“Salvation,” I said to Aaron in the back seat.
He stirred.
We pulled into Jed’s ranch, which was easy to find because it was the only settlement for miles. I remember how isolated it had looked on our map when we started the drive—what seemed like ten years ago.
There were two small oil derricks just inside the front gate. We drove in with a flurry of dust behind us, barely slowing down for the turn.
“Plant,” he murmured.
“That’s right, babe. We found it.”
“I’m…I’m…” he said with slurred speech. “Plant.”
He must’ve been delusional at this point. Sweaty. Dehydrated. He was incoherently pointing at the oil wells.
The ranch property was massive, deep enough that the front drive alone ran a half mile. Once in the main roundabout, there was a barn, a shed, a small industrial-looking building, a house, and five or six different oil derricks strewn across the hillside.
I drove straight for the house and screeched to a stop by the porch. I grabbed Sierra and clutched her to my chest.
“Aaron, I need to go find a phone. Or a human being. You’re allowed to pass out once you’re in an ambulance, okay? No passing out before that, okay?”
“Plant,” he said. Again.
I kissed his knee, the closest thing I could access while holding our child and trying not to waste precious seconds. Then I hurried toward the main house. There was a pickup truck parked out front. Shiny, new. Even in my hurry, I couldn’t help but notice how nice the porch was.
“Hello?” I hollered. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
“My name is Miranda. Hello?! Jedediah? Can you call 911?”
I rang it again. I waited an agonizing five seconds. Then I tried the knob, felt it turn, thank God, and opened the door.
“Hello! Jed?” I said again. I walked in. I could apologize later.
The house was big and pleasant. And devoid of people. No radio playing. No pasta steaming on the stove in the back.
“Anybody home?”
“Anybody home?” echoed Sierra, my assistant.
We crept in and wandered all the way to the back without seeing a single soul. We crossed a long hallway leading to the rear of the house. The place was immaculate. More like a museum than a residence. Everything was untouched.
In what looked like a sitting room, I saw a phone. A landline.
I rushed the last few steps to snatch it up. I must have dialed 911 about five times in a row before I truly listened to the receiver. It was dead. No hiss. No tone.
“Dead?” I exclaimed, turning to look around. What’s up with this place? Panic began to set in.
Then I heard a clunk.
It came from the far end of the house. Some shuffling, then another clunk. Somebody was opening drawers in a desk. Opening and slamming. Somebody was in a hurry.
“Hello?” I said again. “Jedediah?” I went toward the shuffling noise.
From the hallway, I saw him. He was standing right there. A big, grizzly man, with white hair. His back was to me. He didn’t turn around.
None of this felt right. None of this looked right, smelled right, sounded right. He’d have to have heard me yelling in his house a moment ago, but seemed unaware of my presence.
I was far enough away to do the following. Based on pure instinct, I quietly turned to Sierra and I gestured shhh. She complied, seeing the look on my face. I nudged her gently toward the side room right beside me, a hiding spot.
Then the homeowner turned around and looked squarely at me. His expression was not friendly. Neither was the shotgun he was holding down by his side.
I was tired of meeting men in this way. That this town ain’t big enough for the two of us macho manure. We should’ve hugged each other and danced around the living room in circles—that’s how I’d pictured this meeting. But he was silent.
“Are you Jed?” I asked. “I’m Aaron Cooper’s wife. I’m Miranda.”
He was just watching me. Cold.
“C-can…” I stuttered. “Can I use your phone?”
He muttered, “Don’t have one.”
He doesn’t have a phone?
“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry to intrude. There’s no need for a gun. Do you have a cell phone I could use? Aaron is hurt. Badly. Can you help me find Jed?”
He kept looking down at me. He stood six foot three, easily. Viking big. An older man, but one who could torque a lug nut with his bare hands.
What was he doing? My husband was going to die. We didn’t have another house we could get to soon enough. We didn’t have anyone else we could trust.
And then I looked behind him and noticed a phone line on the wall.
The line was cut. Severed. A fresh incision that wasn’t made last year or last month; it was made two minutes ago. He saw me see it. He now knew that I knew that he wasn’t a nice person.
He said, “I am Jed.”