All things which make noise on the side of the path,
Do not come down the path.

—African proverb
(Left by Aaron Anderson, who just found out the cancer’s gone)

Chapter 7

I had an unfavorable opinion of Jack West before I ever set eyes on him. Aside from the unsolved murder issue, my first reconnaissance mission inside the house ignited an inner simmering that had nothing to do with the spicy breakfast burrito. My dislike for the man grew each time I opened a cabinet door, peered into a dark corner, or looked inside one of the tiny, dark, musty-smelling closets.

The size of the closets wasn’t the problem. The real problem was that they were already occupied. When I opened doors and turned on lights, the current residents scampered in all directions, fanning away from the light like drops of rain on the windshield of a car going seventy miles per hour. They disappeared beneath the layers of old wallpaper and cheesecloth that hung over dirty, loosely pieced slats of wood.

In dark corners dust motes gathered, filled with Brillo-like wads of human hair, animal fur of some kind, bits of rodent-eaten cardboard, the droppings that mice leave behind, assorted body parts from crickets and spiders, and the kind of giant roaches that slide quickly between wallboards. The kitchen cabinets were similarly objectionable, although someone had lined the edges of each shelf with baby-blue powder that I had a bad feeling was intended to kill the roaches.

As disturbing as I found the mess in the cabinets, the mice didn’t seem to be bothered by it in the slightest. I saw two of them, and evidence of more. My mother had often preached about the disease-carrying potential of rodents and insects, and as much as I was determined not to become my mother, I’d never in my life been in a place this repulsively filthy or filled with vermin.

There was no way we were unpacking the U-Haul here, much less the shipping crate when it arrived in a day or two. I wanted to grab my suitcase and purse, run out the door, and never come back.

I wanted my mommy. But if my mother saw this place, she’d have me hospitalized and checked for communicable diseases. I couldn’t believe I’d slept here last night. On an air mattress. On the floor. No telling what might have been crawling underneath, over the top, under the covers, back and forth over my skin . . .

The sound of a vehicle rattling up the driveway interrupted the horror-movie scene in my mind as a shudder descended down my body.

I seized the only ray of hope I could come up with: Perhaps the person in the white truck was a ranch worker. Perhaps Jack West was out of town—Daniel had said his oil-company offices were in Houston—and he had no idea what shape the house was in. Perhaps whoever was supposed to prepare the house for move-in had failed to do it. Clearly this place had been sitting empty for a while, given over to the closet critters and the stuffed heads on the walls.

Taking a deep breath, I unclenched my hands and shook out the tension. Maybe communications had somehow broken down, and Mr. West didn’t realize we were arriving so soon. No man in his right mind would lure a research scientist with a master’s degree and his family halfway across the country to live in a place like this.

No man in his right mind . . .

Outside the window, Daniel stepped away from the U-Haul, and Nick trotted curiously to the gate, trailed by Pecos the dog. I squinted through the dirt-encrusted glass as the truck rolled to a stop and a man stepped out, the patchy shade of a magnolia tree slipping over his cowboy hat and faded pearl-snapped western shirt. He was tall, a head taller than Daniel even, and broad-shouldered with a thick build. His knees bowed outward slightly, his jeans tucked into boots that accentuated the arc.

Grabbing a napkin from breakfast and wiping greasy dirt off the inside of the window, I tried to get a better view of my first honest-to-goodness cowboy. He very much looked the part. He even had a bright red bandana tied around his neck, just like in the movies. I was suddenly enamored. I’d never met a real live cowboy. I’d rubbed elbows with a few congressmen and senators who claimed to be, but this man was authentic. Most certainly, this was not Jack West. Even from here, I could see that his shirt was threadbare, a piece torn away near the elbow. His jeans had holes on both front legs where car keys or loose change had worn through the fabric. This was no millionaire, but a workingman. Perhaps he was the ranch foreman Mr. West had mentioned in his communications with Daniel.

