twelve:
monday evening

After hearing the rundown of her day, Colin was kind enough to focus first on the three oddballs on horseback.

“He looked like a prisoner?”

“He reeked of it,” said Allison. “His shoulders, his head. His whole body slumped.”

“You’re positive?” said Colin. “Even from that distance?”

It was late. She had arrived back at her A-frame after nine. Colin had heated a pot of pork-less posole, poached from Trudy’s freezer, and he had opened a bottle of organic red wine that carried Trudy’s stamp of approval.

They stood side by side at the counter, a few swallows of Cabernet left in their glasses.

“Your alarm has sounded,” said Colin.

Was that an accusation or an observation?

“Wish I’d been the one to find the body,” said Allison. “And that I’d been there before all the commotion and activity. And I wish the cops had the manpower to focus on this.”

“But you said Hickman’s dogs lit up,” said Colin. “Isn’t that enough?”

It would serve her well to down a slice of humble pie in Colin’s presence. She should choke down a big hunk of the stuff and leave no crumbs on her lips or chin. She should wipe the plate clean and maybe take a second helping. But the idea didn’t sit well. She had told Colin about the faint tracks, but he didn’t seem persuaded. The overriding point was the fact that Hickman’s hounds, based on the last report anyway, were hellbound. She should concede defeat, but couldn’t find the words.

“I can tell when you’re all tangled up,” said Colin.

“Really?” Was this the second time today a guy would try to interpret the look on her face? “Tangled up? Tangled up how?”

Colin wasn’t ready for a challenge. He shifted on his feet while she stared him down. His open, always-eager expression didn’t fare well when he was criticizing others. He looked down and she stared at the cute raisin-size freckle near his left eye. Hickman’s hot trail had earned her the right to listen carefully, but Colin wasn’t one for rubbing it in.

“I can tell you’re being pulled in a few directions—and not wanting to go along with what’s turning up. Hell, the houndsman was your idea—you knew one would be needed from the first second. You get credit for that. You practically designed the whole investigation within a few minutes after we climbed the ridge the first time.”

She waited, gave Colin’s thought space. Treated his comment with respect.

“You don’t think it’s odd?”

“There’s always odd stuff out there. And you know that better than anyone,” said Colin. “And now you’ve got cops and the coroner and a top-flight houndsman all over it so maybe—”

He didn’t have a specific suggestion for her but filled the gap by lifting his glass into the void.

“Maybe what?” She chugged her remaining wine, started thinking of all the reasons to open another bottle. “Maybe forget it? You’re saying I should just let whatever happen, let the chips fall?”

“No,” said Colin. “And I know you’ll do what you have to do. But the cops have it covered—at least, they responded quickly and we’ve got hunters coming in. Were you thinking about chasing men on horseback all over the Flat Tops?”

The thought of the three men on horseback, whose presence had been the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard, gave her a shudder. Colin was likely right that she shouldn’t pursue them as a rogue ranger, but she didn’t want anyone else, even Colin, defining her world.

Or limiting it. Or telling her how best to watch out for the Flat Tops. Was the issue boundaries? Since moving to the Flat Tops, she was perfectly happy to stay put. Anything but the city. She left the Flat Tops only when absolutely necessary. But limiting her choices within the wilderness? Not likely.

The issue was more than this low-broil feud. The issue had been rearing its head for weeks. What clock or calendar enabled the thought was a complete mystery. It was a sticky thought with gripping power and it had squarely to do with Colin: the “what next” question.

The Flat Tops were supposed to put an end to the “what next” questions. For the first stretch of years of her new life in the woods, there was no path, no road, no course, no objectives, no career, no arc. None needed. Surviving the accident had smashed every measure that once appeared to matter. She was happy to heal and happier to dig in her heels and declare a new home, particularly one with the magical power of The Flat Tops.

