THE TEXAS RANGER Hall of Fame and Museum is located right off I-35 in Waco, next to the Company F headquarters, where I spend a lot of my time.
The spots designated for Rangers are already full, with so many out-of-towners coming in for the ceremony. Cars and trucks fill every space, with overflow lining each side of the entranceway. I finally manage to squeeze my F-150 into a gap between a Prius and a minivan near the frontage road.
I walk a hundred yards to the museum entrance, passing a bronze statue of a Texas Ranger astride a horse and carrying the flag of Texas. Inside, I am immediately swarmed by people—dozens of uniformed Rangers, Texas law enforcement officials, friends from my hometown of Redbud—shaking my hand, congratulating me.
Even though the museum is right next door to the Waco office, I don’t make it in here often enough. There’s a fascinating display of Texas Ranger memorabilia dating back to the 1800s: saddles, spurs, badges, and guns. Lots and lots of guns. Every manner of weapon Texas Rangers have carried is on display, from Henry rifles and Colt Dragoon revolvers used a hundred and fifty years ago to a LaRue .308 rifle identical to the one I keep in the toolbox of my truck and a SIG Sauer just like the one I carry on my hip.
I make my way through the rows of artifacts, past paintings and sculptures of cowboys on the range, to the pop culture gallery with Lone Ranger lunch boxes and posters from movies and TV shows like Tales of the Texas Rangers and Lonesome Dove. Seeing all this stuff, the reality and the mythology of the Rangers all mixed together, I recall Ava Cruz’s criticism of the early Rangers and the grudge she holds against us. But I don’t have time to dwell on these thoughts, not with all these people around shaking my hand and congratulating me.
I spot my parents in the crowd, with my two brothers and their wives and children, standing with a pretty young woman whom I don’t recognize.
As I hug everyone, Mom gestures to the young woman and says, “You remember Megan, don’t you?”
“Megan?” I say, staring at her.
Long dark hair, thick and glossy, falls over her shoulders and frames her face. She has arresting blue eyes, as deep as the Gulf of Mexico, and I feel like I’m struck dumb staring at them.
“You know,” Mom says, annoyed that I clearly don’t remember who the woman is, “Megan Casewick from down the road.”
My eyes go wide with recognition.
“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “It’s been a long time.”
The Casewicks have a ranch near my parents’ place. Megan is four or five years younger than me, so we didn’t quite run in the same circles growing up. I remember driving by their property when I was in high school, and little Megan—probably just twelve or thirteen years old then—would be out riding her horse in the pasture and wave to me. I’d wave back to her, looking so small on a big bay, but that was about the extent of our relationship. I try to do the math in my head and figure that the little girl who used to wave to me must be a year or two into her thirties now.
I give her an awkward hug, and I can see she’s a little self-conscious about the situation. Obviously, my mom is trying to play matchmaker.
“Megan is getting her PhD at UTEP,” Mom explains, “but she’s home for the weekend ’cause she’s got a job interview at Baylor. I invited her to come with us tonight.” As if her matchmaking intentions aren’t clear enough, Mom leans in close and says, as if in confidence, even though it’s loud enough for Megan to hear, “She might be moving back to this area.”
I talk to Megan as we move through the jostling crowd, trying to be polite. I ask if she’s going to come by my parents’ get-together after the ceremony, and she says yes.
When we get a moment out of earshot, my kid brother Jake leans in and says, “Megan sure grew up, didn’t she?”
His wife drives a sharp elbow into his shoulder. He feigns injury and kisses her cheek.
In the back of the museum is the Hall of Fame, a small circular amphitheater that screens a documentary movie daily. Tonight, the hall has been converted with a small stage up front, where Captain David Kane sits with a handful of state dignitaries, from the lieutenant governor to Waco’s mayor.
Attendees are crowded onto rows of benches, others standing along walls adorned with pictures of famous Texas Rangers. A front-row spot has been reserved for my family and me, as well as the family of Kyle Hendricks. He didn’t have a wife and children, so his mother will be accepting the medal. I take a moment to approach her.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, my voice choked, tears coming to my eyes. “Kyle saved my life and the lives of God only knows how many others. He’s a true hero. If it were up to me, this night would be all about him.”
“Thank you, Rory,” she says, but those are the only words she can get out before she starts crying.
The two of us hug. She feels fragile and small in my arms, and I can’t imagine the pain she has to bear for the rest of her life. Over her shoulder, I see my own parents weeping, knowing that one day they could very well be in her position, accepting a posthumous medal for their slain son, as if a piece of tin on a ribbon could be any consolation.