CHAPTER

34

IT WAS SATURDAY. Three days had passed without further word from the state police. David felt like shit for having punched Howard. What made it worse was that Howard had taken the blow as if it were deserved.

After breakfast, David drove to Casper. He parked in front of a flower shop on Juniper Street. The snow was packed high at the curb.

“May I help you?” asked the clerk, as David entered. She retied her apron and brushed a hand over her hair while he looked around the shop. “Birthday? Wedding?”

“Something nice.”

She nodded. “Roses?”

“Yes.”

“Red?”

He nodded.

She walked to the refrigerated cabinet and slid the door open. “You’ll want them boxed. If you take them out in this cold, they’ll freeze solid.” She pulled the roses together. “Then they’ll shatter.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like crystal.” She brought the flowers to the counter and wrapped them in green paper. As she boxed them, “Sixty-five dollars.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s winter.”

“I know, but sixty-five dollars?”

“This is Wyoming. These are roses. It’s winter.”

In the daylight, the outbuildings were visible on the slope rising behind the Stinson house. The pasture to the left of the large barn was dotted with black Angus cattle. It was about five degrees, but the wind brought it down well below zero.

Katy’s father answered the door, looked at the visitor for several seconds, then said, “Larson, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come in.”

“Thank you.” David stepped past the tall man and into the living room. He froze as he saw Katy sitting on the sofa in the den, the very sofa on which he had come to consciousness a night not too long ago.

“Hello,” she said, standing and walking toward him.

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you remember me. My name is David Larson.”

“From the plane,” she said.

He nodded.

“Are those for me?” she asked, pointing to the box under his arm.

“No, actually they’re for your mother.” He turned to Mr. Stinson. “Sort of a peace offering. For the disturbance the other night.”

Stinson called up the stairs, “Beverly!”

Katy chuckled. “I heard about your visit.”

David became embarrassed and even more nervous. “I suppose you have.”

Beverly Stinson came walking down the stairs, slowing as she saw David. She pulled her housecoat tighter.

“Mrs. Stinson,” David said, “these are for you, to make up for the other evening.”

She took the box, removed the lid, and looked at the roses. “My goodness, I haven’t received flowers in quite a while.”

Mr. Stinson slapped David’s shoulder hard enough to leave a sting. “Making me look bad.”

“Thank you,” said Katy’s mother.

“Well, I have to go tend to something,” said Stinson and excused himself.

“I’m going to put these in water,” said Mrs. Stinson, and so David and Katy were left alone.

David sat on the sofa and Katy in an overstuffed chair beside him. The fire needed a log.

“My father likes you,” Katy said.

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Well, he does. It was nice of you to bring flowers.”

He nodded.

Silence.

“So how was Chicago?”

“Wonderful. There’s so much to do there.” She got up and tended the fire, put on a small log. “I’m thinking of transferring to a college there. Maybe Loyola.” She sat again.

“So, you’re in college.”

“Casper College. It’s just a two-year school. Did you go to college?”

“Before I went into the army.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been thinking of going back. I’d like to go down to Laramie and study ranch management.”

“I don’t know what I want to study.”

“You’re young yet.”

“That’s what I tell myself.” She pulled some stray hairs out of her face.

Beverly Stinson leaned into the room. “Katy, perhaps your guest would like something warm to drink.”

“I’m sorry,” Katy said to David. “Would you like something?”

“I’m fine.”

“Coffee? Hot chocolate?”

Mrs. Stinson stepped in. “Katy makes the best hot chocolate.”

“Coffee with chocolate?” asked Katy.

“Sure, I’ll have some.”

“Which one?” Mrs. Stinson asked.

“Hot chocolate,” answered David.

And the two of them were gone, leaving David bewildered, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch up. Katy was as pretty as he remembered, as charming, and—frighteningly—as young. Her youth disturbed him. He was, well, less than ten years her senior, but he felt much older. He had killed strangers in a very distant place. He had come home to suffer an ill-defined alienation. He had been a party to murder. Much older.

When Katy came back with a tray of steaming mugs, David, for the first time, attended to what she was wearing. The tail of a western shirt hung over loose-fitting corduroys. He took a cup and sipped the hot liquid.

“Good,” he said.

“It’s about the only thing I can make,” she said. After a silence. “Were you in the war?”

He nodded.

“Did it change you much?”

He sat up at the question. “Excuse me?”

“The war.”

“I guess it would have to.”

“I guess so.” She looked at the fire, then up to the mantel. “My brother was killed in the war.”

“I’m sorry.”

She pushed out her lower lip and traced it with a finger.

“Would you be interested in going out some evening? A movie or something?”

“I’d like that.”