The cowboy and Daniel greeted each other with a handshake, and something about it stopped me just as I was about to move toward the door. My heart did a quick flip-flop in my chest. The burn started in my stomach again. A fluttery, panicked feeling beat its wings with the desperation of a sparrow trapped in the rafters of a shopping mall. Sometimes you can tell exactly what’s being said, just by watching a conversation. I knew even before the stranger turned to follow Daniel to the house—this was the man himself, ragged cowboy clothes or not. This was the infamous Jack West. And it was clear from the body language that he wasn’t one bit surprised we were here. It was also clear that no apologies were being offered, which meant that he didn’t see any problem with moving a family into a filthy, smelly, vermin-infested house.

I felt our lives sliding off a cliff. If there was one thing my father, who was a fantastic judge of people, had taught me, it was that present behavior predicts future behavior. Most people will tell you who they are within the first five minutes, Mal, he’d advised me when I left for my post-college embassy job in Tokyo. You show me someone who doesn’t care what kind of first impression he makes, I’ll show you someone who’s the center of his own universe. Look out.

I felt sick. No one who intended to treat an employee decently would begin a relationship this way. Daniel and I had just made the biggest mistake of our lives. We’d quit our jobs, we had almost no savings to fall back on, and nearly everything we owned was in a shipping container headed to Texas. We were trapped, hopelessly entangled, like the rat pills and the cricket legs in the dust motes.

Tears pressed, and my last romantic thoughts of this move to Texas as one big adventure faded like a mirage on a hot day. I wavered between running for the bathroom or choking down the emotion and greeting Jack West properly. Years of being dragged along to boring lobby-sponsored family events had taught me the art of the pasted-on smile. I knew how to pretend to be happy when I wasn’t, but some situations are beyond even the pasty smile. Our future was involved here. Our family.

They were headed this way now, Jack striding up the footpath with Daniel. Nick followed along, Pecos at his heels, both of them darting surreptitious looks at Mr. West’s hulking frame, as if they couldn’t decide what to make of him. He gave no regard to either of them. Apparently he wasn’t interested in friendly dogs or adorable children. Another one of my father’s bits of advice: You can assess a man by how he reacts to those most vulnerable.

My head swirled, and I turned to make a dash for the bathroom, but something strange happened. I can only describe it as the essence of the Ellery women inhabiting my body. I could hear my mother and Grandma Louisa Ellery whispering in my ear. Invisible hands pulled me upward like a puppet on strings. Stand up straight, Grandma Louisa commanded. An Ellery woman does not bow to anyone. My mother added, Make a good impression. A wife can be her husband’s best asset, if she knows how to present herself. . . .

I greeted Daniel and Jack West as they stepped into the sunny porch-like room with the old oak desk and the icky yellow carpet. Jack West was even larger and more intimidating in a confined space. He was six foot five at least, with ruddy skin, black eyebrows, and a thick head of gray hair that tumbled from his straw cowboy hat when he took it off to mop his forehead. His piercing blue eyes were cool and aloof in a way that brought Corbin’s rumors to mind again. Daniel’s new boss had the countenance of someone who could murder two people, hide the bodies, and not be haunted by his own conscience.

He had the hands for it, too. His broad, long-fingered grip compacted the bones in my knuckles when he greeted me. He didn’t smile along with the crushing grip, but merely met my gaze, as if the display of strength were more of a test than anything. I squeezed back. The Gymies would have been proud. All those pre-wedding workouts were good for something.

“Y’all are settled.” Jack West’s words were more of a statement than a question, requiring no answer. His slow drawl, more Southern than western, echoed through the room in a baritone perfect for voice-overs. He seemed oblivious to the echo and the lack of furniture or boxes in the house. If he wondered why we hadn’t moved anything in, he didn’t ask. His gaze swept the chalky, slightly crazed paint job on the walls and then skimmed the stained yellow carpet without interest.

“Uhhh, no, not . . . exactly . . .” I stammered. This house is a wreck, have you noticed?

Beyond Jack’s broad shoulder, Daniel took a step to one side and widened his eyes with an almost imperceptible headshake. He’d been watching me go into panic mode about the house all morning. He’d even joined me in panic mode several times. He’d agreed that surely there was some mistake, and Jack West was not aware of the condition of the house. Now Daniel seemed to be taking it all back. He was giving me the don’t-rock-the-boat look.

