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by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  She heard raised voices upstairs. Planting her feet in the carpet, she held her breath so she could hear.

  “I said I’m not going.” Her mother’s voice was firm. She didn’t stand up to Trish’s father too often, but when she did, she did it in a big way.

  “You’re going to ruin the trip for everyone?” her dad asked.

  A woman’s voice in her ear interrupted her eavesdropping. “Hello?”

  “May I speak to Brandon, please?” Trish asked, using the polite voice she reserved for grown-ups other than her own parents, and speaking softly so her parents wouldn’t hear her. Who was she kidding? Her dad had just yelled something back at her mother. When the two of them got all emotional, they were in a world of their own.

  “Who’s calling?” The woman sounded skeptical.

  “Trish Flint.”

  “Flint?” Mrs. Lewis made a hard t sound at the end of the word. It reminded Trish of when a baby grasshopper had flown into her mouth, and she’d spit it out.

  “Yes.”

  Trish could hear the woman breathing while she considered Trish’s request. Mrs. Lewis was a nurse, and Trish had overheard her parents talking about her getting fired last month. Something about stealing stuff, and that her dad had been the one to catch her. Mrs. Lewis probably didn’t like Trish’s dad too much. Would that mean she wouldn’t approve of Trish either? Trish didn’t have time to try to win her over. If Mrs. Lewis didn’t get Brandon soon, Trish wouldn’t have a chance to talk to him before her dad force-marched her out the door for the stupid camping trip.

  “Hold, please.”

  A sharp clank told Trish that Mrs. Lewis had dropped the phone on the counter. Not nice, lady. Trish started to count. If she reached one hundred and Mrs. Lewis hadn’t brought Brandon to the phone, she’d hang up. Her dad would not be happy if he came downstairs and found her on the phone instead of packing.

  Trish’s mother shouted loud enough for the neighbors to hear, something she would not normally do. “I hate hunting. And guns. And camping. And being told what to do. And you knew all of this before you planned the trip.”

  Right on, Mom! If she won’t go, Dad won’t make me! Then she remembered all the church activities going on that weekend. If she stayed here, her mom would make her go. She forced Perry and Trish into every single function their church offered. Sunday school, Vacation Bible School—the only thing she liked about VBS was memorizing verses to win prizes, because she always won—church camp, car washes, bake sales, and now youth group. Brandon’s family belonged to the same church, but hardly ever showed up. Which was better—missing church or not having to hunt?

  Her dad was getting more and more wound up. “I’ve been looking forward to this trip. I never get to spend time with the kids.”

  Nothing sounded scarier than her dad’s voice when he was mad. Trish shivered, but Susanne wasn’t scared of Patrick.

  “I do. I could use a break.”

  Nice, Mom. Love you, too.

  Then she heard Brandon. “Like, hello.” His voice was smiling.

  Heat rushed into Trish’s face. She couldn’t believe she’d gotten up the nerve to call him. She’d never called a guy before. She forgot all about her arguing parents. “Like, hi, yourself.”

  “What’s crackin’?”

  Around Brandon, Trish felt so square. She loved the way he talked. Like he was from California or something, even though he was born and raised in Buffalo. “My dad is taking us bowhunting. For elk, you know.”

  “Far out.”

  Trish considered agreeing with him. Brandon was a serious hunk, and a senior, two years ahead of her in school. All the girls liked him. She was pretty sure he liked her, but he’d only called her a few times, and he hadn’t asked her to go with him or anything. Her friends agreed that it was important to let guys talk about themselves and act as if you liked the same things they did. But Trish wasn’t very good at pretending, even if it might mess things up.

  “Not far out. He’s making us miss school and everything.”

  “Miss Perfect Grades might get a B?”

  She heard a click on the phone line. “Did someone just pick up?”

  “I don’t think so,” Brandon said. “Hello, hello, is anyone there?”

  There was no answer.

