She screamed. Every single one disappeared.
Neat! Laura held her breath, then let it out slowly. I am in control of my little universe. I can do this. She charged on, listening hard.
Snap.
Snap?
Behind her, a twig broke. A crash in the bushes. What the fuck? Harry? Mike? Here? Mountain lion? Wolf? She could handle the fucking hamsters. And the thugs. She’d tossed them once; she could do that again. She kept walking, as if she didn’t hear a thing, but tightened her grip on her paddle.
The footsteps came closer.
Suddenly, she turned and swung her paddle wide.
“Oooof. Jesus, Laura! You didn’t have to slug me,” E.B. groaned. “What are you doing up here, playing kung fu?” He rubbed his jaw. “I’m trying to help you, for God’s sake.”
“You scared the hell out of me,” she snapped. “I thought someone was about to attack me. Like those guys from Fort Benton.”
“Out here?” E.B. scratched his head. “You think anyone could follow you out here? There aren’t any roads, for Chrissakes. This is the back of Milt’s place. Nothing here but prairie dogs and fat lazy owls. Damn. Don’t hit me again or I may hit back.”
He looked like she hurt him. “Sorry about that.”
“You think you’re the only one who wants to get out of here?”
“I bet there’s a ranch or something over the ridge,” she said.
“Bet? There’s nothing over that ridge or the next. It’s four miles to Milt’s. Can you walk that far?”
“Uh . . .” Laura didn’t want to be left alone, but she couldn’t walk nearly that far. Not in these dumbass little flipflops.
“No? All right then. Go back to the boat,” E.B. ordered. “And stay there. Drink plenty of water. Do not wander off. Think you can do that?” He rubbed his face. “Flag down any boat that comes by. Ask everyone if they’ve seen the BLM rangers, or if they have a really big patch kit. We need epoxy.”
“BLM?”
“Bureau of Land Management. They patrol the river. They could come by today. I’ve got to get going.”
She eyed a distant hill. Her ankles were scratched and bleeding. Four miles? Shit. She’d never walked that far in decent shoes, not if she could help it. Still—being left alone wasn’t looking so good either.
“Well?” he asked, his face clouded.
“Come back as soon as you can.” Despite her best intentions he was the only hope she had.
E.B. shoved his hat back on his head. “I’ll be back when the sun touches those hills over there. See ya.” He took off with a slow lope up to the ridge, easily spanning three feet with each stride.
All alone now, Laura watched him go. It was silent, at first. She heard a fluttering of wings and frantically spun around. A bunch of crows landed in some branches behind her. Just like the crows in The Birds.
If she wasn’t nervous about dancing half-naked for men at 2:00 a.m., why the hell should she be afraid of some dumbass birds? The fucking hamsters had turned out to be smaller than weasels. Prairie dogs, E.B. had called them. Puny little turds. What was the matter with her? Get a grip, girl. She meandered back down to the river, taking her time, trying to figure out how long E.B. would really take.
At least the sun was warm. It felt good. A family of ducks paddled near the shore. She opened up Beth Ann’s cosmetic bag and took out a mirror, a comb, a trio of eyeliners, an emergency nail kit. If she started now, they’d be fixed and dry by the time he came back.
Fifteen minutes later, her toenails and fingernails glittering wet in the sun, she didn’t feel so confident.
There was no one around. Choking back feelings, she tried to think of the good stuff. What good stuff? Boat, fucked. E.B., hell and gone. Road out of here, none. Campbell and everyone else, disappeared. Was she going to die here?
“Hello?” she called, over and over. Her voice echoed from one side of the river to the other, making her feel like a dork.
Where was everybody? Canoes? Boats? Anyone? The river was empty. And wide.
The hell with that. She threw pebbles into the water, one, two, then a whole bunch. Then stones, then rocks, then the biggest boulders she could handle. They made a resounding glup glup glup. And then she heard an echo. Her echo?
She heard another splash. A fish? She’d seen them jumping out in the river earlier. No ripples. A paddle? Someone’s canoe? Campbell? She sat up, heard the flutter of wings, and turned. More crows. She was beginning to hate birds.