I sent an eye-flash back at him when Jack’s attention darted to the dog barking outside. On the back porch, Nick had found the tennis ball, and he and Pecos were playing keep-away again.

In the few seconds while Jack’s attention was elsewhere, unspoken dialogue pinged back and forth between Daniel and me with amazing clarity, considering that we were new at this marriage thing. All of a sudden, we could read each other’s minds. I understood quickly and clearly that Daniel had just found out Jack West thought the house was shipshape as is, or at least that it was good enough for us. The very idea I’d been trying to backhand away was now landing smack-dab in the middle of our reality.

“Swimmin’ hole down at the creek,” Jack said flatly, seeming to be talking about Nick, though it was hard to tell. Jack was one of the strangest people I had ever met, and considering that I’d grown up in and around DC, that was saying something. “Rest of the hired hands’ kids like it. Or the lake. Save on bathwater.”

While the bathwater comment was weird, I took heart in the fact that he seemed to be suggesting something fun for Nick to do. Maybe he did have some sentiment toward children, after all. Someone who cared about kids couldn’t be all bad. The term rest of the hired hands bothered me, though. Daniel wasn’t a hired hand; he was a scientist, a business partner, a part owner in any future bio-agricultural patents developed here.

“We haven’t really looked around at all.” Daniel’s answer had an uncertain, almost apologetic quality.

I felt the need to be honest. No sense starting out a business relationship without the terms negotiated. “We’ve been looking at the issues with the house . . . cleaning . . . and some repairs . . .” My mother would not have been pleased with me for piping up rather than waiting for my husband to do it, but there was a great big elephant in the room, and it was standing on my toes.

Daniel lost his balance and took a quick step backward, his mouth dropping open. He sent a warning grimace my way.

Jack gave the house a cursory glance that changed from slightly surprised to patently disinterested in the space of a second or two. His tree trunk arms rested above the thickened midsection of a sixty-something man who obviously worked to keep in shape. “Ranch account at the hardware store in Moses Lake. Need anything—paint, lumber, carpet cleaner—get it there. Put it on my charge.”

How about a flame thrower? I entertained a mental image of blasting the interior of the house, just nuking everything.

“What about an exterminator?” I asked, and Daniel coughed softly, mortified.

Jack started for the door, dismissing the issue offhandedly. “Ask at the hardware store. They’ll tell you what to use. Sprayers are in the equipment shed behind my little house out back. The shed’s unlocked, the little house is locked. No one’s welcome in there—or out on Firefly Island.” He turned a hard look my way, as if making certain I understood.

Time seemed to hitch for a moment. The look in his eye sent a sharp, icy sliver straight to my stomach.

“Pack a little steel wool or caulk wherever the mice come in, if you’re bothered by it.” He reached for the screen door, and Nick moved out of the way on the other side. “Get some new screen for this thing, too. Lake breeds mosquitos. They’ll suck you dry while you sleep.” Pulling the door open, he stepped through, then walked toward his truck with long strides.

All I could do was watch him go and stare at the screen with my mouth frozen in a weird sneer. “What was that . . . ? Is he serious?”

Daniel hovered, seeming shell-shocked, then he rubbed his forehead roughly and started after his new boss. “Now wasn’t the time to bring up the house.”

The words went in like an arrow, and I instantly felt betrayed. “I thought you would bring it up, and . . .” I bit down on the sentence, severing it before it could become a return volley. It wouldn’t help for Daniel and me to fight. “It’s ridiculous that anyone would expect people to live this way, Daniel. The house should be fit for habitation, at least. A bottle of bug spray and a jug of paint from the hardware store aren’t going to fix what’s wrong here. I don’t know how to paint a house or . . . exterminate bugs . . .” A shudder of revulsion went through me.

In the yard, Jack West had stopped to investigate the ripening fruit on a small tree. They looked like plums, although I’d never seen a plum in the wild before.

