Thicker than Blood Page 13

  Later, in her teens after Dad lost his job, the dynamics changed, and she didn’t remember being home much. She always found excuses to be gone, especially at night when her parents drank. There were times May begged to come with her, but she always said no. It wasn’t cool to have your little sister tagging along in the backseat.

  Things changed even more when Christy was seventeen. She met Kyle, a guy already in his second year of college. They began dating, and she was introduced to a whole new set of friends who weren’t afraid to have a good time, even if it meant breaking the rules.

  When Mom and Dad died she turned to those friends, especially Kyle. He dropped out of college and asked her to move away with him to Kansas. It had been such an easy out. Escape from it all. She’d felt twinges of guilt over leaving May, but her sister was tough, and she had Aunt Edna as guardian. Those rationalizations had enabled Christy to brush the guilt away.

  Only within the last few days had she taken an honest look at her actions. What she did must have hurt May incredibly. She hadn’t even said good-bye. Of all the times May had needed love and assurance, it would have been then, but Christy abandoned her.

  Stopping at a gas station, Christy fueled up, hoping she had enough credit left on her Visa, then pulled to the edge of the lot and sat for a minute in the morning sun. Shrug it off. That was fifteen years ago. Things have changed. May isn’t a kid anymore.

  Yeah, she knew that. It was part of the problem. A kid might be more willing to forgive and move on. But why should May forgive her? Christy remembered the night they’d found out about Mom and Dad, how she’d cloistered herself in her room, listening to May sobbing in hers. Sometime later that morning May came knocking at her door asking to come in. Too absorbed in her own grief and guilt, she’d yelled for her to go away.

  Christy reached under the seat and pulled out her bottle of vodka. She had her usual sherry in the suitcase, but the vodka was perfect now. She tipped a small shot into her coffee. It wasn’t much. Just enough to calm and give courage. She would drink it only once every five miles. Besides, vodka was hard to smell on the breath, especially mixed with coffee.

  It was almost ten when she turned off Route 25 and onto Route 160 in Walsenburg, and it wasn’t long before she arrived at Pronghorn Drive. May’s road. Christy downed the last of the spiked coffee.

  She made the turn and drove slowly down the narrow road, checking each widely spaced mailbox for a number. The note called the ranch the Triple Cross. Maybe there would be a marker or something.

  Scrub peeked through the snow in the field on her left. To the right was a huge stand of pines, their boughs dusted with snow. Up ahead were the craggy Spanish Peaks, dwarfing everything else. What had gotten into May to live out here in the middle of nowhere?

  After three miles she saw the sign, and her determination withered. Logs formed a canopy at the beginning of a long dirt drive which bent around the pines and disappeared from sight. Three black metal crosses, the middle one slightly taller than the rest, poked up from the top log, and hanging beneath them by a rusted chain was a wooden sign. Triple Cross Ranch.

  This was it.

  Chapter 13

  When Christy approached the buildings at the end of the driveway, she almost did a one-eighty. Her body felt like rubber, and her armpits were moist with sweat in spite of the cold. She really was crazy to have come here.

  The Honda dipped into an icy rut, barely making it back out as she approached the cluster of buildings. First was a barn. She could tell by the hints of color under the eaves it had once been red, but it was now a weathered brown. Dead ahead was a one-story house with a tin roof. She recognized the Dodge pickup from the funeral, parked near the house with a second truck beside it.

  Don’t park there.

  The last thing she needed was someone seeing her before she was ready. Instead, she pulled up behind the horse trailer beside the barn. She still faced the house, but at a glance her car wouldn’t be easily noticed.

  Christy turned off the engine and sat for a minute, unable to move. She might not even like May now that her sister was a religious nut. They had nothing in common anymore, and sooner or later May would find out what a loser Christy really was. The big sister who’d ruined Aunt Edna’s prized possessions and couldn’t even hold down a job.

  She didn’t have to do this.

  Christy reached for some courage and took one more swig. Yeah, she did have to. She had nowhere else to go. Even this godforsaken place was better than living in her car.

