Divorce Horse
Authors: Craig Johnson
Also by Craig Johnson
The Cold Dish
Death Without Company
Kindness Goes Unpunished
Another Man’s Moccasins
The Dark Horse
Hell Is Empty
Forthcoming from Viking:
As the Crow Flies
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published in 2012 by Viking Penguin,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Craig Johnson, 2012
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-59264-9
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For Judy
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
After my editor at Viking asked me to consider doing a short story to debut the publication of
As the Crow Flies,
the eighth book in the Walt Longmire series, I thought it might be a nice opportunity for a connecting tissue between novels.
When I was starting out and was concerned about the artistic integrity of writing a series, Tony Hillerman gave me a piece of advice: find a framework for the books, something that would connect them but also differentiate them. I’m a Westerner, and the thing I immediately thought of that divides my life and that has an effect on me on a day-to-day basis are the seasons. Fully aware that June on the high plains is nothing like January, I pulled what I refer to as “a Vivaldi”—dividing the novels into four seasons. This provided me a framework, one that allowed me only a few months between books, which resulted in a continuity in the series that readers seem to enjoy—but that’s not saying that this process is seamless.
I decided to cover the seams by producing a short story that might provide a transition between novels, hence
Divorce Horse
.
I’d like to thank the Real Bird family, instrumental in the Sheridan World Champion Indian Relay Races; the Sheridan-WYO-Rodeo Board of Directors; my good buddy Marcus Red Thunder; and Michael Crutchley, for the reminder of what rural sheriffs really do. And to Mike and Susie Terry, who coined the phrase Divorce Horse.
Divorce Horse
It was Memorial Day weekend, and I was having dinner with my best friend, Henry Standing Bear, and my daughter Cady at the Busy Bee Café. Still convalescing from my experiences chasing after escaped convicts in the Bighorn Mountains, I fingered the oversize ring on my thumb and watched the turquoise wolves chase the coral ones on the silver band; then I plucked it off and stuffed it in my shirt pocket under my badge.
I’d been sheriffing solo since my deputy, Victoria Moretti, had flown back to Philadelphia for the long weekend to help with the upcoming wedding arrangements on that end. Cady was marrying Vic’s brother Michael at the end of July, and Vic was consulting with her mother Lena about the nuptials. It was complicated. Boy howdy.
Generally, Cady and Vic just shared a cup of coffee in the Denver airport as they traded time zones during their assorted holiday layovers, but on this stint they’d had a little more time to talk, since Cady had driven Vic to the airport in Billings. They’d engaged in what I’d feared—a wide-ranging conversation.
“Vic looks really good.”
I continued to sip my iced tea and joined Henry in studying the fast-flowing water of Clear Creek riffling by the café in a torrent of melt from the Bighorns. “Yep.”
The Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time leaned in with a few strands of strawberry blond hair slipping in front of her face, reminding me so much of her mother. “She bought a house?”
“Yep.”
“So she’s sticking around.”
I turned my head, aware that Henry wasn’t the only one occupied with fishing, and studied my daughter. “I didn’t know that she had been talking about going anywhere.”
She brushed away my remark with a fan of her fingers. “I just wasn’t sure if she’d stick.”
I concentrated on the creek and considered the statement. It was true; the high plains were a place of transition—people came, people went, a few stayed. Economics had a lot to do with it, but so did the loneliness of the topography. It was as if the land had hollowed out spaces in people until they treated each other with that same distance. Some never came to a truce with that within themselves, but some did. Vic had threatened to run off with the Feds and a number of other agencies, and had even thought about Philadelphia again, but those threats seemed to come less and less often. “I think she likes it here.”
“I think she likes parts of it.” Cady took a sip of her diet soda in her continuing effort to be a size 2 by the July wedding. “How old is she again?”
Reaching for my glass, I almost tipped it over but caught it in the last instant. “We’ve . . . never discussed that.”
She nudged the Cheyenne Nation with her shoulder. “How old is she, Bear?”
He shrugged. “I have found in most relationships with women it is best to remember their birthdays but forget their age.”
“Look who I’m asking.” She rolled her eyes and redirected them, looking into the golden light reflecting off the buildings on the east side of Main Street. The stores were staying open just a little longer than their usual five p.m. in the hopes of plying the tourist trade that the American Indian Days Parade and Pow-Wow had engendered. Most of the crowd had adjourned to the county fairgrounds, but the barely beating heart of commerce sprang eternal.
I glanced at Henry, who continued watching the water.
She leveled her cool, gray eyes on my face. “So, what’s going on with you two?”
Tipping my hat back, I turned to give her a stare. “That would be in the none-of-your-business file.”