She reached up and felt stiffness in her arms, stretched her legs, and did some squats. Felt the burn. Make use of all the spare time you have, she always told Stella.
Laura could see her now, late at night, about 2:00 a.m., the last time they were removing eyeliner and shadow with gobs of makeup remover, staring at their puffy eyes in the mirrors under a row of 100-watt lights, telling stories about the customers. Talking about their move to Montana. Laura had pleaded with her, “Come on up. I hear the money’s good, no traffic, nice people.” But at the last minute, Stella had bailed.
She’d been so right. Moving to Montana had been a disaster. More assholes. They were probably back at the club going through her purse. Having a laugh. Calling Stella? Laura yelled “Damn” as loud as she could and pounded the beach until her feet hurt.
Twenty minutes later the sun had dropped well below the ridge, long after E.B. said he’d be back. “E.B.! Where the hell are you?” Her voice echoed back and forth across the river and faded away, making her feel like an idiot. The evening was cooling down considerably. She thought about following him. Not a real good idea. Where had he gone? She didn’t know. What had he said? Wait.
She tucked herself into a quiet corner, out of the wind, cradled her head in her hands, and tried the one thing her mother had told her always worked. Prayer. It couldn’t hurt, could it? She closed her eyes and, in a whisper, repeated over and over, “Please, God, are You listening? Can you please, please, send someone?” Can I fake it, Mom? Can I fake it and make it real? “Please, just bring him back, please. Whole.”
She was praying so hard, she didn’t hear the flutter of wings, the flip of a fish jumping in the river, the sigh of wind in the trees, but she did hear something; the slide of a canoe on sand.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sunday, afternoon land
E.B.
E.B. didn’t like the feel of leaving Laura alone. She’d be fine if she just stayed put. What was their cardinal rule? Stick together. He knew that. On that account, he’d failed and failed miserably.
He dodged around shrubs on his way up to Milt’s, moving as fast as he could, branches and thorns scratching his legs as he went. If he hurried, he could borrow one of Milt’s ATVs, maybe even a canoe, and be back on the river within three hours. Still, three hours was way too long in his book. He ran.
He figured they were about four to six river miles downriver from Loma. That would put them on the back side of Milt’s five-thousand-acre ranch. A mile away, maybe two, then a mile through the trees. Heading south, he found a deserted dirt track that turned back on itself as it climbed. He negotiated the switchback and studied the river from this new angle. Over the crest, the track narrowed. It would be a struggle with Milt’s 1960-era pickup, but if he had an ATV, they’d make it fine. E.B. headed up the next ridge, pulse racing now, the open country bleak and desolate around him. From the top, he saw a valley below, crisscrossed with barbed wire, and in the distance, a tiny streak, a stream of white flowing upward into the blue. At last. One of Milt’s outbuildings—good enough.
Sprinting toward the old homesteader’s cabin, E.B. sidestepped rusty cans, fifty-five-gallon steel barrels, and an old beat-up truck missing its engine. A winnower, a cultivator, and an old John Deere tractor nudged up around a small corral.
Weeds grew between the wheels and up through the holes in the tractor seat. The front of a white Ford F-350 nudged the rear of a barn. A chain of telephone poles marched down a dirt road right to the cabin. A thin
coil of smoke wound up from a broken chimney. Puzzled, E.B. couldn’t remember Milt mentioning anything about having a tenant this far out.
He followed the barbed wire fence that stretched down to the barn. An ATV, ticking cool, had been backed up to the cabin door. Relieved, E.B. headed to it. Keys swung from the ignition. Sweet. He stepped cautiously around a coil of razor wire and marched up to the cabin.
“Hello?” The roof of the ramshackle house swayed in the middle like the piebald horse he used to own. Chinks of mortar were missing from between the logs.
Nothing. He stepped closer. “Anyone home?” he yelled, not too loudly, just enough to carry. Wind whistled in a distant set of cottonwood trees. Leaves, scraps of paper, and soda cans tumbled in the wind, coming to rest against the cabin walls and falling in place with other trash.
He banged on the door. Were they deaf or just obstinate? He didn’t have all day.