Nick progressed slowly in Mr. West’s direction, one step at a time, curious about the tree, or the man, or both. I wanted to run outside and snatch Nick away, like a mother protecting a child from getting too close to a snarling lion. “And steel wool? We’re supposed to crawl around God-knows-where and figure out how the mice are getting in? If the mice have been there, I don’t want to go there. We can’t stay in this place, Daniel.”

Jack picked a plum off the tree and took a bite. Beside him, Nick imitated, though they weren’t talking. The dog, I noticed, kept himself on the other side of Nick, away from the hulking man in the cowboy hat. Jack pointed a finger at Pecos, commanding him to proceed to the pickup, but the dog refused, instead moving closer to Nick’s legs. Jack responded with an unhappy scowl. Apparently, on top of everything else, we’d stolen the boss’s dog.

A giant, chicken-sized bird of some sort landed on the fence. Jack threw a half-eaten plum either to it or at it; I couldn’t tell. The bird flapped down from the fence and chased the plum as it rolled to a stop. Nick laughed and threw his plum, too.

Daniel reached for the door, the motion quick, his gaze distracted. In the yard, his boss was clearly waiting for him. “Be realistic, Mallory,” he snapped, suddenly morphing into the stiff, impatient Daniel I’d met only yesterday during the broken air-conditioner incident. “We can’t change our life plan because the closets are dirty.”

The torn screen flapped as he opened it and walked out.

A moment later, he and Jack rumbled off in the white truck, while Nick stood at the fence near the U-Haul, where boxes of Grandma Louisa’s Fostoria waited, still lovingly contained in cardboard and paper.

I briefly considered becoming a runaway bride.

If it hadn’t been for poor little Nick and the fact that I couldn’t figure out how to carry my grandmother’s Fostoria on a bus, I might have done it. I’d never seen this side of Daniel before the wedding. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like being spoken to as if I were a minion, as if my thoughts didn’t count for anything.

I went inside and paced the kitchen, feeling desperate. Finally, I did exactly what all the bridal advice columns tell you not to do after your first big fight: I called my mother.

She didn’t want to talk to me. She’d read the advice columns, too. Aside from that, she’d married off four daughters already. She said that she’d always made it a policy not to meddle in her children’s marital affairs. Which was so much hooey. She meddled all the time.

She gave only one piece of advice before she told me that she was hanging up because I should not be calling my mother just days after the wedding: “Say you’re sorry, Mallory, even if you’re not feeling that way. Marriage is about sacrifice. A wife must, at all times, realize that a man’s ego is fragile. He needs to feel that you trust him to be the head of the household. Take the blame for starting the fight. It won’t hurt you. Women lose their wits over a mouse in the house all the time. No one expects us to know better.”

My indignation fumed in a dozen different directions, sending off molten spears like a sparkler . . . no, a sunspot. More like a sunspot. The kind that burns at a bazillion degrees and alters tides thousands of miles away. “The fight wasn’t my fault.” Suddenly I was supposed to relegate myself to the role of quiet cleaner-upper and soft-spoken apologizer? My life was supposed to be all about keeping the peace, no matter how I felt on the inside? I was supposed to become my mother?

This was not at all what I’d bargained for. This was not me.

A sickening premonition materialized, a dark vision. I imagined the girl who had confidently walked the halls of Congress in her favorite designer suit, but in the vision, she was disappearing day by day, until she vanished completely. A victim of death by acquiescence.

“I’d better go,” I muttered.

“Say you’re sorry,” insisted my mother, whose policy was not to interfere.

“I love you, Mom.” The end of the sentence choked in my throat. I wanted my mommy, but I wanted her to be on my side.

“All married couples have fights.”

“Bye, Mom.”

“Don’t sulk. That’s a bad habit of yours.”

Who was this woman talking to? Me? Sulk? I never sulked. Sulking was for wimps.

“And never go to bed angry.”

“Bye, Mom.” I love you, but you are not telling me what I want to hear.