She slid down in her chair and twisted the hair that had escaped her ponytail around her index finger. “How come I can’t ask you about your personal life, but you can ask me about mine?”
The Cheyenne Nation grunted but said nothing so as not to add to the table’s verbal minefield.
I nudged my glass and glanced around to make sure that no one else was within ear reach, but the only other patrons on the remarkably clear, warm, and velvety early evening were a threesome of cowboys at a table by the front door, and Dorothy, the owner and proprietor, who was busily putting our dinners together. “I have never asked you about your personal life, ever.”
She thought about it and then grinned. “I kind of volunteer it, don’t I?”
Henry smiled. I didn’t say anything.
“Sometimes too much?” She fingered her napkin, and I noticed that her nails were blush pink and not their usual dark red. She must be practicing bridal etiquette.
I listened to the radio playing behind the counter; Hank Williams crooning “You’re Gonna Change (Or I’m Gonna Leave).” I thought maybe I should soften my response. “It’s normal—women ask about relationships but men hardly ever do.”
She slipped on the smile she always did when she didn’t particularly believe what I was saying—I had gotten that smile since she was six. “Never?”
I glanced at the Bear and watched as he turned to Cady, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Hardly ever.”
“I don’t believe that.”
I shrugged and sipped my tea as Dorothy arrived with two deluxe chicken-fried-steak sandwiches piled high with fries, and another plate with a small mound of cottage cheese and a slice of tomato. I asked, purely for form’s sake. “The usual?”
She placed the plates in front of us and raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
I pointed at the marginal board of fare on Cady’s plate. “Not that.”
Dorothy smirked. “I’ve named that Chef’s Choice.” She put a bottle of no-fat, low-calorie balsamic vinaigrette in front of Cady and glanced around. “How are the sheriff’s department, Indian scout, and learned counsel tonight?”
“Hopefully slow.” I checked my pocket watch. “Especially since—with the exception of Ruby and Saizarbitoria down at the fairgrounds—I gave the rest of the staff the night off.” I returned the watch to my pocket and unrolled my napkin, depositing the flatware by my plate, not because I needed it but because I thought I’d better put the napkin on my lap. “And Ruby’s off in three minutes.”
Dorothy’s attention was drawn back to Cady, who had reached for the salad dressing. “How are you, sweet pea?”
“I’m good.” She rearranged the tomato. “Business finally slowing down?”
Dorothy sat on a stool adjacent to the counter and rubbed her ankle. “Yeah, finally. It was crazy all day, especially during the parade. This is the first chance I’ve had to sit down. I think everybody’s out at the pow-wow now.” She reached over and tugged on the Bear’s hair, and I tried to remember if I’d ever seen anybody do that except her. “Damned Indians. I suppose people would just as soon eat fry-bread and cotton candy.” She glanced at me and then back to Cady. “Your father lure you away from that young man of yours?”
“Just till I’m sure he’s feeling better after his mountain adventure.” My daughter’s eyes held on me for a moment, and I could see the worry there. “And besides, I figured I’d stick around a little while and see if I could get some preliminary wedding work done. You know I want you to make the cake, right?”
“I’m planning on it and consulting with Vic’s uncle Alphonse next week about the recipe.” She let go of her ankle and stood up. “You’re getting married up on the Rez, right?”
“Yeah, Crazy Head Springs.”
I felt a private little sorrow overtake me at that thought but continued eating.
“That’s a pretty spot. Have you gotten permission?”
Cady nudged the Bear’s shoulder. “I’ve got an
in
.”
Dorothy laughed and kissed the top of Cady’s head. “Congratulations, honey.”
Cady glowed. “Thanks.”
The owner/operator glanced at the three cowboys, whom I recognized as the wranglers from Paradise Guest Ranch, and one raised his coffee mug as the other two smiled at us. “I better go refill the Wild Bunch over there.” She placed her fists on her hips. “You folks need anything else?”
Cady volunteered. “I might switch over to coffee, when you get the chance.”
Dorothy winked and disappeared.
Cady began nibbling at a forkful of cottage cheese but stopped just long enough to give the Bear and me a warning look. “Don’t say it.” She caught another curd on the end of her fork and then used it like a baton to get my attention. “I still don’t believe that women ask more about personal issues than men. I mean, maybe men hide the question more, but it’s there.”
Henry said nothing, so I spoke for the two of us. “Okay.”
She ate the bit of food but continued to watch us. “But the two of you do.”
From all my years in law enforcement I knew that the only thing that happened more than not getting to eat was having your meals interrupted and abandoned. Making good progress on my sandwich, I looked at Henry, and we both turned and answered her in unison. “Yep.”