  Trish rotated her chair toward the window and spoke lower. “My mom doesn’t want to go either, but she’s letting my dad take me. She’s, like, aiding and abetting kidnapping. I should just run away.”

  “Right on. Don’t let the man push you around.” Trish heard laughter in his voice.

  “Are you trying to fake me out?”

  “Yeah, a little. Relax. Hunting is far out. You’re lucky.”

  “Like, if you say so.” She felt goofy trying to talk like him, and she wasn’t even sure she was doing it right.

  “Where’s he taking you?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere near Hunter Corral is what he told my mom.”

  “You’re packing in?”

  “Backpacking?”

  “No, on horses, goof.”

  “Oh. Yeah. On horses. And then we’re camping.”

  “Groovy.”

  “Maybe you should go instead of me.”

  “Or I could just drive up there and say hey.”

  “That would be cool.” Heat gushed into her cheeks again.

  Her father’s voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs. “Trish, why isn’t your bag by the door? I need you outside right now.”

  “I’ve gotta go, Brandon.” She paused, almost holding her breath, hoping he would make things official between them. That would be worth a few extra seconds and her dad’s wrath.

  All he said was, “Keep on truckin’.”

  Some of the high she’d felt from talking to him leaked out of her. If she came back to find he was going with Charla Newby, she’d never forgive her dad. Charla. Gag. Long, curly black hair and big, dark eyes. First-place barrel racer at the junior rodeo this year. Charla got everything she wanted, and lately Trish had heard she wanted Brandon. “Uh, yeah. Check ya later.”

  She hung up and faced the glowering parent who was now in her door. He didn’t look so tough with blue flowered wallpaper framing him in her doorway, though.

  “Were you on the phone?”

  “Sorry. I had to talk to a friend about getting my assignments for me. Since I’m missing class.”

  “Get. Moving. Now.”

  She screwed up her courage and blurted, “Dad, if Mom’s not going, I’m not either.”

  “Oh yes you are, young lady.”

  “But I don’t like to hunt.”

  It was true. She didn’t mind shooting targets. Her dad thought shooting was a necessary life skill, and he had taught her to shoot when she was eleven. Perry had been even younger. “Everything starts with safety, and safety starts with knowledge,” he’d said. He made her load and operate a rifle, a revolver, and a shotgun, all on her own. Her mom had insisted that if he was going to teach them to shoot, he should teach them to defend themselves in other ways as well. He’d run self-defense like a class, with a mat on the living room floor and his three students, if you counted her mom, facing him. He’d lecture them. “Whatever a bad guy is going to do to you somewhere else is always worse than what he is going to do to you right here. So fight, fight, fight.” Then he’d drill them on self-defense moves. Eye stabbing. Head-butts to the nose. Groin kicks.

  Honestly, her dad was kind of intense. And super geeky.

  In the end, she didn’t like fighting. But shooting was fun, and she was good at it. She liked the revolver best. It didn’t kick her shoulder. Lately his new compound bow had been her dad’s obsession, and she and Perry had been practicing with him.

  But then he’d made her go antelope hunting with him last year. She hadn’t wanted to shoot it alone, so he’d reached around her and held the rifle with her. He’d even put his finger over hers on the trigger. Their first tandem shot had hit the animal, but probably thanks
to her, hadn’t killed it. Her dad had quickly taken a solo shot to put it out of its misery. The thought that she’d hurt an animal and that it had suffered, even for a second, because of her? It was horrible. She’d cried and cried. After she calmed down, they’d had to field dress it. Her dad had made her watch the whole thing. Gross. Gross and sad. And it took forever. Then they had to haul it into the truck and home. Yuck. And all they ate was antelope for weeks. She liked antelope, but she got really sick of it, and she remembered the awful hunt every single meal.

  Her dad was still talking. “You don’t have to like to hunt. You’re still going.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I didn’t ask if you wanted to.” His voice changed from dark to light. “But it’s going to be fun. You’ll see.”

  She changed her tone from defiant to sad. “My friends are all going to be at a birthday party.”

