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 reallyangry 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.

TWENTY-THREE

Dr. Shane Graves's place was huge and rambling, built into the side of a sagebrush-covered hill three miles from the highway. In the night, it looked like a ship at sea with all lights blazing. Joe could see no other lights in any direction. He drove up a crushed stone driveway and stopped adjacent to the front door.

Graves, tall and thin with a shock of white hair and hollowed, pockmarked cheeks, opened the door before Joe knocked. Graves wore a long velour robe, socks, and beaded moccasins. He introduced himself and offered his hand. Joe suppressed a flinch at the touch of Graves's cool, long, smooth fingers. "My office is down this hallway," Graves said, leading Joe inside. "The Jensen file is on the desk as well as a box of evidence. Please don't remove any of the items from the Ziploc bags without asking my permission."

Joe followed the ME down the dark hallway, but not before stealing a glance into a well-appointed great room where soft music swelled and low-wattage lamps created a warm, subdued glow. A man about Graves's age sat on a couch in the great room. He looked to be a working cowboy- worn Wranglers, scuffed boots, long-sleeved canvas shirt, long-brimmed hat grasped in his hands-but he didn't acknowledge Joe. The cowboy sat with a forward-leaning posture with his eyes fixed on something high on the wall that suggested to Joe that the man thought that if he remained still he couldn't be seen. The cowboy, Joe guessed, was Graves's companion for the evening.