moved from the window and went about opening the store as she did every morning. Lost in thought, she barely heard something crunch under her boots. She blinked, stumbling to a stop to look down. That’s when she saw the glass from the broken window.
* * *
DESTRY DROVE UP TO THE big house, anxious to spend some time with her brother. She hadn’t slept well last night after discovering the open door, so she’d had a lot of time to think.
She was worried about her brother. Even more worried about what he might have come down to the house to tell her last night.
This afternoon she would be rounding up the last of the cattle from the mountains. After a season on the summer range, they would be bringing down the last of the fattened-up calves, and all but the breeding stock would be loaded into semis and taken to market.
Destry always went on the last roundup in the high country before winter set in. The air earlier this morning had been crisp and cold, the ground frosty after last night’s rain. But while clouds still shrouded the peaks of the Crazies, the sun was out down here in the valley, the day warming fast.
As she pulled up to the house and honked, she was surprised when her brother came right out. He’d never been an early riser even as a boy. He must really be desperate to get away from their father. Or was it his fiancée?
“Okay, where are we going?” Carson asked as he climbed into the pickup.
Destry nodded her head toward the bed of the truck and the fishing tackle she’d loaded this morning.
“Fishing?” He shook his head as she threw the pickup into gear. “Did you forget I don’t have a fishing license?”
“With all your problems, you’re worried about getting caught without a fishing license?”
He laughed. “Good point.” He leaned back in the seat as she tore down the road, and for a moment, she could pretend they were kids again heading for the reservoir to go fishing after doing their chores.
Destry barreled forward, having driven more dirt roads in her life than paved ones. The pickup rumbled across one cattle guard after another, then across the pasture, dropping down to the creek.
Because it was late in the year, the creek was low. She slowed as the pickup forded the stream, tires plunged over the rocks and through a half foot of crystal clear water before roaring up the other side.
Tall weeds between the two-track road brushed the bottom of the pickup, and rocks kicked up, pinging off the undercarriage. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Carson grab the handle over the door as she took the first turn.
“Sorry to see your driving hasn’t improved,” he said.
She laughed. “You’ve been gone too long.”
“Not long enough.”
“Come on, haven’t you missed this?” She found that hard to believe. Didn’t he notice how beautiful it was here? The air was so clear and clean. The land so pleasing to the eye. And there was plenty of elbow room for when you just wanted to stretch out some.
The road cut through the fertile valley, stubble fields a pale yellow, the freshly plowed acres in fallow dark with the turned soil.
“Apparently you haven’t been listening to me any more than WT has,” her brother said. “This is just land to me. I feel no need to take root in it.”
They fell silent, the only sound the roar of the engine and the spray of dirt clods and rocks kicked up by the tires. The land dropped toward the river, falling away in rolling hills that had turned golden under the bright sun of autumn.
Ahead she saw the brilliant blue of pooled water and smiled, feeling like a kid again. Over the next rise, she swung the pickup onto a rutted track that ended at the water’s edge. Summer had burned all the color out of the grass around the small lake. Only a few trees stood on the other side, their leaves rust red, many of the branches already bared off.
Destry parked the truck next to an old rowboat that lay upside down beside the water like a turtle in the sun. Getting out, together they flipped the boat over and carried it to the water before going back for the poles, tackle box and the cooler she’d packed.
“When was the last time you went fishing?” she asked as they loaded everything into the boat.
“Probably with you. As I recall I caught more fish than you, bigger ones, too.”
She laughed. “Apparently your memory hasn’t improved any more than my driving.”
Their gazes held for a long moment. Carson was the first to look away. “Hop in. If you’re determined to do this...” He pushed the rowboat off the shore and climbed in.
Destry breathed in the day, relaxing for the first time since her brother’s return. She dipped her fingers into the deep green water. It felt cold even with the October sun beating down on its surface.
“I assume you brought worms,” Carson said, reaching into the cooler. He opened the Styrofoam container and tossed her a wriggling night crawler, chuckling when she caught it without even making a face.
“You never were like other girls,” he said.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” The water rippled in the slight breeze as the boat drifted for a few moments before Carson took the oars. He rowed the boat out to the center of the reservoir, then let the tips of the oars skim the glistening surface as they drifted again.
Destry watched her red-and-white bobber float along on top of the water in the breeze. From the horizon came the loud honking of a large flock of geese. The eerie sound seemed to echo across the lake as the geese carved a dark V through the clear, cloudless blue.
Nothing signaled the change of season like the migration of the ducks and geese. She thought of all the seasons she’d seen come and go, so many of them without her brother, the lonesome call of the geese making her sad.
“I don’t want you to leave again,” she said without looking at him.
Water lapped softly at the side of the boat. The breeze lifted the loose tendrils of hair around her face. A half dozen ducks splashed in the shallows near the shore, taking flight suddenly in a spasm of wings. Beads of water hung in the air for an instant as iridescent as gleaming pearls.
“I’ll bet there aren’t any fish in this reservoir anymore,” Carson said. He was lying back on the seat, eyes closed, his pole tucked under one arm, the other arm over his face. He wore a T-shirt and an old pair of worn jeans, the legs rolled up, and a pair of equally old sneakers. The Western straw hat he’d been wearing rested on the floor of the boat.
“Doesn’t really matter if there are fish, does it?”
Carson moved the arm from his face enough to open one eye and look at her. “Only if you hope to catch something.”
“I’m happy just being here,” she said.
“You would be. Some people actually like to catch fish when they go fishing.” He went back to half dozing on the seat.
“Are
