Snow Blind-J Collins 4 (12 page)

Evidently he wasn’t finished stirring me up. I feigned interest in the flames, ready to fight back with words, or with my fists if he took a shot at me.

“Ain’t surprised. You’re stubborn, just like her.”

“Who? Brittney?”

“No. Your mother.”

I looked over at his face hidden in the long shadows.

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“I don’t remember her being stubborn.”

“That don’t surprise me neither. She was one hardheaded Norsk. Once she’d made up her mind someone was in the wrong, she’d dig in her heels and then, look out.”

“What would she do?”

“She wouldn’t think of raisin’ her voice. In fact, she wouldn’t talk at all, which was worse.” He adjusted his cap. “First year we were married she wanted some expensive cake pan she had to special order from Norway. I said no and told her to use a cake pan she already had. Got the cold shoulder all week. The followin’ weekend I went lookin’ for my ratchet set and found out she’d taken all my tools out of the garage, leavin’ me with one screwdriver.

“When I demanded she tell me what she’d done with my tools, she suggested I use the screwdriver I already had. I lectured her about needin’ the right tool for the job, and realized I’d proved her point.”

“So she bought the cake pan?”

A pensive look crossed his face. “She bought the whole set.”

I’d never heard this story. In fact, I knew nothing about my parents’ marriage. As a child I’d been too self-absorbed to care. As an adult I’d been too full of hate.

“You’re getting close to the same age she was when she was killed.”

“That’s a cheery thought.”

“Just sayin’. . .” He shrugged. “You look like her.

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Not a little; a lot. You could be her twin, ’cept for your eyes.”

For the first time I wondered if that was the reason he’d become so violent. Looking at me was a constant reminder of what he’d lost. He couldn’t take out his frustration at her for being dead, so he took it out on the closest thing to her: me.

Fucked-up logic. Probably made perfect sense to him.

I glanced over to see his ropy forearms resting on his thighs and his face aimed at the floor. My stomach pitched as my mind returned to another memory I’d blocked out.

The day after my mother’s funeral I’d seen Dad in the same morose position on the end of their bed. My mother’s favorite nightgown twisted in his big hands, pressed against his face while he cried.

He hadn’t noticed me, would’ve beaten me for witnessing his grief. But peeking through the crack in the door, hearing him sobbing her name, a cruel sense of satisfaction surfaced in me that
he
was hurting for a change. Again, fucked-up logic, because I’d been hurting too. I hadn’t understood why my triumph had been so bittersweet.

Bad time for those long buried emotions to surface. I didn’t trust myself to deal with them fairly and nearly leapt to my feet to escape. “I’ll fill the wood box. Then I’m going to bed. Thought I’d sleep on the couch. That way I can keep an eye on the fire.”

No response.

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I donned the stiff outerwear again and ventured out. The snow was still coming down hard, blowing sideways. I smoked a cigarette and studied the driveway leading away from the house. The plows would be by tomorrow. They had to be. I didn’t know if I could survive another day with my father.

Wood stacked, fire stoked, I rolled out the sleeping bag I’d found in the hall closet and crawled in fully clothed. I didn’t know where my dad had gone and didn’t care.

I expected the day would dawn bright and sunny, with a clear blue sky, as it so often did after blizzards. Doomed to disappointment again. The continuing frigid air and monumental snowdrifts were Mother Nature’s big
fuck
you—
a reminder of who was in charge. A reminder I probably wasn’t going anywhere today.

Yippee fucking skippy.

Gray light barely peeped through the window blinds. The fire burned steadily, though we were nearly out of wood again. I ignored the useless coffeepot as I poured my second bowl of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. At least we had food.

I’d slipped on my boots when the front door opened. Dad shuffled in and slumped against the 117

door frame, his face pasty white as the sky. His glove-less right hand was pressed to his chest.

“What’s wrong?”

He turned his palm and I saw blood. Everywhere.

Running down his forearm and staining his overalls, dripping on the floor.

“Shit. What happened?”

“Cut myself trying to fix the generator.”

I crossed the room to stand in front of him. “Let me see.”

The deep gouge started at the knuckle of his index finger and ran crossways into his palm, stopping at the bone on the inside top of his wrist. Jesus. He’d almost cut his hand in half.

“I had hold of the wire, the engine fired and yanked it clean out of my hand. Started bleedin’ like a son of a bitch right away.”

He had to be damn near delirious from pain to curse. “Can you move your fingers?” With the way it was oozing I was worried he’d cut clear through the ten-dons, though I couldn’t see bone with my naked eye.

Gritting his teeth, he curled his fingers to his palm and slowly straightened them.

“Good. Go into the kitchen so I can take a closer look at it.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not gonna pull out my sewing kit, but it needs to be cleaned.”

I found a first aid kit under the sink in the bathroom.

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When I returned to the kitchen, he was hunched over the sink letting water run into the cut. “Motherfucking son of a bitch—”

“Jesus. You’re stubborn.” I wrapped my left hand around his wrist, below the injury. “Let me do it. The last thing I need is you passing out, smacking your head into the stove so I have to deal with a goddamn concussion, too.”

“Watch your—”

“Yeah, yeah, you lost the right to tell me to watch my mouth when I heard
motherfucking
coming from yours.”