If she could, she’d order an instant lumpectomy on whatever part of her brain dredged, without her permission, through the thought patterns of her previous life. That sentimental bit of bitchy brain tissue scoured for those pointless questions she used to pose. It refused to forget that she had moved—and moved on. The question grated like the two-note cry from a bully Blue Jay. “What’s next?” “What’s next?” “What’s next?” Staying with Colin meant, or so the active theory went, that she would remain in the Flat Tops forever. Colin was a man of the woods. His whole family was of the woods and the outdoors. His blood was tree sap. He was gun smoke, gutting knives, and hunting grit. He was a fine catch—and he wasn’t going anywhere. She wouldn’t leave Colin as long as she stayed in The Flat Tops—she knew that much. But the “What’s next?” drumbeat toyed with the part of her sensibility that, at some point in time, had preferred that the horizon and the landscape change from time to time. Until lately, status quo was heaven. She suddenly had a desire to see around the corner and quietly loathed herself for not being able to shut the question down. What more could she want?

Perhaps the mild disagreement over the half-corpse was her way of testing a new space with Colin, but even that didn’t make sense. The disagreement with Colin and her clear thoughts about the mountain lion bit was based on her years in the woods, nothing more.

Allison put the last touches on cleaning up the kitchen and stood outside for three deep inhalations of cool night air.

Colin was already stretched out in bed when she went upstairs. There was a look in his eye, perhaps encouraged by the wine or the desire to affirm they were playing for the same team. She wasn’t opposed. Maybe some physical love would re-prime her heart, which had been running cool since the stop at Lumberjack Camp.

Even in August, nights in the Flat Tops came with a purposeful chill, and even though the heat from the woodstove kept the upstairs loft toasty, Allison preferred the window open so she could smell the evening breeze and hear the occasional coyote. Come morning, a chickadee or raven might provide the morning alarm.

“You’re still thinking you should have followed them,” said Colin.

“If you had been there,” said Allison. “We’d still be on their tail. I was tempted. They didn’t have any stuff with them, you know, gear. Anything.”

They were lying on their backs, shoulders and hips touching under the thin wool quilt, legs entangled.

“But they could be camping,” said Colin. “Or scouting. Did the guy with the gun look like he was part of the posse in an old western with Clint Eastwood? You know, like Josey Wales. ‘Are you going to pull them pistols or whistle Dixie?’”

“Josey Wales?” Allison had never seen the movie.

“His best line is about Kansas. ‘There are three kinds of suns in Kansas—sunshine, sunflowers, and sons-of-bitches.’”

Allison laughed. “These guys were sons-of-bitches, trust me.”

“We could always go back to that area, check around Lumberjack, see what the elk are up to and see if we stumble into anything.”

Colin rolled on his side to face her, let a hand fall on her stomach. He made slow circles around her belly button with a finger.

“You’re not curious?” she said, doing her best to ignore his touch.

“Couple of whack jobs in the wilderness,” said Colin.

His finger stopped circling and took up a new course, moving back and forth below her belly button, about an inch above her underwear. Back and forth.

“At least I’m not as hard to read as you are,” said Allison.

“I’m a closed book,” said Colin. “Impossible to decipher.” His hand ran a quick scouting mission to check her breasts, a cursory inspection each, and then returned to its teasing pace below the belt line.

“Big word, decipher,” said Allison. “You sure you didn’t go to college?”

“Not that I recall,” said Colin.

“Do you think you would have remembered?” said Allison. “You know, college is a school where you pay money to enroll and you might have stayed in a dorm or a frat house and spent all your free time drinking beer and chasing girls?”

Allison pulled her hips up ever so slightly, encouraging his wandering hand.

“Really don’t think so,” said Colin, playing the dumb witness. “The chasing girls thing, is that a course where you get credit?”

“Not exactly formal credit,” said Allison. “Although I think you’re earning some now.”

“But what’s credit good for now?” said Colin. “I’m not working on a degree or anything.”

“You’re always working on something,” said Allison.

The fingers took a tentative dip beneath her underwear and then he flattened his hand, the palm moving in slow circles. Warm fire bloomed inside her and she let out a moan.

Colin flipped the covers back. She loved the sensation of being covered and gently smothered. Protected. The weight of him, somehow, added to what little she brought to the equation and she enjoyed the additional flesh like it was her own. He kissed her and she kissed back, hard. She felt even smaller in his embrace, loved the power in his shoulders.

He leaned up and tugged down on the only bit of clothing she ever wore to bed. She reached down and grabbed him, hard like granite.

“Got a condom, big boy?” she asked.

He flicked her underwear away. “For my tongue?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Protect me from all those big words.”

“Funny,” said Colin. “I wasn’t planning on doing any talking. None whatsoever.”