“Quit that racket. You’re giving me a headache.” A small woman in a blue calico dress slammed the door open. Dust and shreds of tissue flew in the air. “I told them I wasn’t going to sell before and I’m not going to sell now.”
She looked like his grandmother—small and flinty, collapsed nylons resting on her ankles above a pair of oxbloodcolored wingtips.
“I don’t mean to bother you, ma’am, but we have a crack in our canoe as long as my arm. Can I use your phone?”
“What do you think I am, Western Union? American Telephone and Telegraph?” She laughed. A few of her front teeth were missing. “Hasn’t worked since Mae Johnson gave up the exchange in fifty-four.” She studied him. Holding one hand against the doorjamb, the other behind her back, she was half E.B.’s size, with blue eyes and hair wrapped on the top of her head into the shape and size of a doughnut. She squinted as she studied him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming onto private property.”
“Truck, then?” E.B. smoothed his hair. Grandma liked her boys neat and tidy. “Wouldn’t be more than an hour, tops,” he explained. He scraped mud off his sandals, hopeful and ready to step inside for the keys.
“Can’t. Threw a rod. Wasn’t that just last week, Harold?”
A grunt came from deep inside the cabin.
The truck was nosed up by the front door, fresh mud splattered on the windshield.
“You remember Melba Fitzhugh?” E.B. guessed. “Loma Elementary, my grandma?”
A flicker of recognition across her face, then a stone stare.
“She cheated for that A.”
“She didn’t tell me about that,” E.B. cooed. “Neighbor to neighbor, can I please borrow your ATV, then? I got a girl down by the river. She’s alone and scared. I have to get back there.”
“You hard of hearin’?” The old lady shifted something behind her back. “I said no.”
E.B. eyed the sagging roof and appliances scattered around the yard. “Tell you what. I’ll borrow your ATV, come down here with some friends, raise the roof, clean the place up. We’ll return the ATV in the morning.”
“Place looks perfect to me,” she declared. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
A scrape of a chair on a hardwood floor.
E.B. peered inside, saw a faded yellow-flowered couch, gray from years of use, and heard the mewling of too many cats.
“Gladys, shut the goddamn door. I can’t see the TV for the glare.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Harold,” she snapped and whipped her head back to face E.B.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but can’t you see we’re in trouble? I wouldn’t be here for any other reason, ma’am, as it seems as you like your privacy and all.” Something in her hand glinted in the sun.
“You a little slow, boy?”
Before E.B. could answer, she pulled the rifle up and fired, missing his ear by inches. He flew back.
“Harold! Load up, we’ve got another one!”
Taking protection just outside the doorway, E.B. lunged and grabbed the hot barrel.
“Let it go, you bastard!” Her grip was tighter than a saddle cinch.
E.B. tightened his fingers around the barrel, and, trying not to hurt her, pried the rifle out of her hands and threw it across the yard.
He ran, jumped on the ATV, and turned the key in the ignition. Whrr, whrr. The starter turned, but the engine wouldn’t kick over. Son of a bitch!
Crack. A rifle shot exploded dirt ten feet away. E.B. crouched down, flattening his body on the seat, and turned the key again. Whrr, whrr. Goddamn thing! Go! Ping. A shot ricocheted off the tractor seat.
Whrr, whrr. He gave the ATV a little gas, trying not to flood the engine.
Ping. Thwang. A shot hit the hubcap, sending it spinning. “Stupid engine!” E.B. yelled, turning the key again.
Wroom. The engine roared to life.
Ping. A rifle shot hit the road in front of him. He floored the throttle. The tires squealed as he took off, front wheels a few inches off the ground.
More shots rang out. E.B. flattened his body on the seat, wondering how many goddamn rounds she had in that magazine. He swung through a set of gates, headed around the razor wire, cling-clanging over a pile of cans, and spat gravel as he hit the road beyond. Gray smoke billowed out of the engine behind him.
He heard her shots all the way up the hill, the ATV bouncing and revving as he rode it up, trying not to stall. He took cross-country trails where he could keep the nose down, to keep her from tipping over and throwing him backward. After a while the pings and blams faded away. He eased off the throttle and climbed the last bit of road to the crest. It looked familiar. Kind of. He thought he remembered the clearing. He let the ATV rumble as he sat, taking his bearings. Sweat dampened his armpits. If the wheels held up, he’d be back with Laura in ten minutes, tops, just when he told her.
