to comrade, she unbent. When he reached into his pocket, pulled out a dog treat, and told her to sit, she actually did it. Mack was surprised. Molly was usually made of sterner stuff.