  But what if May didn’t want her? That scared her more than anything. She didn’t know if she could survive May’s rejection.

  Go. Just go.

  Christy unclipped her seat belt. She should never have attended that funeral. None of this would be happening if she hadn’t seen May and found out where she lived. What had she been thinking?

  One step at a time. That’s all I gotta take.

  She got out of the car, closing the door as quietly as possible. She stared at the house, in plain view now. Why was she so afraid to do this? May had hardly been unkind at the funeral. She’d actually seemed pleased to see her.

  Christy forced herself to walk. She made it to the front porch decorated with chalky plastic outdoor furniture, not letting herself hesitate a moment longer. Knocking softly, she waited. Nothing.

  She tried again with the same result. Surveying the empty yard, she saw no one, and all she could hear were cows bellowing from the nearby pastures. She walked around the house. There was a side door. She knocked on it and was again met with silence.

  Without thinking, she tried the knob and was surprised to find the door unlocked. She cracked it.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  The house was silent, and she held on to the door, stuck, not knowing what to do. This was her out. Time to leave.

  But she didn’t. The truth was, she hadn’t just come looking for a place to stay, though that’s what got her started in this direction. She ached to know what May felt about her.

  Christy stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. She’d be careful not to disturb anything.

  She found herself in the kitchen. The linoleum floor had probably once been white but was now a dingy yellow. It was worn smooth in spots, especially in front of the door and where the chairs slid away from the kitchen table. Several bowls, a pot, and three mugs lay soaking in an avocado green sink, but the counters were clean. A cast-iron woodstove sat in the corner. She felt little warmth from it.

  Unable to resist the temptation to snoop, Christy wandered farther into the house searching for clues of May’s life. In the living room she first noticed a gun case and counted five weapons behind the glass. Whether they were rifles or shotguns she didn’t know. How often were they needed?

  She glimpsed an unmade bed in the first room off the hall. Was it her sister’s? She went to it. The room was nothing fancy; that was for sure. The plain bed was full-size, with the sheets and blankets in a rumpled heap at the foot.

  Christy honed in on the small bookcase next to the bed, quickly scanning it. There were a few novels in the Grisham vein and some worn paperback classics. A book called The Whole Truth by James Scott Bell lay spread-eagled on top of the shelf, apparently May’s current read. A few titles Christy considered more literary, like a copy of No Life for a Lady by Agnes Morley Cleaveland, a classic book that chronicled the author’s girlhood on a New Mexico ranch in the 1800s. The bottom shelf had books similar to those May had given Aunt Edna, creased devotionals and a couple versions of the Bible.

  She found another bedroom, much neater than the first, and at the end of the hall was a small study with two desks. She paused in its doorway and wished for a cigarette but decided against lighting up inside. It was a simple home, but at least May had a home. And it was clear she wasn’t alone. More than one person lived here. Was May shacking up with that guy at the funeral?

  Christy entered the study. One of the desks
was messier than the other, like the bedrooms had been, and Christy focused on it. She guessed it was May’s. Her sister never had been all that neat.

  Some old mail lay scattered across the surface, and she picked up an empty envelope addressed to Mrs. Ruth D. Santos & Ms. May A. Williams. The return address was a bank’s. Who was Ruth Santos?

  She looked over the desk for what could have been inside the envelope. That’s when a small framed photograph caught her eye. Christy lifted it off the desk and saw herself. Her tenth grade class photo. May kept it on her desk after all these years?

  Sitting down, she stared at the old picture. She didn’t remember giving it to May, but perhaps she’d found it in Mom and Dad’s things after they died. Seeing herself set out in a place of prominence brought questions for sure and a glimmer of hope. May might not be holding a grudge after all.

  She traced the brass frame with her finger. Then again, May could have it out to curse her face every time she saw it.

  A door slammed.

  Christy leaped to her feet, ready to run. She wasn’t supposed to be in here! She couldn’t let May find her snooping like this.