He revved the ATV up, memorized his route, and headed down the hill to the track where the shrubs grew in the middle. The undercarriage scraped against clods of hardened gumbo mud.
He eased her down carefully, avoiding ruts as deep as two feet, descending into a gully, full of mud, and accelerated up the other side, spitting earth and gravel as he rose up onto an old ranch road. On the way there was a lot of clatter, rocks and pebbles hitting the undercarriage. He pressed on. He was thankful when the road smoothed out. Couldn’t be so far now.
A minute later he heard pings and clicks and clangs from under his seat. That was a bit odd. Then the throttle felt a little funny. He eased back, felt it catch a little, and gave it some gas. He wiped his forehead, and looked back.
All the way up the road, in drops and splatters, was a long line of something wet and black. He climbed off the ATV to check. The line ran all the way up the road and came to rest under the ATV. He dipped a finger and took a sniff. “Ah, shit.” It was the distinctive odor of crankcase oil.
He looked under the engine. Oil wept out of a bullet hole in the crankcase with every pump of the piston, its lifeblood draining its life away. Feeling lucky it wasn’t a hole in him, E.B. hopped back on the machine and rode it hard before it died.
The sudden silence roared in his ears. He raised his eyes to endless vistas that stretched in all directions. It was going to be a long walk. He just wished he knew which way to go.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sunday, afternoon land
LAURA
Laura knew she’d heard something. A long smoosh on the sand and then quiet. She stayed very still. Birds cackled overhead. Was it a canoe? E.B.? Campbell? Someone else? Something else? When the birds went silent, she listened again. Nothing.
She climbed out of her protected spot, wiped grit out of her eyes and ears, and scanned the beach.
A moment later, there it was again—way off in the distance, around the bend of the beach, beyond those rocks, a soft swish, the same noise they made whenever she and E.B. brought their canoe to shore.
If the sound was E.B. coming in, he’d be calling her name by now. If it was someone else, then who were they? She remembered what Dad used to say when she was sc
ared: “Courage, my little Bean, you can do this.” As if. Dad wasn’t here now and he hadn’t been a lot of help then. Laura paced the shallow beach.
What if it was the guys from the club? What then? Without hair spray and stilettos she felt defenseless, and her fiberglass paddle was next to useless with its flimsy plastic blade. She had to know. Once again she had let herself be scared. Maybe it was some boaters out for a good time? Then she could get some help. She carried her paddle and stayed close to the bushes, purposeful but wary.
Just past the rocks, she saw him. Leggy, broadshouldered, tall. His face was in shadow. As she edged closer, she gauged the countryside. Empty spaces and not a tree in sight. She switched her paddle to her left hand and picked up a rock with her right. The element of surprise had worked before; she could bean him, if she was lucky, if a lot of things went right. Unless she was going to hurt the only person who could help her? What a dope. She dropped the rock.
A minute later, the man turned around, and the lateafternoon sun illuminated his face. Definitely not E.B. Laura paused, studying him. Not one of the thugs either. She took a breath.
This guy looked like he was born in the woods, face all craggy, beanpole-type body, and loose, easy shoulders. He was leaning over. He waved, but didn’t stand up. Fishing, of course. She came up cautiously.
He grinned.
“Sneaking up on Santa Claus, honey?” he asked. “Hoping for a present? Sorry to disappoint you.” He rubbed his threeday-old beard.
“You know people who live around here?” Laura asked. “Like a guy named Milt?”
“Here I am, baiting my hook, minding my own business, dreaming about the movies—you watch movies, honey? I was thinking about Penélope Cruz, when a real honest-to-God movie star shows up, on the bank of the goddamn Missouri no less, right here, in front of me. The Old Man is real, it seems. Mom was right. You ever pray? I’ve never been very good at it.”
“A friend of mine was looking for him.”
“All I can say is, thank you, God.” He extended his hand. “Good to meet you.” His face clouded. “What kind of friend?”
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