Evidence of Life - By Barbara Taylor Sissel Page 0,47
Kate said, “but George and I have to go into town to the courthouse. We have an issue with this year’s taxes.” She looked at Abby. “You go; it’ll do you good.”
Abby made a face. She could only imagine the planning behind this invitation. The discussion they’d all had about her. What could they do to distract her from her fixation? Her obsession? Considering the extent of some of her wild imaginings, Abby might have laughed. They’d lock her up if they knew, she thought. She caught his eye. “I’d like to go,” she told him. “It’s been a while since I’ve ridden, and I’ve missed it.”
He rapped his knuckles on the table and said, “Good deal,” and from the light in his eyes, she knew he was pleased.
* * *
She was nervous later, following Dennis into his barn, but as she stepped around, helping him with the routine of saddling the horses, she became aware of a welling sense of joy. And she paused a moment to study it, this strange, half-remembered, sweet contentment that seemed to be stealing through her. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to climb into the saddle, and just as suddenly, tears pricked her eyelids.
How could she be happy?
She didn’t notice the rifle Dennis had loaded onto his mount until they were some distance from the corral, and even then, she didn’t ask. She didn’t want to disturb their silence. Abby had noticed this about Dennis before, that silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward.
They were crossing a field when he asked her if she was aware that Mormons were some of the first settlers around.
Abby answered she hadn’t heard that.
“There were German immigrants, too, Dennis said, “and a few Polish families. There was so much timber back then, they built mills and manufactured lumber. Lumber and furniture mostly.”
“Huh,” Abby said, and they fell silent again.
Above them the day was all blue air, cool breeze and fall sunshine so warm down Abby’s back that she took off her new red jacket and tied the arms at her waist. The horses picked their way over the parched ground, around clumps of prickly pear and wedges of brush that Abby decided was some kind of thistle in its dying season.
She said, “I thought this was ranch country.”
“Not at first. Not until the late 1800s when the ranchers south of here started banding their herds together. They drove the cattle up this way and stopped on the banks of the Medina, right there in town where it makes that big bend? Guess it seemed a natural place to rest the herds and fatten them before hitting the trail north.” Dennis paused. “The land’s been overgrazed now in places.”
In the distance, Abby saw what appeared to be buzzards circling the sky. Dennis saw them, too. “If you don’t mind, we’ll ride that way and see what’s up.”
She shook her head, aware of the rifle again.
“It might be nothing,” Dennis said, sensing her distress. He asked about her house. “Didn’t you tell me you designed it?”
“Yes,” she said, knowing it was an attempt to distract her and glad for it.
“That porch is something, the way it wraps all four corners.”
“That was Nick’s idea,” Abby said. “He very nearly blew our budget on that porch. It surprised me, too. He’s usually so frugal. You have to be when there are two—two children to put through—to—” She couldn’t finish. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, blinking furiously. Please don’t cry, pleaseplease. She felt the horses stop, felt Dennis bend toward her, felt him wondering whether to touch her.
He didn’t.
Finally, when she thought she was all right, she said, “I don’t know how to talk about them.”
Dennis straightened, and they started the horses walking again. He seemed to understand there was nothing he could say.
Abby concentrated on the sound the hooves made as they swished through rough yellow grass. The leather saddle creaked beneath her. She listened to her mount breathe. From somewhere close by four songbird notes shimmered up a scale and died.
“Mockingbird,” Dennis said.
“I thought so,” Abby answered.
They spotted the blood almost as soon as they entered the thicket. Dennis dismounted and swiped his fingers over the glossy stain in the leaves at his feet. “Fresh,” he said. Handing Abby his reins, he unholstered his rifle and disappeared into the woods.
At first Abby could hear him, then after a bit, she couldn’t anymore. She jumped when he emerged on her other side, his expression grim. “Oh, no,” she said.