Joe was at an odd position: facedown on the seat with a dog underneath him and the shotgun at his side. It would be difficult to scramble around to defend himself.

Slowly, he rolled to his back and squared his shoulders. He used Daisy as a pillow. He raised the shotgun so it was next to him on the seat, pointing toward the driver’s-side door.

The crunching got closer.

Joe lowered his eyelids, but didn’t shut them tight.

There was a beat of silence, then the top of Bull’s face appeared in the driver’s-side window. It vanished before Joe could react.

He waited, then Bull slowly raised back up. Joe saw the crown of Bull’s cowboy hat with a dusting of snow on it, then the brim. Then Bull’s narrow-set eyes. When Bull saw Joe’s condition, saw the blood, his eyes scrunched in a smile.

Joe raised the muzzle and shot Bull in the forehead and he dropped out of view.

The sound of the discharge within the cab was so loud, all Joe could hear was a dull buzzing in his ears.

—

HE SAT UP and pulled on the door handle and kicked it open with his boot. The body, not two feet from the truck, thrashed in the snow for thirty seconds, then went still. A river of blood steamed through the snow like hot syrup. Bull died with the top half of his head gone and his arms and legs splayed out as if he were making a snow angel. The .223 Ruger Mini-14 tactical rifle lay at his side. The barrel was still so hot from all the firing, it had melted the snow around it.

Joe slid down from the seat. When his boots hit the ground, he swooned on rubber legs and he grasped the side mirror for support. Daisy jumped out and went straight to the body, sniffing it from top to bottom, her tail working like a metronome.

He was still holding the mirror bracket for support when he looked at his reflection. He thought, No wonder Bull thought I was dead.

Thick rivulets of blood covered his entire face. His collar and the front of his shirt were black with blood, and when he turned his head he could see where blood was still pulsing out of an ugly slash just above his right ear. He touched the wound with the tips of his fingers and found it numb. The bullet had broken skin and exposed a white line of slick bone. He’d never seen any of his skull before.

One more inch to the left and he would have been dead.

—

AFTER CLEANING HIS FACE with snow, Joe opened his first-aid kit and did the best job he could of taping a square of gauze over the wound. Within a few seconds, the gauze turned pink, but the blood had stopped flowing.

He was even able to clamp his hat back on.

When he turned and saw that Daisy was eating snow near Bull’s body that had been colored with a mist of blood and bits of brain matter, he yelled harshly at her. She slunk away, looking humiliated.

Then he threw up between his boots and waited for the last of the adrenaline in his bloodstream to burn off.

27

Sheridan and Lucy Pickett stood shoulder to shoulder on a small open balcony they’d discovered on the fifth floor of the hospital—April’s floor—and watched the snow fall on downtown Billings. Although it wasn’t yet dark, the streetlights had come on below and they lit up the snowflakes like fireflies. The streets were black and wet and the girls could hear the distant sizzle of tires.

“God, I’m sick of winter,” Sheridan said. “It seems like it’s never going to end.”

Lucy nodded in agreement. She was still a little surprised when her older sister talked to her like she was a peer. Although the circumstances that had brought them together were terrible, Lucy felt more mature and intelligent standing there next to Sheridan, who was both.

Since Sheridan had been away at college for three years, the family adjusted. When Sheridan came home for summers or holidays it got confusing because no one really knew what role to assume while she was back. Was it like before, or different? Sheridan seemed to want to maintain the independence she had gotten used to in Laramie, but at the same time she expected to be treated as she had been before she left, when it came time to having dinner, getting laundry done, and having her parents pay for everything. At the same time, her old responsibilities—feeding the dogs, putting away the dishes, vacuuming the living room—had fallen to Lucy, and Sheridan had no compulsion to take them back. The hospital seemed like a neutral location, though, neither home nor college. Lucy enjoyed being regarded as a peer by her sister. Finally.

“People use this balcony to smoke,” Sheridan said, using the toe of her shoe to scrape flattened butts off the concrete. “I’m sure they’re not supposed to, but they must come out here to light up when nobody is looking. You’d think doctors and nurses would know better, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess.”

“You’d be amazed how many kids I know who smoke cigarettes,” Sheridan said. “Of course, even more of them smoke weed. It’s just too easy to get down in Colorado now.”

“I know some kids who smoke weed,” Lucy said.

“That’s too young.”

“You should tell them that. I’m sure they’d stop,” Lucy said with a sly smile.

Sheridan huffed. She obviously didn’t like getting needled, even when she deserved it. Sheridan could be bossy and haughty because she was the oldest and most put-together. At least that’s what everybody thought.

Sheridan said, “Don’t you start smoking.”

Lucy shook her head. “I tried it and it made my throat sore. I just didn’t like it at all.”

“Good.”

“What about you?”

Sheridan watched an airplane descend toward the Billings airport up on the rimrocks above the city. She said, “I smoked weed with April once, back before she turned into a cowgirl. I guess I was trying to bond with her, sort of, during her outlaw period. I didn’t like the way it made me feel. I hate not feeling in control. And don’t you dare tell Mom and Dad.”

“I won’t. Was it yours or April’s?”

“Hers.” After a beat: “Of course.”

“Do you think she’ll ever be . . . normal?” Lucy asked her older sister.

“I don’t know. She looks terrible.”

“Mom said she looked worse last week.”

Sheridan shook her head. “You just wonder, you know? What if she comes out of it with real brain damage? How are Mom and Dad going to cope with that? What if she needs constant care? If that’s the case, maybe it would be better if . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Don’t say it,” Lucy said.

“You’re right.”

The balcony door opened and Marybeth looked out and said, “There you two are.” She sounded frustrated. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Sheridan said. “Just watching the snow. Did you think we were smoking?”

“Why would I think that?” Marybeth said.

“I was just kidding, Mom,” Sheridan said, shaking her head.

“Aren’t you getting cold?”

“A little,” Sheridan said.

Lucy asked her mom, “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Marybeth said. “Well, not really. I can’t get your father on the phone. I’ve called the house and his cell phone. Finally, I called the dispatcher and she said she’d try to raise him.”

Both girls turned toward their mother. Whenever she referred to Joe as “your father,” it meant she was angry with him. Sheridan said, “This sounds kind of familiar.”

“I know,” Marybeth said. “It happens all the time. But I don’t want him to go off the grid now.”

“You know Dad,” Sheridan said. Lucy always envied her sister’s close relationship with their dad. It was a result of being the oldest and also being the most willing to spend time in his world. At the same time, Lucy knew she couldn’t fake interest in hunting, fishing, and driving around in a pickup, checking licenses.