whiff of oil afire and men burned had stained her lungs, and she would forever taste the odor with each breath.
Her brother Carlo made all the funeral plans. Davis had no relatives who sent flowers, but cards from the people of Clifton Creek filled the mailbox each morning. Businesses closed for the funerals and church bells from all denominations sounded during the processions to the town’s only cemetery.
As an outsider, Anna watched in amazement while a town grieved. She saw the first signs when she and Helena left the hospital the day of the accident. Randi stayed behind with Crystal for a few minutes and Meredith waited in the hospital hallway for the funeral home, but Helena and Anna walked out together. Men lined the sidewalk from the door to the parking lot. Oil field workers and cowhands stood silent. It did not matter that the rain pounded. As the women passed, the men removed their hats and stepped back into the muddy grass. No one said a word, but the respect they paid would linger forever in her mind.
By dawn, business doors along Main wore wreaths of black. From the courthouse to the café, Carlo informed her, no one talked of anything except the accident. Anna may have lost a husband, but the town lost one of its wealthiest oilmen in Shelby Howard. Even if he lived, he would never make it back to running Howard Drilling. Everyone agreed over coffee that Jimmy Howard was probably the brains behind the old man’s success over the past few years, but Shelby had been a wildcatter. Carlo quoted what he had heard, saying they did not make oilmen like that anymore.
The folks relived all the highlights of Kevin Allen’s football games and decided his years on the team were the best they had seen. J. D. Whitworth moved from retired soldier to town hero and several wondered why they had never recognized him as such. There was talk of putting up a memorial.
And Davis Montano, Carlo would tell Anna over and over, was like a son to them all. Fifth generation in the town. And that is as deep as roots go in Clifton Creek. Not just four men died in that fire, Carlo would say, but a part of the town’s heart burned that day, as well.
Anna rode the fringes of the ranch in the sunny mornings that followed, but the memory of steel-toed shoes and cowboy boots washed over with mud remained in her thoughts. She found it odd that she could not remember a single man’s face.
In the afternoons Anna escaped, as always, to her tiny studio that had once been a sunroom. There, amid neglected plants, she painted. She caught herself still hiding her work as if expecting Davis to stop by and criticize her at any moment. He hated the dark mood of her paintings. Now the mood seeped off the canvas and into her life.
Shelby Howard’s son, Trent, was among those who came to see the ruins of the rig. He stopped at the house to tell her how sorry he was about Davis. Carlo insisted she talk to the man. After all, Trent was Shelby’s only son and the two families were forever connected by the tragedy.
Trent opened the conversation by informing her that the explosion and fire were not related to anything Howard Drilling had done. He implied the sheriff suspected no foul play, but when she questioned him about the reasons for the fire, he did not seem to have enough information or knowledge to say more.
Trent reminded Anna of a buzzard with his thin frame and long nose. She played a game she had found helpful around most American men. Anna acted as though she did not understand the language, so he had to spend most of his time talking to her brother. In truth, except for a slight stutter, Anna had spoken four languages fluently by the time she was eighteen, but by then she had discovered that most men were not worth talking to.
The few men her father had allowed her to date while she was home on school vacations were usually the sons of old friends. They talked of horses and little else.
Only two people called before Davis’s funeral. Randi Howard, to say she would be leaving town sooner than expected. She planned to stay until all the husbands were buried, but she’d heard of a job offer in Memphis and did not want it to slip away.
“Everyone knows Memphis is as good a place as Nashville to become a star.” She laughed a little too loud. “I’ll sing my way across the state.”
Anna agreed with her just to be kind.
Randi had Jimmy cremated the morning after the accident. He wanted no service, and since he always talked of traveling someday, she put his ashes in the glove compartment of her Jeep and figured she would take him to Memphis with her.
Anna promised to keep in touch, but she had a feeling she would never see Randi again. Randi was a cowgirl who had probably never ridden a horse, and Anna was a horsewoman who had never danced the two-step. A stranger might think them alike, but here in ranch country they were polar opposites.
Helena Whitworth was another story. She called every morning. Anna attended J.D.’s graveside service at dawn two days after the accident. The ceremony carried full military honors. Half the town surrounded the tent staked over a grave where the dirt and the grass were the same color. Many cried, but Helena sat so still and silent she could have been one of the statues in the cemetery. Not a white hair out of place. Not the hint of a tear on her cheek.
The next day, Helena returned the kindness by sitting behind Anna at Davis’s funeral.
It amazed Anna how many people came to Davis’s service. In the five years she had been here, she had met very few who called him friend, yet the townspeople missed work to pay their respects.
Flowers lined the small Catholic church, making the air heavy and damp. The incense and candles reminded Anna of the smell of the fire. She fought not to gag as she waited for the service to be over.
Carlo sat beside her, weeping openly during the entire funeral. She might have lost a husband, but he lost his brother-in-law, friend and boss. Being ten years older than she, Carlo slipped easily into the father role. Anna let him, glad to have someone take care of details.
Though he saw no need to tell her of ranch business, he did mumble complaints about Trent Howard as they waited in the family room. Carlo said Trent didn’t want to bother with a full investigation. Accidents were just a part of the oil business, he said.
In Italian, Carlo ranted about how he would insist on the sheriff looking into every detail. After all he would not allow Davis’s name to be smeared in any way. If the sheriff found someone responsible for the deaths, Carlo swore he would see that they paid even if he had to kill them himself.
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