  Clanging came from the kitchen. A refrigerator opened. A radio came to life, blaring a Toby Keith song. Then scuffling and clicking came down the hallway. Before she could react, a small black and white dog rounded the corner and sent out a startled howl at the sight of her. He kept barking, hackles upraised.

  She took a step back from the dog and froze. The animal growled deep in his throat. If she could only get past him before she was discovered by whoever was in the house, she might be able to escape out the front door.

  Her gaze darted toward the hall. She took a step forward.

  The terrier curled his upper lip, another low growl escaping his throat.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

  The growling stopped for an instant, and she thought she noticed the dog’s tail wag slightly at her voice.

  “Good, boy,” she said, and hanging on to that minuscule sign of friendliness, she took a risk and smoothly lowered herself into a crouching position on the floor. Patting her leg, she spoke as gently and quietly as she could. “Come here, fella. Come here.”

  His tail was definitely wagging now, and the growling stopped entirely.

  “That’s it. Good dog.” She held out her hand, hoping to entice him to sniff. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  He cautiously approached, and she was careful not to make any sudden moves as she kept her hand outstretched. Her voice was calming him. “There. That’s it. Good boy.”

  The dog gave the tips of her fingers a lick as if to taste-test if she was serious.

  “That’s right. It’s okay. No need to bark.” She reached for him and scratched the coarse fur of his neck. “Now listen. I’ve gotta get out of here, okay?”

  “You do?” The man’s voice came out of nowhere.

  Christy looked up to see the same guy she’d met at the funeral standing in the doorway. He was wiping his fingers into a greasy rag.

  She jumped to her feet. “I can explain. I—”

  He held up his hand. “No need. It’s freezing out there. I’d wait inside too.” She could barely see his smile through that thick handlebar mustache. “Christy, right?”

  She nodded, relieved he was letting it go. “I can’t remember yours.”

  “Jim.” He pointed at the dog who was now leaning against her leg. “This here’s Scribbles. He’s all bark, as you can see.”

  Jim stuffed the rag into the back pocket of his tan coveralls which were shredded at the cuffs and unzipped to his waist. She caught a whiff of manure and oil. He looked different without a cowboy hat, plenty of gray intertwined with his sandy hair.

  “Sorry none of us were here,” Jim said. “I was working on my truck, and May and Ruth are in town at Walker’s pickin’ up an order.”

  “I might not be able to stay anyway.”

  “That’d be a shame. May’s been wanting to see you again.” Jim stepped into the hall. “Wanna join me for some coffee?”

  With a shrug, she followed. Scribbles bounced in front of her as if the whole incident in the study never happened. She sat down at the wooden kitchen table, uncomfortable with a man she didn’t know. But maybe he’d be able to tell her more things about May. “You live here?”

  Jim was scrounging in a cabinet and didn’t answer until he found a can of Maxwell House. “Got the trailer out back. May and Ruth have the house.”

  So May wasn’t living with him. She watched Jim measure heaping scoops into the filter. When she counted ten her expression must have changed, because he looked over at her and laughed. “This time of year we make it strong.”

  “This time of year?”

  “Calving season. We’re up at all hours checking the mamas. Coffee’s our sleep substitute.” Jim turned down the radio, the kind that mounted underneath a cabinet, and as the coffee brewed, he leaned against the counter.

  He pointed at the stove where a bottle, filled with what looked like skim milk, sat in a saucepan slowly heating. “Colostrum. I got a calf in the shed right now that’s not nursing yet. They gotta have this stuff within the first half hour, antibodies and all. We’ve got a bunch in the freezer for emergencies.”

  Jim tested the water with his finger and turned up the stove. “You meet Ruth?”

  “Was she at the funeral?”

  “That was her.”

  “We didn’t actually meet.”

  “She’s the backbone of this place. You’ll like her.”

  Christy didn’t appreciate the way he assumed she’d be staying.

  Jim took two of the dirty mugs from the sink and slid them toward the maker. She managed to keep from grimacing when she realized he was planning on reusing them without washing them first.

