Out of Range

TWENTY-TWO

Marybeth Pickett was boiling water and measuring uncooked strands of spaghetti for three when there was a heavy knock on the front door.

"Would you get that?" she asked Sheridan, who was working at the kitchen table.

"I'm doing my homework," her daughter said.

"Sheridan…"

"Okay, okay," Sheridan said with a put-upon sigh, pushing back her chair.

During hunting season, it wasn't unusual for people to come to their house at odd hours. Normally, if Joe wasn't there to take care of the problem, he could be reached by cell phone or radio and would come home. In the eight days he had been gone, Marybeth had felt blessed that things had been quiet. Since Joe had left she had known it wouldn't last. To top it off, there had been a message on the phone earlier from Phil Kiner in Laramie, who was being sent north to oversee Joe's district temporarily, saying he was delayed because he had to testify in court and wasn't sure when he'd make it.

Sheridan came back into the kitchen. "There's a man at the door who says he's here to turn himself in to the game warden."

"Oh, great," Marybeth said, setting the pasta on the counter and reducing the heat under the water.

"I think he's drunk," Sheridan whispered.

"Wonderful."

Marybeth gathered herself for a moment, then strode through the kitchen, Sheridan on her heels.

"I've got your back, Mom," Sheridan said in a low voice.

A large man wearing bloody camouflage clothing filled the doorway of the mudroom. His face was perfectly round, with flushed cherubic cheeks and glassy eyes.

"Joe isn't in," Marybeth said. "What can I help you with?"

"As I told the little lady, I'm here to turn myself in," he slurred.

Marybeth could smell whiskey on him from a few feet away.

"I was shooting at a buck but I hit a fawn somehow," the man said, choosing each word deliberately and over-enunciating. "I brung down the fawn to hand it over and to accept my citation."

"You brought it here?"

"Yes."

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"I don't know," the man said, his eyes glistening. "Whatever you do with dead fawns."

Marybeth looked to Sheridan, who shrugged.

"I'm afraid I can't take it," Marybeth said. "My husband is … not back until later." She almost said Joe was out of town, but they'd agreed before he left not to give out that information.

"Oh." The hunter seemed perplexed, and angry. "I didn't have to do this, you know. I coulda just left it up there and not said a damned word."

"I realize that," Marybeth said. "You did the right thing. I just don't have any way of helping you."

"That's a hell of a note. A man tries to do the right thing and he gets turned away."

Marybeth thought she recognized in the hunter the potential for him to quickly escalate from drunk and maudlin to drunk and enraged. She didn't want that to happen, and didn't want him in her house. She was grateful when Max-ine padded in from the kitchen. Sheridan reached down and grasped the dog's collar.

"If you left your number, I could have Joe get in touch with you," Marybeth said. She figured she'd give the information to him that night when he called to pass along to dispatch. Now, though, she wanted the man out of her house. The hunter was so drunk, Marybeth doubted he'd remember any of what she told him.

The hunter's eyes were now hard and dark. He glared at her and she involuntarily stepped back into Sheridan. Max-ine growled and strained on her collar. The inherent danger of the situation weighed on her, and she thought of safety and the safety of her children. If he took a step forward, she vowed, she would instruct Sheridan to let Maxine go and dial 911 while she went for the can of pepper spray in her purse.

But the man mumbled something, turned clumsily, and went out the door.

Marybeth and Sheridan stood still for a moment, watching the screen door wheeze shut.

"Whew," Sheridan said.

They heard a thump in the front lawn, then a truck start up and roar away toward Saddlestring.

Marybeth turned on the porch light and looked outside. There was a large bundle of some kind on the grass. Retrieving a flashlight from Joe's office, she went outside and found the dead fawn. It had been gut shot, and its tiny speckled body was splayed out in unnatural angles.

"That's sick," Sheridan said, joining her in the yard. "That poor little thing. You should have at least gotten his license plate number. That's what Dad would have done."

"I really don't need your help after the fact," Marybeth snapped back, still on edge.

"Fine," Sheridan said, spinning angrily on her heel and going into the house.

Marybeth called after her, "Sheridan, make sure to keep Lucy in the house."

Her daughter stopped in the doorway. "I'll be sure to send her right out."

"Sheridan…"

Back in the kitchen, Sheridan watched her mom use the wall phone to place two calls. One, she assumed, was to the house her dad was staying in. There was clearly no answer.

"Try his cell," Sheridan said from the table.

"I did. He's either got it turned off or he's out of range."

"Call dispatch."

Her mom shot her a look, then turned back to the phone. "I'm calling Nate."

"Are we going to eat dinner at some point?" Sheridan asked, not looking up from her homework. She knew her mother would call Nate. She'd known it for a year.

Nate Romanowski arrived at 9:00, tossed the fawn into the back seat of his Jeep, and came to the door.

"I can't let him see me like this!" Sheridan said, running from the family room in her pajamas. Marybeth was amused.

"Thank you so much, Nate," she said at the door.

"Not a problem. I'm good with dead bodies."

"I hope you're making a joke."

Nate shrugged. "Sort of."

"Have you eaten? We have some spaghetti left."

His silence told her he was hungry, and she invited him in.

"Mind if I wash up first?" he asked.

"Bathroom's down the hall," she said, walking to the kitchen to retrieve the covered bowl of spaghetti out of the refrigerator and put it in the microwave to heat. She set about making him garlic bread as well.