  “Too bad they don’t have cool dads to take them on elk hunts.”

  Since sad didn’t work, she rolled her eyes. “I’m missing a week of school.”

  “Not a whole week. I told your mother we’d only stay out four days.”

  Trish’s heart leapt. “Only four days?” She did a fist pump. “Yes.”

  “Don’t act so excited.” He turned halfway from the door, looking at her over his shoulder. “I’m going to hook up the trailer. Meet me down at the gate to help me load the horses. And bring your bag and your brother.”

  She jumped to her feet and stood at attention. “Yes, sir, Sergeant, sir.”

  “Very funny. And change your clothes into something you can wear in the mountains,” he said, and left.

  Seconds later, the front door slammed shut behind him.

  Grumbling, Trish pulled clothes haphazardly from her drawers and stuffed them in a bag. Then she hopped on one leg and tore off her boots. She tossed her cute outfit onto the almost-Dingos, making a crumpled pile in the middle of the floor. When she was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, she made one last change, removing the black rubber bands from her braids and replacing them with the smiley-face ball fasteners she still loved but couldn’t wear in public anymore. Then she hefted her bag over her shoulder. Maybe she wouldn’t need all this stuff. But she didn’t care. Sometimes it got colder than a deuce in September in the mountains. Being cold sucked.

  She hustled out of her room, sighing, and nearly ran into her mother in the hallway. It was dark, since the whole back of the downstairs was underground and didn’t have windows, although the front did. It was kind of like a giant dugout, which she only knew because her dad had made her play baseball two summers ago. On the boys’ team, because there was no girls’ team. It had been mortifying.

  Trish expected to see a laundry basket in her mother’s arms. The only room on the hallway besides her own was the laundry room, and since her mom claimed to be happier not seeing the mess in Trish’s room, she never went in it if she could help it. But she wasn’t carrying laundry. In the other direction was the central staircase and beyond it a big open room their parents called the playroom. Trish listened to records in it. Perry did whatever it was Perry did while she was ignoring him. But her mom wasn’t heading to the playroom either. She was coming for Trish.

  “I didn’t hear the phone ring,” Susanne said, blocking Trish’s path. Her long brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was pretty and curvy and vivacious. So much so that half the boys at Trish’s school had a crush on her. Trish hoped Brandon didn’t. How embarrassing would that be?

  “Like, it didn’t.”

  “But I heard you talking to Brandon Lewis.”

  “Were you on the phone?” Trish’s voice rose. She remembered the click.

  Susanne didn’t answer her question. “Nice girls don’t call boys. Especially older boys.”

  “Maybe, back in the Stone Age, but it’s 1976 in Wyoming, and girls can call boys.”

  “He’ll never call you if you do it for him.”

  Was her mom seriously saying she wasn’t a nice girl and that Brandon would never call her? “Thanks for the tip, Mom. I’ve got to go. Dad is making me help him load. Where’s the brat?”

  “Don’t talk about your brother like that.”

  Trish stepped around her mom. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she hollered, “Perry, we’ve gotta go. Come on.”

  Perry appeared, dragging an army-green canvas duffel down one step at a time behind him and carrying his tackle box and fishing pole in the other hand. “I’m coming.”

  “Like, if you move any slower, I’ll be as old as Mom by the time you get here.”

  Her mother sighed from right behind her. “Trish.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Listen, tell your dad the coroner wants him to call.”

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  “Ooh, smart mouth, you’re going to get it,” Perry crowed. He bounced on his toes, and his face was gleeful.

  “I’m too mad at your father to speak to him.”

  Trish tossed the tail of her braid over her shoulder. “You can’t be too mad. I didn’t hear you break anything.”

  “I don’t break things.”

  “You did that time you threw a coffee cup at Dad,” Perry said.

  “And another time when you threw a plate at him,” Trish added.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She sniffed and kissed each of them on the cheek.

