After inching along for twenty minutes behind the sheep, he pulled to the side and let the herd get ahead of him.

But not all of them did.

Although the rancher and his Hispanic cowboys had moved the herd over the next rise, there was a single ewe struggling to keep up. Timber watched her and narrowed his eyes. She was obviously old and lame, and she had no fluidity to her gait. She pitched up and down with every step. The rancher and his hands probably didn’t know they’d lost one.

—

IN PRISON, Timber had learned never to take revenge without really thinking it through. On this, his mother didn’t have a clue. She only knew about the times he’d gotten into trouble. She didn’t know about the times he’d carefully planned something.

He’d wait for the perfect scenario to occur. That involved making sure the COs weren’t in the yard or were looking elsewhere. He’d do it where the closed-circuit cameras couldn’t see him. He made sure his weapon was honed and reliable so it wouldn’t snap in two on the initial impact.

So he eyed that straggling ewe.

When he didn’t see either the rancher or the Mexicans come back for her, he leaned over and popped the button on the glove compartment.

—

THERE WAS DUST in the air from both the herd and the sheep cowboys. It just hung there.

The ewe was bawling, calling ahead, saying, Wait for me.

She paused when Timber walked up next to her. She looked at him with a blank expression only domesticated farm animals like cows and sheep are capable of, one of pure blind trust and incredible stupidity. She was large, nearly two-hundred pounds, all of it wool and mutton and dead dumb eyes.

Timber stabbed her with the knife behind her front shoulder, then he did it again. He stabbed her like a manic jackhammer, so many times and so quickly that he was out of breath.

The ewe collapsed, then rolled to her side. Her last breath rattled out in a sigh and she was still. Better that, he thought, than coyotes tearing her apart.

That’s the secret, he thought as he backed away. It wasn’t like the movies when a single knife thrust did them in. The more stab wounds, and the deeper they were, the better. It was exactly as he’d done in the yard to that son of a bitch who’d called him out for being white trash. Twenty-seven stab wounds in less than half a minute. There was no way that guy would live and identify his assailant. It had been so sudden and so violent that Timber would never have to worry about that guy again.

—

TIMBER WALKED BACK to the Cavalier with his entire right arm greasy with ewe blood and lanolin from the wool. The ceramic green knife was red.

He paused at a spring seep in the ground and plunged his right arm into it and watched curlicues of red form at the surface. When he withdrew his arm, there was no more sheep’s blood on it and the green knife was clean.

He thought: Do it fast and go home.

—

WHEN TIMBER CATES got back into his car, he opened the Playmate cooler that Brenda had left for him. In the distance, the dust cloud formed by the herd of sheep was moving to the right, away from the highway. He’d have a clear shot now.

He found a large package of fried chicken wrapped in aluminum foil and he gleefully ate it all and threw the bones out the window. Even though it was cold, it was the best fried chicken—the best food—he’d had in three years.

She’d told him: Don’t forget to put on your scrubs.

He reviewed the map to the hospital and the photo of the girl whose death would free Dallas once and for all, as she put it, and he thought:

Who loves his mama the most?

24

Light rain was changing to snow when Joe reached his home on Bighorn Road.

Spring storms in the Rockies always had the most impact. Unlike the powder snow that came down in the winter, spring snow was heavy with moisture. It piled up quickly and broke tree branches and downed power lines. Although it usually melted down within a day or so, the heavy wet blanket seemed like a cruel ending to a harsh winter, especially when the trees were starting to bud and baby animals had just been born.

His plan was to feed the horses and Daisy, grab a change of clothes, and head to Billings to meet up with the rest of his family before the storm hit.

A text from Marybeth and an unexpected visit from Revis Wentworth changed all that.

The text read:

We made it safe and sound to Billings and the hospital in front of the storm. The doctors have postponed bringing April out of the coma until tomorrow or the next day. We’re getting two rooms at a motel, but no need to try to get here tonight. Word is the highways may close anyway. I’ll call when we get settled.

xoxoxoxoxo,

MB

—

WENTWORTH’S WHITE PICKUP was parked at an odd angle in front of Joe’s house, but Wentworth didn’t appear to be inside. Joe parked in front of his garage and approached the pickup cautiously with his hand on the grip of his Glock. The cab was unoccupied except for an empty Wild Turkey bottle on the passenger seat.

Puzzled, Joe pushed through his front gate and walked across the lawn. The snow was starting to stick to the grass, big thick flakes of it, and he could feel it melting through his uniform shirt.

Several scenarios went through his mind when it came to Wentworth. He could imagine the man sitting in his lounge chair with a shotgun across his lap, waiting for Joe to come in the door. Or he was there with Annie Hatch and a new story to try and get Joe off his trail.

Or . . .

He was drunk and passed out on their couch. Which he was.

Joe sighed and mounted the porch steps and entered his house. As he walked through the mudroom, he heard Daisy whimper from behind his closed bedroom door.

He stood over Wentworth, who had obviously found Joe’s bottle of bourbon and had drunk a quarter of it, judging by the level of liquor in the bottle, and Joe said, “Hey, wake up.”

Wentworth didn’t move. He looked like he hadn’t shaved or showered since Joe had seen him last. He reeked of alcohol and sweat. His hair looked greasy and was pasted to his skull.

“Wake up, Revis,” Joe said loudly, nudging Wentworth’s foot with his boot tip.

Wentworth groaned but his eyes didn’t open.

Joe thought about dousing the man with a bowl of ice water, but he didn’t want to get his couch wet. Instead, he let Daisy out of the bedroom where Wentworth had obviously shut her inside.

After quivering and rubbing herself against Joe’s legs to say hello, she romped into the living room and started licking Wentworth’s face, just as planned. As she did, Joe got a digital micro-recorder out of his breast pocket and turned it on to record, then put it back while Daisy lapped away. At first, Wentworth responded by smiling and mewing. Joe could only guess what was going on in the man’s mind and assumed it involved a vision of Annie Hatch. Then Wentworth cracked one eye, saw Daisy’s mouth a few inches away, and screamed.

He shot up to a sitting position and raised his hands as if surrendering.

“Get that animal away from me.”

“Daisy,” Joe said, and his Labrador padded over to him.

“Stay.”

Daisy sat on her haunches and looked from Joe to Wentworth, who was obviously terrified. Wentworth used his sleeves to dry his face and neck.