From down the hall she heard Nate say, "Hi, Sheridan," followed by Sheridan's "Eeek!" and the slamming of her bedroom door.

Nate was still smiling from the exchange when he came to the table. "I appreciate this," he said. "I'm getting pretty sick and tired of my own cooking. I used to have some imagination in the kitchen, but now I seem stuck in a broiled meat rut. Oooh, and garlic bread too."

She sat at the other end of the table and tried not to watch him eat. It still struck her how interesting he was to look at, with his sharp angles and fluid movements. Despite his size and ranginess, he looked coiled up, like he could strike out quickly at any time. There was something about him that reminded her of a large cat.

"Did you get the name of the guy who left the deer?" Nate asked between mouthfuls.

"No, and I didn't get his license plate either."

"I could track him down if you want me to."

"How would you go about doing that?" she asked.

He flashed his sly grin. "You said he was a fat guy. He probably hasn't washed the blood out of his truck. I would guess he's an out-of-stater or you'd know him. Saddlestring only has a few places to stay."

"Mmmmm."

"So do you want me to find him?"

"No," she said. "I'm just glad he's gone."

He nodded and ate.

"No one's ever liked my spaghetti so much."

"Sorry, am I eating like a pig?"

"No. I'm glad you like it."

He cleaned out the bowl, then wiped his plate with the last piece of garlic bread. "So, how's Joe doing over in Jackson?"

Marybeth sighed. "He seems harried. We've had trouble communicating."

Nate looked up sharply.

She felt her neck get red. "I mean he calls when I can't talk, or I call and the connection is bad. That's what I mean."

At the front door, Nate thanked Marybeth again for the meal.

"It's the least I could do," she said, "since I'm such a lousy game warden."

He smiled uncomfortably, she thought.

"Where are you taking the deer? Are you going to bury it?"

Nate shook his head. "Some of it's going to feed my birds," he said. "The rest I'll dispose of in a place I found out in the breaklands."

"Way out there?"

He hesitated for a moment, as if deciding whether to let her in on a secret. Then: "It's a nasty thermal spring. I found it last winter. There's natural sulfuric acid in the water. I tossed a road-killed antelope in it and the meat was gone within a week and the bones were dissolved in a month."

"Does Joe know about it?" she asked.

Nate nodded. "I showed it to him. He tried to figure out where it came from, to see if it was somehow connected to the underground thermal activity by Thermopolis or in Yellowstone Park."

"Sounds like Joe."

Nate grinned. "Tell him I said hello."

"I will," she said, "if I ever talk with him."

Nate looked at her, puzzled, then turned and went to his

Jeep. Marybeth closed the door and leaned back against it, glad that Sheridan hadn't heard the exchange, and ashamed for thinking that.

An hour later, Marybeth answered the telephone on the first ring.

"Joe?"

"No, it's your mother," Missy said. "We're back from our honeymoon. Sorry to disappoint you."

"No, it's not that-"

"Italy was just so wonderful. The people are warm, the food is out of this world."

"We had spaghetti tonight," Marybeth said morosely, and immediately regretted saying it.

"Not like the spaghetti in Italy," her mother said. "Oh, you'll need to bring the girls over. We've gifts for everyone. Even Joe."

Marybeth told her mother that Joe was in Jackson, and had been gone for over a week.

"My third husband and I used to have a condo there," Missy said. "I lost use of it after the divorce."

"I remember," Marybeth said, not seeing the point, other than to instinctively top anything her daughter said.

"I bet you're getting lonely," Missy said. "I know what it's like to be abandoned. You always need to know, Marybeth, that you can bring the children and stay here with them if you want to. There's room for everybody and you're always welcome. Keep in mind that this is my ranch now too."

After she hung up, Marybeth saw she had missed a call. For a moment her heart leaped. But when she listened to the message, there was only breathing. Caller ID said it came from area code 720.

She felt vaguely unsettled as she cleaned up the kitchen after her daughters were in bed. Why hadn't Joe called? Anger at him was overshadowing her concern. This was getting to be a habit.

Then, as if there were a breach in her mental dam, several unpleasant thoughts began to trickle forth, followed by a steady stream of them, then a torrent. She was really angry with Joe. Sure, she'd encouraged him to take the opportunity, but while she was back home struggling with Sheridan's attitude and dealing with a dead deer in the front yard, he was at a resort community. She could imagine him eating out, seeing new things, meeting new and interesting people. His days were so rich and full that he couldn't make the time or arrangements to call her. And here she was, in their crappy little house outside their crappy little town. He had left her stuck in the life that was about him, not her, not them. He had left her to balance her business, the family, his responsibilities, and the checkbook. She had once been a promising pre-law student. Now, she was Joe Pickett's facilitator, his unpaid assistant. She was stuck in a particular time and place while the world, like a ship on the horizon, moved on without her. Soon, she thought, it would be too far away to ever meet up with again.

Talking with her mother hadn't helped. Not a bit.

Maybe she should just follow the example of her mother, she thought, who discarded men and traded up. Look where her mother was now. There's room for everybody, she had said. Keep in mind that this is my ranch now too. And what did Marybeth have? Besides her daughters, of course? She looked around. Even her own house was owned by the state of Wyoming.

Marybeth found herself staring at her reflection in the microwave oven door. Her expression was angry, and desperate. And guilty.

Joe was doing his best. He always did his best. But she couldn't help wondering when Nate would come back and have dinner again.