  Trish and Perry looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Their mom always acted like she couldn’t remember whatever she didn’t want to talk about.

  Her mom climbed the stairs to the landing. “Mind your father. And be careful. I’ll see you in four days.”

  Trish groaned. “If we survive that long.”

  Perry bunched his fists and twisted them in the corners of his eyes like he was crying. “Wah, Trish has to go hunting. Wah, wah.”

  She threw open the door, letting in bright fall sunlight. Ferdinand stood just outside, wagging his long, curved tail. “Come on, dork. Let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter Four: Charge

  Interstate 90, North of Buffalo, Wyoming

  September 18, 1976, Noon

  Patrick

  At the intersection of Main and Airport Road, Patrick stopped the truck, even though there was no traffic in either direction. The Ford engine was purring like a kitten after its tune-up earlier that week.

  He breathed in the air through the open windows. Freedom. Four whole days with his kids, not being on call, with no phones. No kicking horses, drugged-up hikers, snapping dogs, or worst of all, murdered law enforcement officers. Because the deputy that had been rushed into the ER early that morning had been dead. Violently, senselessly dead. People could be so depraved. As a doctor, he hated that sometimes good wasn’t enough to best evil. As a parent, he just worried about how to protect his kids from it. This had happened here. Not in a big city. Not in a foreign country. But right here in northern Wyoming, too close to his home, and because of his job, he was thrown into the thick of it. He enjoyed practicing medicine, but he wasn’t going to miss the hospital while he was gone. He needed a break.

  The only thing he’d miss while he was on this trip would be his wife. He felt a pang at the thought, deep in his chest, melancholy mixed with annoyance. Maybe he’d been too hard on Susanne, but he shouldn’t have had to be. She should have wanted to be with him. Still, the last thing he wanted was to be harsh with everyone around him, like his own dad had been. He and Susanne had a great relationship, and it shouldn’t matter that she didn’t like some of the things he did. She was fun and adventurous and his partner. But if he didn’t get her out enjoying what made Wyoming wonderful, she’d never fall in love with it. Then it would only be a matter of time before he’d be driving a U-Haul back to Texas.

  Trish looked up from her book. He knew she was reading Judy Blume’s Forever, again, even though she was hiding the cover. He and Susanne had decided to just let it
go, even though the novel dealt with teen sexuality. Every teen tackled these issues. Hell, that’s why he and Susanne had married so young—because the teenage sex drive would not be denied. He smiled.

  “Like, why are we stopped? And you’re talking to yourself. Again.”

  Patrick hadn’t even realized his lips were moving. He gave her his best impression of a cool cat and mimicked her speech pattern. “Like, because I’m deciding which way to go, you know.” But suddenly he’d made up his mind. He turned left.

  Trish groaned. “You can be such a geek.”

  But she didn’t say “like” or “you know.” He’d shut her slang down. Mission accomplished.

  She frowned. “Dad, Hunter Corral is to the right.”

  “I was only taking us there because your mother likes campsites with bathrooms.”

  “So do I.”

  “It will be too crowded on the weekend. We’re going to Walker Prairie instead.” Patrick was excited. There were more elk up there. Fewer people. And new places to explore.

  From the back seat, Perry snored. Patrick glanced at his son in the rearview mirror. He was pretty darn cute with his blond crew cut, freckled face, and drool pooling on his chin. Five minutes into the trip, and his boy was sleeping. He smiled. That was par for the course.

  Trish slammed her book shut and turned to face him, her voice suddenly loud and shrill. “But you said Hunter Corral.”

  Perry sat up. “Huh? What?”

  Patrick put on his blinker. Left. Toward the northern Bighorns. “What’s the big deal?”

  Trish re-opened her book, muttering something about him messing up her plans with her friends. He knew from past experience that discretion was the better part of valor and didn’t ask her to repeat herself. Instead, he turned on the radio. “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night was playing. He turned the volume up as loud as it would go without static. Pounding the steering wheel, he sang along. Perry joined in.