Buck Owens swung into “Before You Go,” and Cady sang along in her fine voice in a pretty good imitation; I was starting to think we had a soundtrack on our hands. She suddenly stopped, looked at the two of us, and I knew we were in trouble. “How about a bet, a sporting wager.” She continued before I could say no. “For every woman that asks either one of us about our relationships or every man that doesn’t, you two get a point. For every woman that doesn’t ask us about our relationships or every man that does, I get a point.”
Knowing my daughter’s level of competition in all things, I knew this was a bad idea, and said so.
“Come on, Daddy. It’ll be fun.”
Henry leaned over and gave her the horse-eye, up close and personal. “One to nothing then.”
She glanced at Dorothy, pouring her a cup of coffee behind the counter, and then back to the Bear. “We hadn’t started yet.”
I was shaking my head when the walkie-talkie on my hip chattered to life.
Static. “Unit one, this is base.”
I slumped in my seat, dropped my sandwich in dramatic fashion, and sat there for a moment.
Static. “Walt?”
Cady, who could never resist pushing buttons, plucked the device from my duty belt and keyed the mic. “Yo.”
Static. “Cady?”
I took the radio from her. “It’s after five; go home.”
Static. “Tommy Jefferson says one of his horses has been stolen out at the rodeo grounds.”
I gazed at my half-eaten meal and sighed. “Not the divorce horse again?”
Static. “Of course.”
* * *
The much-storied case of the divorce horse was the kind of tale familiar to most rural sheriffs, involving the kind of disputes you got involved in even though it really had nothing much to do with law enforcement. The world-class Indian relay racer Tommy Jefferson and his ex-wife Lisa Andrews were Cady’s age. Tommy was a New Grass from Crow Agency, Montana, who had lived with an aunt in Durant so that he could go to the high school here, and Lisa was a blond whirlwind of a barrel racer. Their romance had been epic; seven years later, their divorce was a long and familiar story. Tommy had had a bad habit of loitering at equine sales and was already a frustrated horse trader before their marriage, but it only got worse as he and Lisa joined incomes—and as he intensified his use of diet pills in an attempt to keep his racing weight down and his energy level up. It had gotten so bad that Lisa began to think that Tommy was more addicted to horses and amphetamines than to her.
When he brought home a vicious, Roman-nosed, cloudy-eyed little sorrel the color of store-bought whiskey that had a propensity to wander and bite and that took all his time, effort, and attention, Lisa had had enough, and their separation and divorce had become a pitched battle. The train wreck that had become Tommy and Lisa’s lives was played out in every under-the-breath conversation in the county and on the Rez.
My part in the saga had started when Tommy, who had returned to the Rez and to methamphetamines big time, decided to call the sheriff’s office in order to get Lisa to answer his calls. It had seemed logical to his chemically addled, emotionally distressed mind that it was my duty to ask Lisa to answer her phone. As a rural sheriff, there are times when the law enforcement side of the job has nothing to do with the right-thing-to-do side of the job.
So, I’d dutifully made the trip down to Powder Junction where they had shared a house, only to discover Lisa, clad in a bikini bottom, a T-shirt, and a potato-chip cowboy hat, sunbathing in her yard. I asked her if she would please answer the phone, because Tommy had been trying to get in touch with her for days.
She’d taken a sip from a can of beer beside her towel and said, “Had it disconnected.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“He was calling here twenty times a day and I couldn’t take it anymore.” She adjusted the straw hat and sighed. “You know he’s still using, right?”
“Um, it’s becoming apparent to me.” I’d stood there on the other side of the chain-link fence that separated her yard from the sidewalk. “Well, he’d like you to call him.”
Lisa put the can down. “No thanks. I jumped that crazy horse, Sheriff—and I have no intentions of getting back on.” She applied more suntan lotion to her arms. “Anyway, I yanked the cord out of the wall.”
Then she’d served papers, and that’s when things really got weird.
Tommy began calling me and Verne Selby, who had been appointed judge in the case, and the county clerk about all kinds of strange things, insinuating that this was obviously a matter of racial discrimination and that anti-Indian bias had led to the current impasse between him and Lisa. I stopped taking his calls, so he resorted to the fax machine. I would come in mornings to find thirty- and forty-page letters from Tommy, most of them incoherent but each one ending with the request that the communication be dated, stamped, and placed in the official record. Of all the faxed letters, the one that leaps to mind as the strangest was a four-pager instructing the clerk, judge, and me on what it was we should bring to Thanksgiving dinner up on the Rez—how I should bring pie, but not rhubarb since his aunt Carol usually had that covered. Like we were all family.