Free Fire - C. J. Box [29]
From the backseat, Lucy asked, “Does this car waste a lot of gasoline?”
Like sailors on shore leave “waste” beer, Joe thought. But he simply said, “Yes.”
“Why can’t you have something that’s better for the environment?”
“Because I’m taking it into some pretty rough country and it’s nearly winter, so I might need four-wheel drive.”
“Hmmpf.”
Sheridan ignored the exchange and picked up a FedEx box near her feet. “Can I look inside?”
“Sure,” he said. The box had arrived the previous afternoon from headquarters in Cheyenne. As he had anticipated, there was no “Welcome Back, Joe!” note inside from Randy Pope.
But there was a badge, and credentials.
Sheridan looked through the embroidered shoulder patches, a new name tag, newly issued statute booklets, recent memos paper-clipped together, a handheld radio. She opened the plasticbox with the small gold shield inside.
“Number fifty-four,” she said. “Didn’t you used to have a lower badge number?”
Joe smiled ruefully, surprised she had paid attention. “I used to have number twenty-one.”
There were only fifty-four game wardens in the state, and the higher the seniority, the lower the number. Even though Pope had been ordered to restore his salary and pension, the governor probably hadn’t thought of asking to reassign his number. The high badge number was usually given to trainees fresh out of college, and it sent an obvious message.
“That’s so unfair.”
“It’s all right,” he said, thinking, Yes, it was a slap in the face. But not unexpected.
“I used to look at your badge every morning at breakfast,” she said. “That’s how I remembered.”
Joe felt a sentimental pang. He had no idea.
“We’re going to visit you in Yellowstone Park, right?” Lucy asked.
“Yup.”
“Mom told me we almost went there once,” she said. “Mrs. Hanson says it’s a great place but people are ruining it.”
“You were a baby,” Joe said, choosing not to comment on what her teacher had said.
“You’re still a baby,” Sheridan said, getting in a dig when the opportunity presented itself, which was in the job description of being an older sister.
“Dad!” Lucy protested.
He admonished, “Sheridan . . .”
As they neared Saddlestring, Joe said, “Be good for your mom while I’m gone. Help her out.”
“We will,” they mumbled.
He didn’t look at them because he didn’t want them to see mist in his eyes. “I’m going to miss you girls.”
And he wished, for a moment, that he wasn’t so damned thrilled about getting his job back.
Marybeth was still at home when he returned, which was unusual. So was the fire in the seldom-used stone fireplace. Joe noted that the curtains were drawn, and recalled opening them that morning.
When she came down the hall in her robe, Joe understood.
“The girls are gone, Bud and Missy went to town, and I called the office and told them I’d be late,” she said. Her blond hair fell on her shoulders, her eyes caught the flames of the fire.
“I was thinking of a proper send-off,” she said, smiling. “But I decided on an improper one.” She gestured toward a jumble of quilts that were spread out in front of the fireplace. He hadn’t noticed when he entered.
“What, again?” he said, instantly regretting his choice of words.
“Mr. Romantic,” she said, shaking her head.
“Please ignore what I just said,” stepping toward her.
“I already have.”
“You make it tough to go.”
“Exactly.”
As he cleared the timber, mountain meadows opened up and so did the view. Dark folds of timbered slopes stretched in all directions and the pale sky fused into the horizon, giving Joe a once-familiar “top of the world” view that now matched his attitude. The two-lane ribbon that was U.S. Highway 14 was rolled out straight and narrow before him. As he approached Burgess Junction, in the heart of the Bighorn National Forest, he