Chapter 2
It's after the summer solstice, a night she wouldn't have known was crisp and moonless and star-spattered if Ruby hadn't called.
The adrenaline does a good job of waking her up, getting her head in the right space. She figures it must be serious for them to call her in. They need her for back-up she assumes, though that's not what Ruby said exactly.
When she enters, the festive vibe is disorienting.
It's all bright colors and party lights, and clanging glasses behind the counter, and the smoky, hot air thick with thumping bass and twangy guitar. Boots stomp on the dance floor, and hoots and howls and shrieks pop up here and there out of the loud, slurry muttering.
There must be a hundred people, and not one looks her way. And aside from a young woman crying at a table in the corner, nobody appears to be in distress.
The mingled smell of spilled beer and kitchen grease and cologne and sweat is smothering. She keeps her hand on the butt of her sidearm.
Henry's sitting at a table, flirting with a group of women decked out for a Saturday night. He catches her eye, then notices her perched hand.
She bumps and nudges and squeezes her way over to him. He raises his eyebrows at her.
"Ruby called," she says. "Said there was some kind of trouble down at the Red Pony."
"Ah," he says.
He nods towards the end of the bar. She can tell he's trying not to grin.
There's Walt, sitting on the last stool before the office, elbows on the counter, coat off and hat on.
She bristles.
She bumps and nudges and squeezes until she reaches him.
She's about to poke him hard in his slumped shoulder when he turns on the barstool, and says, "Vic," about three times louder than necessary. He gestures vaguely around the room. "Everything's under control here."
"What was it?" she says. She's not as careful about the tone she uses with him anymore.
"Just a minor disturbance."
"Not minor enough to leave me alone on my night off apparently."
He clears his throat, straightens up. "Can't be too cautious."
His words are a little drawn out, a little thick and furry.
"Okay, then," she says with a fake smile. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."
"Since you're here," he says, "I could use a ride home."
In the truck she ignores him.
Since that night months ago when he came over to help her move the furniture, it's been something like a friendship between them, albeit a guarded and limited one almost entirely on his terms.
This is beyond what she's willing to do for that kind of friend.
"You were busy," he says when they're half-way there, once he realizes she's not carrying this one.
"Yup," she says.
She can see him in her peripheral vision, studying the side of her face, trying to figure out what she means by that.
"I thought you weren't dating," he says.
"Yeah, 'cause the only reason I might value my time is if it involves a man."
He looks away.
"When was the last time we talked about that anyway?" she says.
He shrugs. "A month ago."
"So maybe things have changed."
"Then I owe you an apology," he says.
"Damn straight you do. There's actually a deputy on duty."
She knows he couldn't have called Branch to be his tipsy taxi, especially not with the election looming, but that doesn't make it her problem.
"You had a date," he says.
"What difference does it make, Walt? It's my night off, and you got Ruby to lie so I'd give your drunk ass a ride home."
"Ruby didn't lie."
"Oh, well then that changes everything."
"Where'd you meet him?" he asks.
"You could have called me yourself, you know. Honesty and integrity and whatnot."
"It's not Garrett McCray, is it?"
"Seriously, Walt?" she says.
Men like Garrett McCray have never looked twice at her and never will. Her appeal isn't universal, and she accepts that. It's almost flattering that he would so wildly misjudge the boundaries of her league.
"McCray," he says like he's discovered who's been grazing cattle on his land. "I knew it."
"You knew it?"
He grins at her. "It's my job to recognize these things."
"Maybe I was just busy," she says.
"So you weren't with someone?"
"Why do you care?"
"I'm making conversation."
"Walt. Seriously."
"Come on, Vic. You're holding out on me."
She slams on the brakes, sliding to a stop on the gravel shoulder. They're both jerked forward into locked seatbelts.
He's stunned.
"You can walk from here, right?" she says.
He starts tugging at the shoulder belt but can't loosen it, so he unclasps the whole thing and lets it retract. For a second she thinks he's really getting out. Then he pulls the belt over again with lots of slack and fastens it.
There's a heaviness on her chest, a strange sadness bearing down, like if he pushed a little harder, gave her a little more of his arrogant, mocking shit, she might actually cry. It feels like failure, all of it: the divorce, the career prospects, especially being here now, just being available to be here now.
She keeps it together, though. She doesn't look at him, and she doesn't take the truck out of park.
Then the weirdest thing happens: He reaches over and picks up her hand from where it's resting on her thigh, and he squeezes it, warmly and briefly, sending a fat, hot bolt of shock through her.
Then he lets go, and he says, "I'm sorry, Vic."
She nods, dazed.
"I'm an asshole," he says.
"Yeah you are."
"Thanks for doing this for me."
She'd still rather he got out, but she shifts into drive and pulls onto the road again. Her head is pulsing and humming.
He's focused outward now, away from her and into the blackness of the road ahead and the fields on either side. He doesn't turn to her when he says, sounding dazed himself, "I cheated on my wife."
"What?" she says. She glances at him. "You?"
To some degree, she does understand his appeal with women like Lizzie and the other one from way back who shows up occasionally. He's tall and rugged, and he smells good. He's attractive, she guesses. But he's not the kind of guy you'd meet for a shag on your lunch hour.
"I called Lizzie Ambrose," he says. "That was me."
"That's what you mean?" she says. "You think that's cheating?"
His silence is different now, and she finds herself back in the place she always finds herself with him. She has this bizarre, innate urge to protect him, and that's never been her way, with anyone.
"I betrayed Martha."
She stops in front of the dark cabin and puts the truck in park again, but she doesn't cut the engine.
"You're alive, Walt. She'd want you to live your life. She'd want you to be happy."
He doesn't make a move to get out.
"You know you weren't really fooling anyone about that call, right?" she says.
A hint of a smile breaks through.
"Thanks, Vic," he says.
She watches him step up onto the porch then fumble for his keys. He's slow, but he eventually lets himself in and turns on the porch light.
He waves to her before closing the door.
"Goodnight, Walt," she whispers.