  “How long have you known May?” she asked. If she was going to sit here with this guy she might as well pump him for all the information she could.

  “About six years. She started working for Ruth, then bought into the ranch five years later. They hired me shortly after that.”

  Hired hand? Christy wondered how he felt working for two women. It didn’t appear to be much of an issue the way he said it, unlike it would be for Vince who vowed no female would ever give him orders.

  After a minute the maker gurgled and sputtered as the last drops of the syrupy brew dripped into the pot. Jim poured it into the mugs. “How do you like yours?”

  “Black.”

  “Best way,” he said, placing hers on the table and sitting in the chair opposite, holding his cup between both hands. Half of the fingernail of his right thumb was missing, and the part that was exposed looked painfully raw. Another finger was black and blue under the nail, with several small cuts adorning the others. She couldn’t help comparing them to Vince’s spotless, manicured hands.

  She tasted the coffee and managed to keep from reflexively spitting it out. It was strong all right. But she would have drank it whether it tasted bad or not. The vodka was already wearing off, and with all the apprehension working through her body, she craved a good shot of something.

  The silence between her and Jim became thick. What could she say to this tough cowboy who knew more about her own sister than she did? She looked at him and caught him staring at her hands. She realized they were trembling and gripped her coffee mug. Hard.

  “May know you were coming?”

  She decided not to lie. “No,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast.

  “I think she’ll be thrilled.” Jim took a long gulp of his coffee, then reached down to pet Scribbles. “This guy was your aunt Edna’s, you know. May’s had him only a week.”

  He’d changed the subject when she started squirming. Was her discomfort that obvious? “A ranch must be a great place for a dog.”

  “Great place to get in trouble, and he sure does.” He told her how Scribbles had already managed to get himself into several
scrapes, including getting kicked by an angry mother cow.

  After a few minutes Jim finished his coffee with one more tilt of his head and stood. “I’ve gotta feed that calf. You’re welcome to come along.” He pointed at her fleece pullover. “That won’t cut it, though.”

  She looked down at her clothing. She’d lost her parka in the fire.

  Without waiting for her to respond, Jim grabbed a worn brown coat from the rack by the door and flung it at her. “Try that on. You’ll need it.”

  It smelled like horse, and even though she was almost positive the flaky stain on the front was dried animal saliva, she put it on anyway.

  “Take these too.” Jim handed her a pair of leather work gloves, then picked up a soiled gray Stetson from off the counter and set it on his head. She decided he looked better in a hat. Jim took the bottle from the stove and held the kitchen door open for her, leaving her no choice but to follow. Scribbles bolted past both of them, jumping at snowflakes, which had started falling again.

  Jim walked through the yard and around the barn to one of the smaller outbuildings. “I’ve got a couple others I’m watching too. They should calve soon, but if they don’t, I’ll need to give them a hand.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Pulling. You let ’em do it on their own if at all possible, but if it gets to be too long it’s better to get the calf out. Less risk. We try to do it mostly by hand here. Some folks use a mechanical puller all the time, but you can pull too hard that way sometimes. I’ve seen calves’ hooves pulled right off with one.”

  Christy winced.

  The door to the barnlike structure creaked as Jim opened it. “Welcome to the calving shed.” He flipped a grimy switch beside the door. Bare white bulbs illuminated a wooden, straw-strewn walkway. A loud bellow came from one of the stalls. “Kinda makeshift, but it does the job.” Jim leaned over the second stall’s door and waved a hand toward her.

  She looked over Jim’s shoulder. A calf with brown matted fur sidled next to its mother who stood almost as tall as Christy. Her huge tongue licked the calf’s face, throwing its head back with each swipe.

  “Mama’s doin’ her job,” Jim said. “Baby just needs a little jumpstart, that’s all.”

  Christy continued to watch the drama, but her thoughts wandered. She kept imagining what she’d say to May. It really would be better if she left. She could ask Jim to give her sister a message, like she’d only had an hour and was really disappointed it hadn’t worked out.