Cold Wind - C. J. Box [126]
He pushed through the front doors and stood with the smokers for a few minutes, wrapped up completely in his own thoughts.
It was a crisp day, cool and clear, and he could see the peaks of the mountains had been dusted with snow overnight. The top of the stairs afforded a good view of the trees in town, most blushing with gold and red. The smokers on the steps were talking to each other about which areas they’d drawn deer and elk tags for, and how they were looking forward to hunting season. Someone joked about not saying too much in front of the game warden, and Joe smiled cryptically.
He was trying to imagine what the investigators had told Hand, and why Hand seemed so self-assured in court. Maybe that was simply his way of putting the jury at ease, bringing them along on his river of charm and self-confidence.
As the smokers looked at their watches and stubbed out their smokes, Marybeth appeared on the steps. She looked slightly stunned.
“What happened in there?” Joe asked. “Did you hear what they found out in Chicago?”
“No,” she said, obviously distracted. “Nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“Joe,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “My mother took me aside and said she wants us to move out to the ranch. She wants us to live in the old house and she’d like you to manage the operations.”
“What?”
Marybeth shook her head. “She said she’s gotten to the age where she realizes she wants her family around her and she wants to show her appreciation for our support in this. Joe, she said she wants us to eventually inherit the entire place.”
Joe stepped back. He said, “Your mother said that?”
“She did,” Marybeth whispered. “She said she wants to make sure we never worry about money or our future again for the rest of our lives.”
“What did you say?” Joe asked. His head was reeling.
“I didn’t know what to say. I told her we could talk about it when the trial was over. I thanked her, of course.”
“The whole damn thing?” Joe said. “The biggest ranch in northern Wyoming?”
Marybeth simply nodded.
“How can she do that?” Joe asked. “If she’s in prison, the whole place will go into probate or something. We have no idea who will actually own it. Banks or trusts or whoever. It won’t be hers to give away.”
“Joe, think about what she’s offering.”
“I am,” he said. “But she can’t offer anything unless she’s free and clear.”
Marybeth shrugged, as confused as Joe was.
When Joe helped guide her toward the doors, he noticed that her arms seemed to have turned into jelly. As had his legs.
They sat in their seats. Joe could barely concentrate on the proceedings.
But he heard it when Dulcie Schalk said to Judge Hewitt, “The prosecution would like to call Bud Longbrake Sr. to the stand.”
38
Bud did look like hell.
Joe found himself grimacing as his old employer and ex-father-in-law slowly made his way up the center aisle of the courtroom. Instead of sixty, Bud looked eighty. He was stooped and drawn, and his suit, which Joe remembered from Bud and Missy’s wedding six years ago, hung loose and baggy on him. The collar of Bud’s Western dress shirt gaped at least an inch. He peered out of it like a turtle looking out of its shell, Joe thought, and Bud’s pants hung around his legs. Bud held his Stetson in his right hand, and reached out with his left from chair top to chair top for balance as he proceeded toward the bench.
“My God,” Marybeth whispered. “Look what’s happened to him.”
Joe was surprised when Bud glanced over as he passed. His eyes were rheumy and unfocused, but for a split second Joe could see the man he remembered somewhere in that shell. Bud seemed to acknowledge the spark of recognition.
Joe nodded his head slightly. Bud nodded back.
It took a minute for Bud to get settled into the witness stand. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hat. Schalk gently took it from him and put it on the prosecution table. Now there was a cowboy hat on both tables and it looked, Joe thought, like Wyoming.
After he’d been sworn in, Schalk asked Bud to state his name and