the direction of the horseshoe pit and began grumbling things about Mrs. Saint Pierre that weren't fit for Santa's elves to hear. I went inside.
Stringed instruments decorated the walls. A couple of kids slept on a Naugahyde couch in the living room while their parents told Aggie jokes and mixed drinks in the kitchen. The door to the first bedroom down the hall was open. A woman I didn't know had passed out on the bed in the middle of a pile of cowboy hats. The door to the second bedroom was ajar and Allison's voice came through in a tone so shaky it made me wince—like an Estring tuned to the point you just knew it was going to snap in the guitarist's face.
"He pushed me down!" she yelled. "I'm not going to just stand there like you and—"
"Allison—" Miranda's voice was only slightly more in control. "You should look at yourself, girl."
I opened the door.
They were both standing by the bed. Miranda looked like a young square dancer in her fulllength denim skirt and white blouse and bandanna around her neck. She wore no makeup, but the colour in her face looked healthier than usual because she was angry.
Her eyes were bright brown.
She picked a twig out of Allison's hair. She had plenty to choose from. Allison had smudges of dirt on her face and dust all down her side. Her red blouse had come untucked from her jeans. She had the same murderous look I'd seen in her eyes that afternoon, but now her eyelids were swollen and red, a few tears smeared in with the dirt.
Miranda saw me before Allison did. The singer's shoulders relaxed just slightly. She said nothing but her posture invited me in. If I'd been alone in a room with Allison right then, I would've welcomed company too.
"What happened?" I asked.
Allison started. She had a little trouble bringing me into focus. She took a shaky breath before she could answer me with something besides a scream.
"Sheck."
"He pushed you. So you figured you'd just brain him with a horseshoe?"
Allison splayed her fingers and brought them up to her ears. "He moved too fast. I swear to God the next time—"
Her voice broke. However violent a show she was used to staging, however much she normally got away with, this time she'd surprised herself. The muscles in her face had started loosening up.
"There can't be any next time," Miranda said.
"You could've succeeded in killing him, Allison," I said. "Easily."
Allison managed to refocus on me. "You're the one who slammed Cam's head into a beer keg, Tres. What— it's okay for you to act that way?"
Miranda gave me a look I couldn't quite read. She seemed to be willing me to say something.
I'm not sure why, but just then the room we were standing in came into clearer focus. I realized it must be Miranda's. The burgundy and blue quilt on the bed, the miniature wooden horse on the desk, the dried arrangements of sage and lavender along the windowsill all seemed right for her. A tiny blond Martin guitar was propped in the corner. A few Daniels family photographs were framed in silver on the nightstand. It was a strange room—sparse and orderly but also cozy, definitely feminine. Normally I would've guessed it belonged to a little girl with a tidy mother, or perhaps to somebody's grandmother.
Miranda kept giving me a silent request.
I looked at Allison. "Why don't I drive you home? You need to get out of here."
Wrong answer. Miranda tightened her lips, but she said, "That's a good idea."
Allison collected herself. She was just about to agree, I think, when Tilden Sheckly barged into the room.
He moved like he was still groggy, but he managed a pretty hideous facsimile of his regular grin. The left side of his face was still mostly blood and dirt. His unruly graybrown hair was flattened on top by sweat in the shape of his missing hat.
"Allison SaintPierre," he croaked. "I think we need to talk."
Sheck walked toward her. I made the mistake of trying to stop him, figuring that he was still dazed.
The next thing I knew I was sitting on the rug with my jaw feeling like it had just been branded. There was either blood in my mouth or dark beer—Guinness, maybe. I don't remember Sheckly's upper cut at all. I certainly didn't have time to block it.
"I'll talk to you in a minute, son," Sheckly said unevenly. He was focusing a little to