Saint drove twenty miles out of Monta Clare, away from the mountains, both windows rolled down to the vineyards and fruit stands, and, as she climbed, a network of old trade routes mostly swallowed by the flourish of woodland.
The house was bordered on each side by the sweep of fields. She pulled into the driveway and climbed out into heavy summer air, and for a while stood and looked at the Shaw house across the street where she had once taken piano lessons.
The Nix house was small for the lot, neat and simple. The white paint fresh, the porch sanded and varnished. As she strolled the path she looked out at the okame cherry, unsullied and perfect.
Saint took the deepest breath, drew her gun, and knocked and waited.
She saw his Ford so wandered around back, her shoes crunching the gravel. The land unfolded till the views stalled her; the distant fields glowed warm with canola. A couple of stables looked empty. A riding mower lay in the shade.
She tried the kitchen door, and her stomach flipped a little when she found it opened.
“Chief,” she called, for a moment forgetting who carried the title, who carried the gun.
The kitchen was dated and clean. She moved down the hallway, instinct pushing her onward. The den was bright, the carpet deep synthetic shag. A line of vases at the window burst with wildflowers plucked from the land.
Three bedrooms, made up for guests she could not imagine him receiving. Saint heard the rush of water in the bathroom. She kept her gun trained and gently pushed the door.
The tank seal was broken, the flow constant.
Outside in sunlight she walked one of the tandem paths that led to the stables.
And then she saw him.
Nix carried a shovel and a smile.
Hay was bagged by the door, and a long way out she saw a couple of horses grazing.
She kept the gun aimed at him.
“Just like I taught you,” he said.
He made no move to walk toward her, and for that, and a million other reasons, she loved him totally.