“You’re always welcome back at home.” There was a catch in Mom’s voice now, and I felt myself crumbling as she quickly tried to mollify the interference implied in that comment. “If Texas doesn’t work out . . . for the two of you, I mean. You three can turn around and come right back. This house is too big for just Dad and me. . . .”

My low point sank lower, a raft with air hissing from it. Mother had managed to come up with an alternative worse than living in Texas on the property of a possibly homicidal maniac—moving my new family in with my parents.

I, quite wisely, ended the phone conversation there and called my sister Trudy, instead. She was upset with her husband, because he wanted to give up on the in vitro procedures if this next one didn’t work. He was in favor of surrogacy or adoption.

I commiserated with her, and when she finally got around to asking why I’d called, I couldn’t bring up the house-mouse fight or the stuffed-bobcat thing. Both seemed shallow, compared to Trudy’s pain.

The hormone shots had given my sister mind-reading abilities, though. “Did you two get in a fight?” Her voice had a knowing undertone.

“Huh?”

“Did you call Mom?” The way she said it, as if it were a foregone conclusion, pushed blood into my cheeks. Dork of the world. Right here. Big red arrow, pointing to Moses Lake, Texas.

“Yes.” There’s no point lying to your sister. Sisters know.

“Did she tell you to get over yourself?” Trudy was holding back a laugh.

“Yes. You don’t have to sound so happy about it, though.” That long-way-from-home feeling grew potent and heavy. “She said that right before she told me that Daniel, Nick, and I could come back and live with her and Dad if we needed to.”

“Ouch,” Trudy chuckle-groaned. “Which option sounds best?”

“Getting over myself.” I glanced at the clock on the scary gas stove that looked like it had been there since 1940. I was hungry, and there was no food in the house. Any time now, Nick would want something, too.

“Guess you have your answer, then.” Leave it to Trudy to drive the point home.

My cell phone beeped a low-battery signal. “Hey, Trude, my cell is going dead. If this thing cuts off, I love you, ’kay?”

“Man, you are homesick.” She didn’t return my sappy endearment. Trudy was anything but sappy.

“I’ll be all right.” I hope. I will, right? “It’s just been a long day, already.”

“Hang in there, Wheezy.” Her use of the nickname, which I had been saddled with ever since having a little nasal problem as a baby, was her idea of getting warm and fuzzy.

“I am. It was a dumb argument. I admit it.”

“Most of them are. Actually, I should go apologize to Andy. These hormones have turned me into a part-time barracuda.”

“Part time?”

Trudy snorted. “Very funny. Kiss and make up, first chance you get. That’s the good thing about fighting. When it’s over, you have a new appreciation. Just remember, if you’re going to argue, argue against the point and not the person. You can change your position on a point, but once you step over that line and criticize who he is, you can’t go back. There’s no sense bothering, anyway. People really don’t change. They are who they are.”

“I’d better go before the phone cuts off.”

“You know how I knew that you’d called Mom, right?”

“Huh? Well, no. How did you know?”

She laughed, a soft, tender sound that felt like her wrapping her arms around me from hundreds of miles away. “All of us did it. Before the cell service went to free long distance, Mom used to include prepaid calling cards in the wedding gifts. She started that after Caroline and Merryl called collect, and the bill was horrendous. You’re the first one not to make it a week past the wedding, though. Andy and I had been in Hawaii for seven days before I called Mom.”

“Well, at least I get to be first at something.” There was comfort in knowing that my settled, sane, still-happily-married sisters had gone through this sort of thing, too. Maybe Daniel and I weren’t such a mess after all.

“Take my advice. Kiss and make . . .” Trudy was gone. Time expired. Battery dead.

Despite the fact that Daniel had left the Jeep hooked to the U-Haul after he’d backed the trailer near the yard gate, I grabbed my purse and made up my mind to drive into Moses Lake and seek out the café and the hardware store. The Gypsy Wagon would just have to ride along, since I had no idea how to unhook it. Nuclear bug bombs and acres of steel wool were in our future.

From the kitchen counter, a brown mouse sat up on its delicate little hind feet and waved good-bye, having no idea what was headed its way.