Joe hadn’t called all afternoon or evening, and she assumed he was once again in a place with no cell service. Although she should be used to it by now, it was still tough to be completely out of touch with him. She hoped he felt the same way. He’d said he did.

Throughout the day, Dulcie Schalk had kept her informed about what was going on in the mountains through texts to her phone. Marybeth knew that a command center had been established on the Big Stream Ranch, that Sheriff Reed had been marginalized (Dulcie was furious about that), and that Joe had been asked to lead a small team into the mountains where he’d last seen Butch Roberson. Butch claimed he had taken hostages, which ramped the entire horrible situation to a new level, not to mention that one of the hostages he had was ex-Sheriff Kyle McLanahan. There was some confusion about a report that an innocent hunter may or may not have been killed. Up until she heard about the hostages, Marybeth thought Joe might be able to concoct a way for it all to end peacefully.

She tried not to consider a worst-case scenario where Joe and Butch would be at each other, trying to take the other out. If it weren’t for the worst-case scenarios she’d conjured up over the years that were subsequently dashed by events not quite as dire, Marybeth would have worried herself to death. She thought, as she often did, that wives who didn’t have husbands in law enforcement had no idea how wrenching it could be.

—

IT WASN’T SUPPOSED to be like this, she thought. Her mother, Missy, had married up five times and amassed a fortune in money and land. Missy had hoped her daughter would be practical and predatory, but instead she’d married Joe. Marybeth had steeled herself to defy Missy and her ways; to show that happiness and success could be achieved without guile and calculation. And for a while there, Marybeth thought she might win that argument.

She imagined a life where she was back in business—a successful business—and Joe could change jobs. She knew how much he loved being a game warden, but frustrations with the bureaucracy and outright threats to their family over the years had taken a toll.

Sure, the journey of their marriage and their prospects seemed to follow a pattern of one step forward, two steps back. But now, it seemed, they were backpedaling furiously. The Saddlestring Hotel project had offered hope and vindication.

She sat up and rubbed her face with her hands. She hated to think like this. After all, she and Joe had two wonderful daughters they loved and who loved them, and a ward who might have recently turned the corner. The jury was still out on April, of course, and Marybeth hesitated to become too optimistic, but still . . .

—

WHEN HER CELL PHONE lit up on the bedstand, she scrambled to it, hoping to see it was Joe. Instead, it read: MATT DONNELL.

She didn’t want to talk to him, and assumed he was calling to console her with his slick realtor talk. He’d wrecked their lives a few hours earlier, and he was the last person she wanted to talk with again. He’d probably be scheming about ways to get around some of the regulations if she’d just hang tight, but she was still too devastated. She let the call go to voicemail.

Marybeth put the phone back down on the bedstand, listened to the chime indicating he’d left a message, and lay back on the bed.

The digital clock read 10:28 p.m.

—

A MINUTE LATER, she heard the sound of gravel popping on Bighorn Road and saw the sweep of headlights light up the curtains. The vehicle outside slowed, which piqued her interest, and she heard it pull off the road in front of their house. The engine revved for a few seconds and died as it was turned off.

Marybeth stood and approached the window. She hoped it wasn’t a stray hunter or fisherman stopping at the house to talk to Joe about something. She could never get used to these men, often smelling of cigarette smoke and beer, thinking it was okay to simply drop by any hour of the night. Joe was usually patient with them, which was part of his job, but she wasn’t as patient.

She parted the curtain to see the lights from Pam Roberson’s Ford Explorer go out. She was parked next to Hannah’s car. Marybeth waited for a few moments, expecting Pam to open her door and get out. But for whatever reason, she was just sitting there.

Marybeth clicked on the lights and looked at herself in the mirror over the dresser. Her eyes were dark and gaunt, and she smiled, trying to make herself look and feel happy. She hoped it worked.

—

LUCY AND HANNAH were huddled together under a light blanket on the couch, watching some kind of awful teen reality show featuring tattooed boys and pregnant sixteen-year-old girls. When Marybeth came down the stairs, Lucy expertly changed the channel to a nature show.

Marybeth said sternly, “You two ought to get to bed,” as she passed them, her way of telling them she didn’t approve of what they’d been watching and hadn’t been fooled by the maneuver.

Pam Roberson sat in the Ford, her hands on her lap, staring straight ahead. When Marybeth went out the gate in front of her, Pam seemed to snap to attention and quickly got out.

“I’m sorry,” Pam said. “I know it’s late, but I didn’t know where to go. There are television trucks in front of my house and these people keep knocking on my door. Butch’s driver’s license picture—which is a really bad one—is all over the news. I just couldn’t stay there, so I snuck out the back and drove over here.”

Marybeth took Pam by the arm and ushered her toward their house.

“You can stay as long as you like,” she said.

“I guess I wanted to see Hannah,” Pam said. “I wanted to be near her.”

“I understand.”

Pam paused before they went in. “Marybeth, did you hear about the hostages?”

“Yes.”

“I just can’t believe it. It’s so awful. It’s like I just don’t know Butch anymore. It’s like there’s some dangerous criminal up there in the mountains who has my husband’s name.”

Marybeth nodded and led the way inside.

—

LUCY AND HANNAH glanced up to see who was behind Marybeth, and Hannah looked stricken. The color had drained out of her face, and her eyes were huge. Marybeth was taken aback at first, and hoped one of her daughters never acted that way when she entered a room. Then she thought Hannah was likely anticipating bad news and assumed Pam was there to deliver it.

“Hey, girls,” Pam said wearily.

“Mom . . .” Hannah said.

“I haven’t heard anything about your dad,” Pam said, trying to put up a strong front—like Marybeth.

“So he’s okay?” Hannah asked.

“I just don’t know. But you know your dad. He’s tougher than the rest.”

Marybeth recognized the phrase as one from a Chris LeDoux song, and it broke her heart.

“Let’s have a glass of wine,” Marybeth said, leading Pam through the living room into the kitchen.

—

AFTER TWO GLASSES OF WINE, Marybeth sent Lucy and Hannah to bed and made up a spare bed on the couch in the living room for Pam. The wine seemed to have gone straight to her head, probably from being overtired and stressed, and Pam slurred her words while Marybeth showed her where the towels were.

Pam went immediately to sleep and was snoring by the time Marybeth finished closing the house up for the night. While Marybeth tiptoed through the living room toward the stairs, the front door opened and Sheridan burst in.

Sheridan instinctively began to toss her backpack on the couch when she realized someone was sleeping on it, and jerked it back before it hit Pam Roberson in the face.

“Yikes,” she said.

Marybeth shushed Sheridan and gestured for her to follow her out into the kitchen.

Sheridan sat down at the table, obviously puzzled. Marybeth poured a glass of wine. Sheridan grinned and asked, “Do you mind if I have a glass?”