Protector - Laurel Dewey [111]
Jane left the land of trampoline houses and drove toward the summit of McClure Pass. The white, chalk-barked aspen trees stood at attention, displaying their early summer explosion of quivering green leaves amidst slopes of cow parsnip and fuzzy mullein stalks. Jane slid open the sunroof as Emily held her hands against the stiff wind current. Thirty miles down the two-lane mountain road, construction crews were busy filling potholes. Jane’s speedy journey came to an abrupt halt behind a truck hauling a horse trailer.
“You told me you were thirty-five and one quarter, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When are you turning thirty-six?”
“January 11.”
Emily did the calculations in the air with her finger. “That means you gave birth to me when you were twenty-five almost tweny-six.” Jane regarded Emily with a questionable look. “If somebody asks, we have to get our stories straight.”
“No one is going to ask you how old I was when I gave birth to you.”
“Sergeant Weyler said you were taking me to a small town. People are nosy in small towns. That’s what my mommy always said.”
“Don’t worry about it, Emily—”
“Where’s your husband?”
“I have no idea.”
“Shouldn’t we make up a story so when people come to our house—”
“People come to the house? Hey, I’m not hosting social events!”
“Sergeant Weyler said we had to act normal—”
“Well, normal for me is not having a bunch of busy-bodies in my house.”
“What if I want to invite somebody over?”
“That’s tricky. My gut instinct tells me to keep people away from the house.”
“What does your gut say about your husband?”
“Christ,” Jane lit a cigarette. “Let’s just take him out of the picture.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yeah, he’s dead.”
“Okay.” Emily sat back and really thought about it. “How’d he die?”
“I don’t know, he . . .” Jane looked at the trailer hauling the horses in front of her. “He got stomped on by a horse and died.”
“That doesn’t happen a lot.”
“It can if you work the rodeo circuit,” Jane said offhandedly.
“Was he a rodeo clown?”
“Oh, please! I would never marry a rodeo clown! I married the rodeo cowboy!”
“So you married a rodeo cowboy who fell off his horse, got stomped and died.”
“There you go. End of story.”
Emily considered the event. “Were you there when it happened?”
“Oh, shit. No! I wasn’t there and neither were you. He was traveling on the rodeo circuit when it happened. In Canada.”
“Canada?”
“Yeah. It happened during the Calgary Stampede.”
“So he died in the stampede?”
“Right. He got stomped in the stampede.”
“In Canada?”
“In Canada.”
“So . . . was the funeral in Canada?”
“Emily, enough!”
The highway flagger waved the string of vehicles onward. Emily sat back and considered the entire phony story. “I sure hope they buy it.”
Within the hour, Jane crested onto the mesa that overlooked the little town of Peachville. She pulled to the side and looked across the verdant valley. “Well, kid, say hello to your temporary new home.”
“Hello.”
“By the way, my boss decided to change my name to Anne Calver while we’re here. That was my mom’s maiden name.”
“It’s a pretty name.”
“Yeah,” Jane replied, a bit taken aback.