He hissed when I aimed the kitchen sprayer at the top of the cut and moved it across his palm. Blood poured out, mixing with the water spray, sending pinkish-red spots all over the white countertop. Watery red rivulets ran over my fingers, and down his forearm, disappearing into his shirtsleeve.

“Probably a good thing it’s cold water. Might numb it a little.” I studied the wound. “Better. Not perfect. Sit and I’ll wrap it up.”

He didn’t protest. His face turned a shade of greenish-gray when I poured rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball and slicked it across the cut. Using two pieces of white tape, I fashioned a butterfly bandage to hold the split skin together and slapped on a large square adhesive bandage. I wound gauze from his knuckles to his wrist.

“I suggest you keep that flat and still for the rest of the day. I’ll track down some Tylenol.” I wiped off 119

the scissors and repacked the kit.

“Where’d you learn so much about first aid?”

My fingers snapped the latch shut. “You really don’t want to hear the answer to that.”

“Yes, girlie, I do.”

I locked my gaze to his. “From when you used to beat on me. I also got really good at applying makeup to cover bruises.”

Not a lick of emotion crossed his face. Then again, had I expected an apology? No. The only thing I expected from this man was that he would piss me off, and in that regard, he’d never disappointed me.

“I’ve gotta haul in wood.” I bundled up and escaped into the cold. Two cigarettes later, after I’d gauged all possible escape routes, I realized it’d be suicide to try to leave. But it might be murder if I stayed.

The day passed as slowly as the prehistoric Ice Age. I made lunch. I filled the wood box three times. I was too wired to nap. The last time I snuck out for a smoke I realized the snow had let up.

Dad hadn’t said much, for which I was grateful.

I wandered upstairs, briefly ducking into Brittney’s room. She’d plastered the lilac-colored walls with posters of cowboys, the PRCA All-Around Cowboy, 120

Trevor Brazile, and bull riders Justin McBride, Travis Briscoe, Ross Coleman, and Guilerme Marchi.

Pathetic I now knew them by name.

In the last few months, I’d learned Brittney was an avid fan of the Professional Bull Riders tour. She knew the rankings of the riders, back at least two years. Knew the points spread for the top fifteen riders. She’d even memorized the top ranked bull’s stats.

Urban kids were crazy for baseball statistics, so it made perfect sense pro rodeo garnered the same hero wor-ship in the rural set.

For some reason her enthusiasm infected me, and I found myself watching versus on those Saturday and Sunday nights Martinez wasn’t around, rooting for the rider to outsmart the bull for eight seconds. I’d even gone so far as to check in to taking a road trip to Bill-ings, Montana, in April—the closest the PBR Tour came to South Dakota.

On a whim I opened the door to my former bedroom. Frilly yellow curtains, a dressmaker’s dummy, two sewing machines sat side by side. No sign of my Winger, Poison, or Def Leppard posters. Nothing of me remained anywhere in the house; it was as if I’d never lived here.

Back in the kitchen, while making yet another plate of sandwiches, I discovered a bottle of brandy. I knocked back four shots and nearly wept with gratitude for the immediate dulling of my senses.

It didn’t last near long enough.

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After supper, out of the blue, Dad said, “Whatever happened to Ben’s kid?”

“Went back to Arizona. Abita got married and her husband adopted him.”

“Huh. Did all that happen before or after you shot Ben’s sister?”

What the hell? I knew he didn’t care about Jericho or that I’d killed Leticia. He just wanted to piss with me.

I had a mind to let him to see where it’d go. “After.”

“You heard from her?”

“No.” I doubted I would.

“Then that injun gal was smarter than she looked.

Smarter than you. Ain’t you afraid the Standing Elk family will be gunnin’ for you for revenge for killin’

their cash cow?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“No secret she was fundin’ their place. The rest of

’em make poor ranchers. Now that she’s dead, it’s goin’

up for auction next month.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Didn’t what you done to her go against what you was crusadin’ for? Justice?”

“Justice was served. I killed her in self-defense.”

“Maybe that injun family don’t think so. Maybe they think you got off because you’re white and no one cares about another dead injun. And you used to work for the sheriff. Maybe he was coverin’ for you and let you get away with murder.” He permitted a cruel twist of his mean lips. “See how this works?”

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“How what works?”

“Breakin’ the law. You, killin’ like it ain’t no big deal. First that guy you dusted with your bow. Then her. Who’s next? Even if you get around the police, there ain’t no escapin’ the fact you’re breakin’ the Lord’s law by killin’ whenever the mood strikes you.”

That killing mood was striking me pretty hard right now. I couldn’t point out the kill shot with my bow wasn’t done by my hand. I’d have to live with that lie forever. “Have you ever killed anybody, Dad?”

“Like I’d tell you, Miss
Pee Eye
.”

“No seriously. Have you ever looked someone in the eye and watched the life bleed out of them?”

“If I said I had? What then? Would you mount an investigation?”

What the hell kind of paranoid answer was that?

“Why? You have something to hide?”

He scowled. “You’d like nuthin’ better than to see me in jail no matter what.”

“Shut up. Nothing changes with you. You get bored and pick fights. Do you do this with Trish, DJ, and Brittney? Or am I just the lucky one?”

No answer was my answer. I skirted his chair and entered the kitchen to knock back another jelly glass full of brandy.

But he wasn’t done goading me. “Not surprised you found the booze. Can’t live without your vices.”

“Nope.” Just for shits and giggles, I poured another shot.